WHILE THE BILLY BOILS

FIRST SERIES

AN OLD MATE OF YOUR FATHER’S

You remember when we hurried home from the old bush school how we were
sometimes startled by a bearded apparition, who smiled kindly down on us, and
whom our mother introduced, as we raked off our hats, as “An old mate of
your father’s on the diggings, Johnny.” And he would pat our heads
and say we were fine boys, or girls—as the case may have been—and
that we had our father’s nose but our mother’s eyes, or the other
way about; and say that the baby was the dead spit of its mother, and then
added, for father’s benefit: “But yet he’s like you,
Tom.” It did seem strange to the children to hear him address the old man
by his Christian name—-considering that the mother always referred to him
as “Father.” She called the old mate Mr So-and-so, and father
called him Bill, or something to that effect.

Occasionally the old mate would come dressed in the latest city fashion, and at
other times in a new suit of reach-me-downs, and yet again he would turn up in
clean white moleskins, washed tweed coat, Crimean shirt, blucher boots, soft
felt hat, with a fresh-looking speckled handkerchief round his neck. But his
face was mostly round and brown and jolly, his hands were always horny, and his
beard grey. Sometimes he might have seemed strange and uncouth to us at first,
but the old man never appeared the least surprised at anything he said or
did—they understood each other so well—and we would soon take to
this relic of our father’s past, who would have fruit or lollies for
us—strange that he always remembered them—and would surreptitiously
slip “shilluns” into our dirty little hands, and tell us stories
about the old days, “when me an’ yer father was on the
diggin’s, an’ you wasn’t thought of, my boy.”

Sometimes the old mate would stay over Sunday, and in the forenoon or after
dinner he and father would take a walk amongst the deserted shafts of Sapling
Gully or along Quartz Ridge, and criticize old ground, and talk of past
diggers’ mistakes, and second bottoms, and feelers, and dips, and
leads—also outcrops—and absently pick up pieces of quartz and
slate, rub them on their sleeves, look at them in an abstracted manner, and
drop them again; and they would talk of some old lead they had worked on:
“Hogan’s party was here on one side of us, Macintosh was here on
the other, Mac was getting good gold and so was Hogan, and now, why the blanky
blank weren’t we on gold?” And the mate would always agree that
there was “gold in them ridges and gullies yet, if a man only had the
money behind him to git at it.” And then perhaps the guv’nor would
show him a spot where he intended to put down a shaft some day—the old
man was always thinking of putting down a shaft. And these two old fifty-niners
would mooch round and sit on their heels on the sunny mullock heaps and break
clay lumps between their hands, and lay plans for the putting down of shafts,
and smoke, till an urchin was sent to “look for his father and Mr
So-and-so, and tell ’em to come to their dinner.”

And again—mostly in the fresh of the morning—they would hang about
the fences on the selection and review the live stock: five dusty skeletons of
cows, a hollow-sided calf or two, and one shocking piece of equine
scenery—which, by the way, the old mate always praised. But the
selector’s heart was not in farming nor on selections—it was far
away with the last new rush in Western Australia or Queensland, or perhaps
buried in the worked-out ground of Tambaroora, Married Man’s Creek, or
Araluen; and by-and-by the memory of some half-forgotten reef or lead or Last
Chance, Nil Desperandum, or Brown Snake claim would take their thoughts far
back and away from the dusty patch of sods and struggling sprouts called the
crop, or the few discouraged, half-dead slips which comprised the orchard. Then
their conversation would be pointed with many Golden Points, Bakery Hill, Deep
Creeks, Maitland Bars, Specimen Flats, and Chinamen’s Gullies. And so
they’d yarn till the youngster came to tell them that “Mother sez
the breakfus is gettin’ cold,” and then the old mate would rouse
himself and stretch and say, “Well, we mustn’t keep the missus
waitin’, Tom!”

And, after tea, they would sit on a log of the wood-heap, or the edge of the
veranda—that is, in warm weather—and yarn about Ballarat and
Bendigo—of the days when we spoke of being on a place oftener than at it:
on Ballarat, on Gulgong, on Lambing Flat, on
Creswick—and they would use the definite article before the names,
as: “on The Turon; The Lachlan; The Home Rule; The Canadian Lead.”
Then again they’d yarn of old mates, such as Tom Brook, Jack Henright,
and poor Martin Ratcliffe—who was killed in his golden hole—and of
other men whom they didn’t seem to have known much about, and who went by
the names of “Adelaide Adolphus,” “Corney George,” and
other names which might have been more or less applicable.

And sometimes they’d get talking, low and mysterious like, about
“Th’ Eureka Stockade;” and if we didn’t understand and
asked questions, “what was the Eureka Stockade?” or “what did
they do it for?” father’d say: “Now, run away, sonny, and
don’t bother; me and Mr So-and-so want to talk.” Father had the
mark of a hole on his leg, which he said he got through a gun accident when a
boy, and a scar on his side, that we saw when he was in swimming with us; he
said he got that in an accident in a quartz-crushing machine. Mr So-and-so had
a big scar on the side of his forehead that was caused by a pick accidentally
slipping out of a loop in the rope, and falling down a shaft where he was
working. But how was it they talked low, and their eyes brightened up, and they
didn’t look at each other, but away over sunset, and had to get up and
walk about, and take a stroll in the cool of the evening when they talked about
Eureka?

And, again they’d talk lower and more mysterious like, and perhaps mother
would be passing the wood-heap and catch a word, and asked:

“Who was she, Tom?”

And Tom—father—would say:

“Oh, you didn’t know her, Mary; she belonged to a family Bill knew
at home.”

And Bill would look solemn till mother had gone, and then they would smile a
quiet smile, and stretch and say, “Ah, well!” and start something
else.

They had yarns for the fireside, too, some of those old mates of our
father’s, and one of them would often tell how a girl—a queen of
the diggings—was married, and had her wedding-ring made out of the gold
of that field; and how the diggers weighed their gold with the new
wedding-ring—for luck—by hanging the ring on the hook of the scales
and attaching their chamois-leather gold bags to it (whereupon she boasted that
four hundred ounces of the precious metal passed through her wedding-ring); and
how they lowered the young bride, blindfolded, down a golden hole in a big
bucket, and got her to point out the drive from which the gold came that her
ring was made out of. The point of this story seems to have been lost—or
else we forget it—but it was characteristic. Had the girl been lowered
down a duffer, and asked to point out the way to the gold, and had she done so
successfully, there would have been some sense in it.

And they would talk of King, and Maggie Oliver, and G. V. Brooke, and others,
and remember how the diggers went five miles out to meet the coach that brought
the girl actress, and took the horses out and brought her in in triumph, and
worshipped her, and sent her off in glory, and threw nuggets into her lap. And
how she stood upon the box-seat and tore her sailor hat to pieces, and threw
the fragments amongst the crowd; and how the diggers fought for the bits and
thrust them inside their shirt bosoms; and how she broke down and cried, and
could in her turn have worshipped those men—loved them, every one. They
were boys all, and gentlemen all. There were college men, artists, poets,
musicians, journalists—Bohemians all. Men from all the lands and one.
They understood art—and poverty was dead.

And perhaps the old mate would say slyly, but with a sad, quiet smile:

“Have you got that bit of straw yet, Tom?”

Those old mates had each three pasts behind them. The two they told each other
when they became mates, and the one they had shared.

And when the visitor had gone by the coach we noticed that the old man would
smoke a lot, and think as much, and take great interest in the fire, and be a
trifle irritable perhaps.

Those old mates of our father’s are getting few and far between, and only
happen along once in a way to keep the old man’s memory fresh, as it
were. We met one to-day, and had a yarn with him, and afterwards we got
thinking, and somehow began to wonder whether those ancient friends of ours
were, or were not, better and kinder to their mates than we of the rising
generation are to our fathers; and the doubt is painfully on the wrong side.

SETTLING ON THE LAND

The worst bore in Australia just now is the man who raves about getting the
people on the land, and button-holes you in the street with a little scheme of
his own. He generally does not know what he is talking about.

There is in Sydney a man named Tom Hopkins who settled on the land once, and
sometimes you can get him to talk about it. He did very well at his trade in
the city, years ago, until he began to think that he could do better
up-country. Then he arranged with his sweetheart to be true to him and wait
whilst he went west and made a home. She drops out of the story at this point.

He selected on a run at Dry Hole Creek, and for months awaited the arrival of
the government surveyors to fix his boundaries; but they didn’t come,
and, as he had no reason to believe they would turn up within the next ten
years, he grubbed and fenced at a venture, and started farming operations.

Does the reader know what grubbing means? Tom does. He found the biggest,
ugliest, and most useless trees on his particular piece of ground; also the
greatest number of adamantine stumps. He started without experience, or with
very little, but with plenty of advice from men who knew less about farming
than he did. He found a soft place between two roots on one side of the first
tree, made a narrow, irregular hole, and burrowed down till he reached a level
where the tap-root was somewhat less than four feet in diameter, and not quite
as hard as flint: then he found that he hadn’t room to swing the axe, so
he heaved out another ton or two of earth—and rested. Next day he sank a
shaft on the other side of the gum; and after tea, over a pipe, it struck him
that it would be a good idea to burn the tree out, and so use up the logs and
lighter rubbish lying round. So he widened the excavation, rolled in some logs,
and set fire to them—with no better result than to scorch the roots.

Tom persevered. He put the trace harness on his horse, drew in all the logs
within half a mile, and piled them on the windward side of that gum; and during
the night the fire found a soft place, and the tree burnt off about six feet
above the surface, falling on a squatter’s boundary fence, and leaving
the ugliest kind of stump to occupy the selector’s attention; which it
did, for a week. He waited till the hole cooled, and then he went to work with
pick, shovel, and axe: and even now he gets interested in drawings of
machinery, such as are published in the agricultural weeklies, for getting out
stumps without graft. He thought he would be able to get some posts and rails
out of that tree, but found reason to think that a cast-iron column would split
sooner—and straighter. He traced some of the surface roots to the other
side of the selection, and broke most of his trace-chains trying to get them
out by horse-power—for they had other roots going down from underneath.
He cleared a patch in the course of time and for several seasons he broke more
ploughshares than he could pay for.

Meanwhile the squatter was not idle. Tom’s tent was robbed several times,
and his hut burnt down twice. Then he was charged with killing some sheep and a
steer on the run, and converting them to his own use, but got off mainly
because there was a difference of opinion between the squatter and the other
local J.P. concerning politics and religion.

Tom ploughed and sowed wheat, but nothing came up to speak of—the ground
was too poor; so he carted stable manure six miles from the nearest town,
manured the land, sowed another crop, and prayed for rain. It came. It raised a
flood which washed the crop clean off the selection, together with several
acres of manure, and a considerable portion of the original surface soil; and
the water brought down enough sand to make a beach, and spread it over the
field to a depth of six inches. The flood also took half a mile of fencing from
along the creek-bank, and landed it in a bend, three miles down, on a dummy
selection, where it was confiscated.

Tom didn’t give up—he was energetic. He cleared another piece of
ground on the siding, and sowed more wheat; it had the rust in it, or the
smut—and averaged three shillings per bushel. Then he sowed lucerne and
oats, and bought a few cows: he had an idea of starting a dairy. First, the
cows’ eyes got bad, and he sought the advice of a German cocky, and acted
upon it; he blew powdered alum through paper tubes into the bad eyes, and got
some of it snorted and butted back into his own. He cured the cows’ eyes
and got the sandy blight in his own, and for a week or so be couldn’t
tell one end of a cow from the other, but sat in a dark corner of the hut and
groaned, and soaked his glued eyelashes in warm water. Germany stuck to him and
nursed him, and saw him through.

Then the milkers got bad udders, and Tom took his life in his hands whenever he
milked them. He got them all right presently—and butter fell to fourpence
a pound. He and the aforesaid cocky made arrangements to send their butter to a
better market; and then the cows contracted a disease which was known in those
parts as “plooro permoanyer,” but generally referred to as
“th’ ploorer.”

Again Tom sought advice, acting upon which he slit the cows’ ears, cut
their tails half off to bleed them, and poured pints of “pain
killer” into them through their nostrils; but they wouldn’t make an
effort, except, perhaps, to rise and poke the selector when he tried to tempt
their appetites with slices of immature pumpkin. They died peacefully and
persistently, until all were gone save a certain dangerous, barren, slab-sided
luny bovine with white eyes and much agility in jumping fences, who was known
locally as Queen Elizabeth.

Tom shot Queen Elizabeth, and turned his attention to agriculture again. Then
his plough horses took bad with some thing the Teuton called “der
shtranguls.” He submitted them to a course of treatment in accordance
with Jacob’s advice—and they died.

Even then Tom didn’t give in—there was grit in that man. He
borrowed a broken-down dray-horse in return for its keep, coupled it with his
own old riding hack, and started to finish ploughing. The team wasn’t a
success. Whenever the draught horse’s knees gave way and he stumbled
forward, he jerked the lighter horse back into the plough, and something would
break. Then Tom would blaspheme till he was refreshed, mend up things with wire
and bits of clothes-line, fill his pockets with stones to throw at the team,
and start again. Finally he hired a dummy’s child to drive the horses.
The brat did his best he tugged at the head of the team, prodded it behind,
heaved rocks at it, cut a sapling, got up his enthusiasm, and wildly whacked
the light horse whenever the other showed signs of moving—but he never
succeeded in starting both horses at one and the same time. Moreover the youth
was cheeky, and the selector’s temper had been soured: he cursed the boy
along with the horses, the plough, the selection, the squatter, and Australia.
Yes, he cursed Australia. The boy cursed back, was chastised, and immediately
went home and brought his father.

Then the dummy’s dog tackled the selector’s dog and this
precipitated things. The dummy would have gone under had his wife not arrived
on the scene with the eldest son and the rest of the family. They all fell foul
of Tom. The woman was the worst. The selector’s dog chawed the other and
came to his master’s rescue just in time—-or Tom Hopkins would
never have lived to become the inmate of a lunatic asylum.

Next year there happened to be good grass on Tom’s selection and nowhere
else, and he thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea—to get a few poor
sheep, and fatten them up for market: sheep were selling for about
seven-and-sixpence a dozen at that time. Tom got a hundred or two, but the
squatter had a man stationed at one side of the selection with dogs to set on
the sheep directly they put their noses through the fence (Tom’s was not
a sheep fence). The dogs chased the sheep across the selection and into the run
again on the other side, where another man waited ready to pound them.

Tom’s dog did his best; but he fell sick while chawing up the fourth
capitalistic canine, and subsequently died. The dummies had robbed that cur
with poison before starting it across—that was the only way they could
get at Tom’s dog.

Tom thought that two might play at the game, and he tried; but his nephew, who
happened to be up from the city on a visit, was arrested at the instigation of
the squatter for alleged sheep-stealing, and sentenced to two years’
hard; during which time the selector himself got six months for assaulting the
squatter with intent to do him grievous bodily harm-which, indeed, he more than
attempted, if a broken nose, a fractured jaw, and the loss of most of the
squatters’ teeth amounted to anything. The squatter by this time had made
peace with the other local Justice, and had become his father-in-law.

When Tom came out there was little left for him to live for; but he took a job
of fencing, got a few pounds together, and prepared to settle on the land some
more. He got a “missus” and a few cows during the next year; the
missus robbed him and ran away with the dummy, and the cows died in the
drought, or were impounded by the squatter while on their way to water. Then
Tom rented an orchard up the creek, and a hailstorm destroyed all the fruit.
Germany happened to be represented at the time, Jacob having sought shelter at
Tom’s but on his way home from town. Tom stood leaning against the door
post with the hail beating on him through it all. His eyes were very bright and
very dry, and every breath was a choking sob. Jacob let him stand there, and
sat inside with a dreamy expression on his hard face, thinking of childhood and
fatherland, perhaps. When it was over he led Tom to a stool and said,
“You waits there, Tom. I must go home for somedings. You sits there still
and waits twenty minutes;” then he got on his horse and rode off
muttering to himself; “Dot man moost gry, dot man moost gry.” He
was back inside of twenty minutes with a bottle of wine and a cornet under his
overcoat. He poured the wine into two pint-pots, made Tom drink, drank himself,
and then took his cornet, stood up at the door, and played a German march into
the rain after the retreating storm. The hail had passed over his vineyard and
he was a ruined man too. Tom did “gry” and was all right. He was a
bit disheartened, but he did another job of fencing, and was just beginning to
think about “puttin’ in a few vines an’ fruit-trees”
when the government surveyors—whom he’d forgotten all
about—had a resurrection and came and surveyed, and found that the real
selection was located amongst some barren ridges across the creek. Tom reckoned
it was lucky he didn’t plant the orchard, and he set about shifting his
home and fences to the new site. But the squatter interfered at this point,
entered into possession of the farm and all on it, and took action against the
selector for trespass—laying the damages at L2500.

Tom was admitted to the lunatic asylum at Parramatta next year, and the
squatter was sent there the following summer, having been ruined by the
drought, the rabbits, the banks, and a wool-ring. The two became very friendly,
and had many a sociable argument about the feasibility—or
otherwise—of blowing open the flood-gates of Heaven in a dry season with
dynamite.

Tom was discharged a few years since. He knocks about certain suburbs a good
deal. He is seen in daylight seldom, and at night mostly in connection with a
dray and a lantern. He says his one great regret is that he wasn’t found
to be of unsound mind before he went up-country.

ENTER MITCHELL

The Western train had just arrived at Redfern railway station with a lot of
ordinary passengers and one swagman.

He was short, and stout, and bow-legged, and freckled, and sandy. He had red
hair and small, twinkling, grey eyes, and—what often goes with such
things—the expression of a born comedian. He was dressed in a ragged,
well-washed print shirt, an old black waistcoat with a calico back, a pair of
cloudy moleskins patched at the knees and held up by a plaited greenhide belt
buckled loosely round his hips, a pair of well-worn, fuzzy blucher boots, and a
soft felt hat, green with age, and with no brim worth mentioning, and no crown
to speak of. He swung a swag on to the platform, shouldered it, pulled out a
billy and water-bag, and then went to a dog-box in the brake van.

Five minutes later he appeared on the edge of the cab platform, with an
anxious-looking cattle-dog crouching against his legs, and one end of the chain
in his hand. He eased down the swag against a post, turned his face to the
city, tilted his hat forward, and scratched the well-developed back of his head
with a little finger. He seemed undecided what track to take.

“Cab, Sir!”

The swagman turned slowly and regarded cabby with a quiet grin.

“Now, do I look as if I want a cab?”

“Well, why not? No harm, anyway—I thought you might want a
cab.”

Swaggy scratched his head, reflectively.

“Well,” he said, “you’re the first man that has thought
so these ten years. What do I want with a cab?”

“To go where you’re going, of course.”

“Do I look knocked up?”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“And I didn’t say you said I did…. Now, I’ve been on the
track this five years. I’ve tramped two thousan’ miles since last
Chris’mas, and I don’t see why I can’t tramp the last mile.
Do you think my old dog wants a cab?”

The dog shivered and whimpered; he seemed to want to get away from the crowd.

“But then, you see, you ain’t going to carry that swag through the
streets, are you?” asked the cabman.

“Why not? Who’ll stop me! There ain’t no law agin it, I
b’lieve?”

“But then, you see, it don’t look well, you know.”

“Ah! I thought we’d get to it at last.”

The traveller up-ended his bluey against his knee, gave it an affectionate pat,
and then straightened himself up and looked fixedly at the cabman.

“Now, look here!” he said, sternly and impressively, “can you
see anything wrong with that old swag o’ mine?”

It was a stout, dumpy swag, with a red blanket outside, patched with blue, and
the edge of a blue blanket showing in the inner rings at the end. The swag
might have been newer; it might have been cleaner; it might have been hooped
with decent straps, instead of bits of clothes-line and greenhide—but
otherwise there was nothing the matter with it, as swags go.

“I’ve humped that old swag for years,” continued the bushman;
“I’ve carried that old swag thousands of miles—as that old
dog knows—an’ no one ever bothered about the look of it, or of me,
or of my old dog, neither; and do you think I’m going to be ashamed of
that old swag, for a cabby or anyone else? Do you think I’m going to
study anybody’s feelings? No one ever studied mine! I’m in two
minds to summon you for using insulting language towards me!”

He lifted the swag by the twisted towel which served for a shoulder-strap,
swung it into the cab, got in himself and hauled the dog after him.

“You can drive me somewhere where I can leave my swag and dog while I get
some decent clothes to see a tailor in,” he said to the cabman. “My
old dog ain’t used to cabs, you see.”

Then he added, reflectively: “I drove a cab myself, once, for five years
in Sydney.”

STIFFNER AND JIM

(Thirdly, Bill)

We were tramping down in Canterbury, Maoriland, at the time, swagging
it—me and Bill—looking for work on the new railway line. Well, one
afternoon, after a long, hot tramp, we comes to Stiffner’s
Hotel—between Christchurch and that other place—I forget the name
of it—with throats on us like sunstruck bones, and not the price of a
stick of tobacco.

We had to have a drink, anyway, so we chanced it. We walked right into the bar,
handed over our swags, put up four drinks, and tried to look as if we’d
just drawn our cheques and didn’t care a curse for any man. We looked
solvent enough, as far as swagmen go. We were dirty and haggard and ragged and
tired-looking, and that was all the more reason why we might have our cheques
all right.

This Stiffner was a hard customer. He’d been a spieler, fighting man,
bush parson, temperance preacher, and a policeman, and a commercial traveller,
and everything else that was damnable; he’d been a journalist, and an
editor; he’d been a lawyer, too. He was an ugly brute to look at, and
uglier to have a row with—about six-foot-six, wide in proportion, and
stronger than Donald Dinnie.

He was meaner than a gold-field Chinaman, and sharper than a sewer rat: he
wouldn’t give his own father a feed, nor lend him a sprat—unless
some safe person backed the old man’s I.O.U.

We knew that we needn’t expect any mercy from Stiffner; but something had
to be done, so I said to Bill:

“Something’s got to be done, Bill! What do you think of it?”

Bill was mostly a quiet young chap, from Sydney, except when he got
drunk—which was seldom—and then he was a customer, from all round.
He was cracked on the subject of spielers. He held that the population of the
world was divided into two classes—one was spielers and the other was the
mugs. He reckoned that he wasn’t a mug. At first I thought he was a
spieler, and afterwards I thought that he was a mug. He used to say that a man
had to do it these times; that he was honest once and a fool, and was robbed
and starved in consequences by his friends and relations; but now he intended
to take all that he could get. He said that you either had to have or be had;
that men were driven to be sharps, and there was no help for it.

Bill said:

“We’ll have to sharpen our teeth, that’s all, and chew
somebody’s lug.”

“How?” I asked.

There was a lot of navvies at the pub, and I knew one or two by sight, so Bill
says:

“You know one or two of these mugs. Bite one of their ears.”

So I took aside a chap that I knowed and bit his ear for ten bob, and gave it
to Bill to mind, for I thought it would be safer with him than with me.

“Hang on to that,” I says, “and don’t lose it for your
natural life’s sake, or Stiffner’ll stiffen us.”

We put up about nine bob’s worth of drinks that night—me and
Bill—and Stiffner didn’t squeal: he was too sharp. He shouted once
or twice.

By-and-by I left Bill and turned in, and in the morning when I woke up there
was Bill sitting alongside of me, and looking about as lively as the fighting
kangaroo in London in fog time. He had a black eye and eighteen pence.
He’d been taking down some of the mugs.

“Well, what’s to be done now?” I asked. “Stiffner can
smash us both with one hand, and if we don’t pay up he’ll pound our
swags and cripple us. He’s just the man to do it. He loves a fight even
more than he hates being had.”

“There’s only one thing to be done, Jim,” says Bill, in a
tired, disinterested tone that made me mad.

“Well, what’s than” I said.

“Smoke!”

“Smoke be damned,” I snarled, losing my temper.

“You know dashed well that our swags are in the bar, and we can’t
smoke without them.

“Well, then,” says Bill, “I’ll toss you to see
who’s to face the landlord.”

“Well, I’ll be blessed!” I says. “I’ll see you
further first. You have got a front. You mugged that stuff away, and
you’ll have to get us out of the mess.”

It made him wild to be called a mug, and we swore and growled at each other for
a while; but we daren’t speak loud enough to have a fight, so at last I
agreed to toss up for it, and I lost.

Bill started to give me some of his points, but I shut him up quick.

“You’ve had your turn, and made a mess of it,” I said.
“For God’s sake give me a show. Now, I’ll go into the bar and
ask for the swags, and carry them out on to the veranda, and then go back to
settle up. You keep him talking all the time. You dump the two swags together,
and smoke like sheol. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

I went into the bar, got the swags front the missus, carried them out on to the
veranda, and then went back.

Stiffner came in.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning, sir,” says Stiffner.

“It’ll be a nice day, I think?”

“Yes, I think so. I suppose you are going on?”

“Yes, we’ll have to make a move to-day.”

Then I hooked carelessly on to the counter with one elbow, and looked
dreamy-like out across the clearing, and presently I gave a sort of sigh and
said: “Ah, well! I think I’ll have a beer.”

“Right you are! Where’s your mate?”

“Oh, he’s round at the back. He’ll be round directly; but he
ain’t drinking this morning.”

Stiffner laughed that nasty empty laugh of his. He thought Bill was whipping
the cat.

“What’s yours, boss?” I said.

“Thankee!… Here’s luck!”

“Here’s luck!”

The country was pretty open round there—the nearest timber was better
than a mile away, and I wanted to give Bill a good start across the flat before
the go-as-you-can commenced; so I talked for a while, and while we were talking
I thought I might as well go the whole hog—I might as well die for a
pound as a penny, if I had to die; and if I hadn’t I’d have the
pound to the good, anyway, so to speak. Anyhow, the risk would be about the
same, or less, for I might have the spirit to run harder the more I had to run
for—the more spirits I had to run for, in fact, as it turned out—so
I says:

“I think I’ll take one of them there flasks of whisky to last us on
the road.”

“Right y’are,” says Stiffner. “What’ll ye
have—a small one or a big one?”

“Oh, a big one, I think—if I can get it into my pocket.”

“It’ll be a tight squeeze,” he said, and he laughed.

“I’ll try,” I said. “Bet you two drinks I’ll get
it in.”

“Done!” he says. “The top inside coat-pocket, and no
tearing.”

It was a big bottle, and all my pockets were small; but I got it into the
pocket he’d betted against. It was a tight squeeze, but I got it in.

Then we both laughed, but his laugh was nastier than usual, because it was
meant to be pleasant, and he’d lost two drinks; and my laugh wasn’t
easy—I was anxious as to which of us would laugh next.

Just then I noticed something, and an idea struck me—about the most
up-to-date idea that ever struck me in my life. I noticed that Stiffner was
limping on his right foot this morning, so I said to him:

“What’s up with your foot?” putting my hand in my pocket.
“Oh, it’s a crimson nail in my boot,” he said. “I
thought I got the blanky thing out this morning; but I didn’t.”

There just happened to be an old bag of shoemaker’s tools in the bar,
belonging to an old cobbler who was lying dead drunk on the veranda. So I said,
taking my hand out of my pocket again:

“Lend us the boot, and I’ll fix it in a minute. That’s my old
trade.”

“Oh, so you’re a shoemaker,” he said. “I’d never
have thought it.”

He laughs one of his useless laughs that wasn’t wanted, and slips off the
boot—he hadn’t laced it up—and hands it across the bar to me.
It was an ugly brute—a great thick, iron-bound, boiler-plated
navvy’s boot. It made me feel sore when I looked at it.

I got the bag and pretended to fix the nail; but I didn’t.

“There’s a couple of nails gone from the sole,” I said.
“I’ll put ’em in if I can find any hobnails, and it’ll
save the sole,” and I rooted in the bag and found a good long nail, and
shoved it right through the sole on the sly. He’d been a bit of a
sprinter in his time, and I thought it might be better for me in the near
future if the spikes of his running-shoes were inside.

“There, you’ll find that better, I fancy,” I said, standing
the boot on the bar counter, but keeping my hand on it in an absent-minded kind
of way. Presently I yawned and stretched myself, and said in a careless way:

“Ah, well! How’s the slate?” He scratched the back of his
head and pretended to think.

“Oh, well, we’ll call it thirty bob.”

Perhaps he thought I’d slap down two quid.

“Well,” I says, “and what will you do supposing we
don’t pay you?”

He looked blank for a moment. Then he fired up and gasped and choked once or
twice; and then he cooled down suddenly and laughed his nastiest laugh—he
was one of those men who always laugh when they’re wild—and said in
a nasty, quiet tone:

“You thundering, jumped-up crawlers! If you don’t (something) well
part up I’ll take your swags and (something) well kick your gory pants so
you won’t be able to sit down for a month—or stand up
either!”

“Well, the sooner you begin the better,” I said; and I chucked the
boot into a corner and bolted.

He jumped the bar counter, got his boot, and came after me. He paused to slip
the boot on—but he only made one step, and then gave a howl and slung the
boot off and rushed back. When I looked round again he’d got a slipper
on, and was coming—and gaining on me, too. I shifted scenery pretty quick
the next five minutes. But I was soon pumped. My heart began to beat against
the ceiling of my head, and my lungs all choked up in my throat. When I guessed
he was getting within kicking distance I glanced round so’s to dodge the
kick. He let out; but I shied just in time. He missed fire, and the slipper
went about twenty feet up in the air and fell in a waterhole.

He was done then, for the ground was stubbly and stony. I seen Bill on ahead
pegging out for the horizon, and I took after him and reached for the timber
for all I was worth, for I’d seen Stiffner’s missus coming with a
shovel—to bury the remains, I suppose; and those two were a good
match—Stiffner and his missus, I mean.

Bill looked round once, and melted into the bush pretty soon after that. When I
caught up he was about done; but I grabbed my swag and we pushed on, for I told
Bill that I’d seen Stiffner making for the stables when I’d last
looked round; and Bill thought that we’d better get lost in the bush as
soon as ever we could, and stay lost, too, for Stiffner was a man that
couldn’t stand being had.

The first thing that Bill said when we got safe into camp was: “I told
you that we’d pull through all right. You need never be frightened when
you’re travelling with me. Just take my advice and leave things to me,
and we’ll hang out all right. Now-.”

But I shut him up. He made me mad.

“Why, you—! What the sheol did you do?”

“Do?” he says. “I got away with the swags, didn’t I?
Where’d they be now if it wasn’t for me?”

Then I sat on him pretty hard for his pretensions, and paid him out for all the
patronage he’d worked off on me, and called him a mug straight, and
walked round him, so to speak, and blowed, and told him never to pretend to me
again that he was a battler.

Then, when I thought I’d licked him into form, I cooled down and soaped
him up a bit; but I never thought that he had three climaxes and a crisis in
store for me.

He took it all pretty cool; he let me have my fling, and gave me time to get
breath; then he leaned languidly over on his right side, shoved his left hand
down into his left trouserpocket, and brought up a boot-lace, a box of matches,
and nine-and-six.

As soon as I got the focus of it I gasped:

“Where the deuce did you get that?”

“I had it all along,” he said, “but I seen at the pub that
you had the show to chew a lug, so I thought we’d save
it—nine-and-sixpences ain’t picked up every day.”

Then he leaned over on his left, went down into the other pocket, and came up
with a piece of tobacco and half-a-sovereign.

My eyes bulged out.

“Where the blazes did you get that from?” I yelled.

“That,” he said, “was the half-quid you give me last night.
Half-quids ain’t to be thrown away these times; and, besides, I had a
down on Stiffner, and meant to pay him out; I reckoned that if we wasn’t
sharp enough to take him down we hadn’t any business to be supposed to be
alive. Anyway, I guessed we’d do it; and so we did—and got a bottle
of whisky into the bargain.”

Then he leaned back, tired-like, against the log, and dredged his upper
left-hand waistcoat-pocket, and brought up a sovereign wrapped in a pound note.
Then he waited for me to speak; but I couldn’t. I got my mouth open, but
couldn’t get it shut again.

“I got that out of the mugs last night, but I thought that we’d
want it, and might as well keep it. Quids ain’t so easily picked up,
nowadays; and, besides, we need stuff more’n Stiffner does, and
so—”

“And did he know you had the stuff?” I gasped.

“Oh, yes, that’s the fun of it. That’s what made him so
excited. He was in the parlour all the time I was playing. But we might as well
have a drink!

“We did. I wanted it.”

Bill turned in by-and-by, and looked like a sleeping innocent in the moonlight.
I sat up late, and smoked, and thought hard, and watched Bill, and turned in,
and thought till near daylight, and then went to sleep, and had a nightmare
about it. I dreamed I chased Stiffner forty miles to buy his pub, and that Bill
turned out to be his nephew.

Bill divvied up all right, and gave me half a crown over, but I didn’t
travel with him long after that. He was a decent young fellow as far as chaps
go, and a good mate as far as mates go; but he was too far ahead for a
peaceful, easy-going chap like me. It would have worn me out in a year to keep
up to him.

P.S.—The name of this should have been: ‘Bill and Stiffner
(thirdly, Jim)’

WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN

Jack Drew sat on the edge of the shaft, with his foot in the loop and one hand
on the rope, ready to descend. His elder brother, Tom, stood at one end of the
windlass and the third mate at the other. Jack paused before swinging off,
looked up at his brother, and impulsively held out his hand:

“You ain’t going to let the sun go down, are you, Tom?”

But Tom kept both hands on the windlass-handle and said nothing.

“Lower away!”

They lowered him to the bottom, and Tom shouldered his pick in silence and
walked off to the tent. He found the tin plate, pint-pot, and things set ready
for him on the rough slab table under the bush shed. The tea was made, the
cabbage and potatoes strained and placed in a billy near the fire. He found the
fried bacon and steak between two plates in the camp-oven. He sat down to the
table but he could not eat. He felt mean. The inexperience and hasty temper of
his brother had caused the quarrel between them that morning; but then Jack
admitted that, and apologized when he first tried to make it up.

Tom moved round uneasily and tried to smoke: he could not get Jack’s last
appeal out of his ears—“You ain’t going to let the sun go
down, Tom?”

Tom found himself glancing at the sun. It was less than two hours from sunset.
He thought of the words of the old Hebrew—or Chinese—poet; he
wasn’t religious, and the authorship didn’t matter. The old
poet’s words began to haunt him “Let not the sun go down upon your
wrath—Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.”

The line contains good, sound advice; for quick-tempered men are often the most
sensitive, and when they let the sun go down on the aforesaid wrath that
quality is likely to get them down and worry them during the night.

Tom started to go to the claim, but checked himself, and sat down and tried to
draw comfort from his pipe. He understood his brother thoroughly, but his
brother never understood him—that was where the trouble was. Presently he
got thinking how Jack would worry about the quarrel and have no heart for his
work. Perhaps he was fretting over it now, all alone by himself, down at the
end of the damp, dark drive. Tom had a lot of the old woman about him, in spite
of his unsociable ways and brooding temper.

He had almost made up his mind to go below again, on some excuse, when his mate
shouted from the top of the shaft:

“Tom! Tom! For Christ’s sake come here!”

Tom’s heart gave a great thump, and he ran like a kangaroo to the shaft.
All the diggers within hearing were soon on the spot. They saw at a glance what
had happened. It was madness to sink without timber in such treacherous ground.
The sides of the shaft were closing in. Tom sprang forward and shouted
through the crevice:

“To the face, Jack! To the face, for your life!”

“The old Workings!” he cried, turning to the diggers. “Bring
a fan and tools. We’ll dig him out.”

A few minutes later a fan was rigged over a deserted shaft close by, where
fortunately the windlass had been left for bailing purposes, and men were down
in the old drive. Tom knew that he and his mates had driven very close to the
old workings.

He knelt in the damp clay before the face and worked like a madman; he refused
to take turn about, and only dropped the pick to seize a shovel in his strong
hands, and snatch back the loose clay from under his feet; he reckoned that he
had six or, perhaps, eight feet to drive, and he knew that the air could not
last long in the new drive—even if that had not already fallen in and
crushed his brother. Great drops of perspiration stood out on Tom’s
forehead, and his breath began to come in choking sobs, but he still struck
strong, savage blows into the clay before him, and the drive lengthened
quickly. Once he paused a moment to listen, and then distinctly heard a sound
as of a tool or stone being struck against the end of the new drive. Jack was
safe!

Tom dug on until the clay suddenly fell away from his pick and left a hole,
about the size of a plate, in the “face” before him. “Thank
God!” said a hoarse, strained voice at the other side.

“All right, Jack!”

“Yes, old man; you are just in time; I’ve hardly got room to stand
in, and I’m nearly smothered.” He was crouching against the
“face” of the new drive.

Tom dropped his pick and fell back against the man behind him.

“Oh, God! my back!” he cried.

Suddenly he struggled to his knees, and then fell forward on his hand and
dragged himself close to the hole in the end of the drive.

“Jack!” he gasped, “Jack!”

“Right, old man; what’s the matter?”

“I’ve hurt my heart, Jack!—Put your hand—quick!… The
sun’s going down.”

Jack’s hand came out through the hole, Tom gripped it, and then fell with
his face in the damp clay.

They half carried, half dragged him from the drive, for the roof was low and
they were obliged to stoop. They took him to the shaft and sent him up, lashed
to the rope.

A few blows of the pick, and Jack scrambled from his prison and went to the
surface, and knelt on the grass by the body of his brother. The diggers
gathered round and took off their hats. And the sun went down.

THE MAN WHO FORGOT

“Well, I dunno,” said Tom Marshall—known as “The
Oracle”—“I’ve heerd o’ sich cases before: they
ain’t commin, but—I’ve heerd o’ sich cases
before,” and he screwed up the left side of his face whilst he
reflectively scraped his capacious right ear with the large blade of a
pocket-knife.

They were sitting at the western end of the rouseabouts’ hut, enjoying
the breeze that came up when the sun went down, and smoking and yarning. The
“case” in question was a wretchedly forlorn-looking specimen of the
swag-carrying clan whom a boundary-rider had found wandering about the adjacent
plain, and had brought into the station. He was a small, scraggy man, painfully
fair, with a big, baby-like head, vacant watery eyes, long thin hairy hands,
that felt like pieces of damp seaweed, and an apologetic
cringe-and-look-up-at-you manner. He professed to have forgotten who he was and
all about himself.

The Oracle was deeply interested in this case, as indeed he was in anything
else that “looked curious.” He was a big, simple-minded shearer,
with more heart than brains, more experience than sense, and more curiosity
than either. It was a wonder that he had not profited, even indirectly, by the
last characteristic. His heart was filled with a kind of reverential pity for
anyone who was fortunate or unfortunate enough to possess an
“affliction;” and amongst his mates had been counted a deaf man, a
blind man, a poet, and a man who “had rats.” Tom had dropped across
them individually, when they were down in the world, and had befriended them,
and studied them with great interest—especially the poet; and they
thought kindly of him, and were grateful—except the individual with the
rats, who reckoned Tom had an axe to grind—that he, in fact, wanted to
cut his (Rat’s) liver out as a bait for Darling cod—and so
renounced the mateship.

It was natural, then, for The Oracle to take the present case under his wing.
He used his influence with the boss to get the Mystery on “picking
up,” and studied him in spare time, and did his best to assist the poor
hushed memory, which nothing the men could say or do seemed able to push
further back than the day on which the stranger “kind o’ woke
up” on the plain, and found a swag beside him. The swag had been
prospected and fossicked for a clue, but yielded none. The chaps were sceptical
at first, and inclined to make fun of the Mystery; but Tom interfered, and
intimated that if they were skunks enough to chyack or try on any of their
“funny business” with a “pore afflicted chap,” he (Tom)
would be obliged to “perform.” Most of the men there had witnessed
Tom’s performance, and no one seemed ambitious to take a leading part in
it. They preferred to be in the audience.

“Yes,” reflected The Oracle, “it’s a curious case, and
I dare say some of them big doctors, like Morell Mackenzie, would be glad to
give a thousand or two to get holt on a case like this.”

“Done,” cried Mitchell, the goat of the shed. “I’ll go
halves!—or stay, let’s form a syndicate and work the
Mystery.”

Some of the rouseabouts laughed, but the joke fell as flat with Tom as any
other joke.

“The worst of it is,” said the Mystery himself, in the whine that
was natural to him, and with a timid side look up at Tom—“the worst
of it is I might be a lord or duke, and don’t know anything about it. I
might be a rich man, with a lot of houses and money. I might be a lord.”

The chaps guffawed.

“Wot’yer laughing at?” asked Mitchell. “I don’t
see anything unreasonable about it; he might be a lord as far as looks go.
I’ve seen two.”

“Yes,” reflected Tom, ignoring Mitchell, “there’s
something in that; but then again, you see, you might be Jack the Ripper.
Better let it slide, mate; let the dead past bury its dead. Start fresh with a
clean sheet.”

“But I don’t even know my name, or whether I’m married or
not,” whined the outcast. “I might have a good wife and little
ones.”

“Better keep on forgetting, mate,” Mitchell said, “and as for
a name, that’s nothing. I don’t know mine, and I’ve had
eight. There’s plenty good names knocking round. I knew a man named Jim
Smith that died. Take his name, it just suits you, and he ain’t likely to
call round for it; if he does, you can say you was born with it.”

So they called him Smith, and soon began to regard him as a harmless lunatic
and to take no notice of his eccentricities. Great interest was taken in the
case for a time, and even Mitchell put in his oar and tried all sorts of ways
to assist the Mystery in his weak, helpless, and almost pitiful endeavours to
recollect who he was. A similar case happened to appear in the papers at this
time, and the thing caught on to such an extent that The Oracle was moved to
impart some advice from his store of wisdom.

“I wouldn’t think too much over it if I was you,” said he to
Mitchell, “hundreds of sensible men went mad over that there Tichborne
case who didn’t have anything to do with it, but just through thinking on
it; and you’re ratty enough already, Jack. Let it alone and trust me to
find out who’s Smith just as soon as ever we cut out.”

Meanwhile Smith ate, worked, and slept, and borrowed tobacco and forgot to
return it—which was made a note of. He talked freely about his case when
asked, but if he addressed anyone, it was with the air of the timid but good
young man, who is fully aware of the extent and power of this world’s
wickedness, and stands somewhat in awe of it, but yet would beg you to favour a
humble worker in the vineyard by kindly accepting a tract, and passing it on to
friends after perusal.

One Saturday morning, about a fortnight before cut out, The Oracle came late to
his stand, and apparently with something on his mind. Smith hadn’t turned
up, and the next rouseabout was doing his work, to the mutual dissatisfaction
of all parties immediately concerned.

“Did you see anything of Smith?” asked Mitchell of The Oracle.
“Seems to have forgot to get up this morning.”

Tom looked disheartened and disappointed. “He’s forgot
again,” said he, slowly and impressively.

“Forgot what? We know he’s blessed well forgot to come to
graft.”

“He’s forgot again,” repeated Tom. “He woke up this
morning and wanted to know who he was and where he was.” Comments.

“Better give him best, Oracle,” said Mitchell presently. “If
he can’t find out who he is and where he is, the boss’ll soon find
it out for him.”

“No,” said Tom, “when I take a thing in hand I see it
through.”

This was also characteristic of the boss-over-the-board, though in another
direction. He went down to the but and inquired for Smith.

“Why ain’t you at work?”

“Who am I, sir? Where am I?” whined Smith. “Can you please
tell me who I am and where I am?”

The boss drew a long breath and stared blankly at the Mystery; then he erupted.

“Now, look here!” he howled, “I don’t know who the gory
sheol you are, except that you’re a gory lunatic, and what’s more,
I don’t care a damn. But I’ll soon show you where you are! You can
call up at the store and get your cheque, and soon as you blessed well like;
and then take a walk, and don’t forget to take your lovely swag with
you.”

The matter was discussed at the dinner-table. The Oracle swore that it was a
cruel, mean way to treat a “pore afflicted chap,” and cursed the
boss. Tom’s admirers cursed in sympathy, and trouble seemed threatening,
when the voice of Mitchell was heard to rise in slow, deliberate tones over the
clatter of cutlery and tin plates.

“I wonder,” said the voice, “I wonder whether Smith forgot
his cheque?”

It was ascertained that Smith hadn’t.

There was some eating and thinking done. Soon Mitchell’s voice was heard
again, directed at The Oracle.

It said “Do you keep any vallabels about your bunk, Oracle?”

Tom looked hard at Mitchell. “Why?”

“Oh, nothin’: only I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you
to look at your bunk and see whether Smith forgot.”

The chaps grew awfully interested. They fixed their eyes on Tom, and he looked
with feeling from one face to another; then he pushed his plate back, and
slowly extracted his long legs from between the stool and the table. He climbed
to his bunk, and carefully reviewed the ingredients of his swag. Smith
hadn’t forgot.

When The Oracle’s face came round again there was in it a strange
expression which a close study would have revealed to be more of anger than of
sorrow, but that was not all. It was an expression such as a man might wear who
is undergoing a terrible operation, without chloroform, but is determined not
to let a whimper escape him. Tom didn’t swear, and by that token they
guessed how mad he was. ’Twas a rough shed, with a free and lurid
vocabulary, but had they all sworn in chorus, with One-eyed Bogan as lead, it
would not have done justice to Tom’s feelings—and they realized
this.

The Oracle took down his bridle from its peg, and started for the door amid a
respectful and sympathetic silence, which was only partly broken once by the
voice of Mitchell, which asked in an awed whisper:

“Going ter ketch yer horse, Tom?” The Oracle nodded, and passed on;
he spake no word—he was too full for words.

Five minutes passed, and then the voice of Mitchell was heard again,
uninterrupted by the clatter of tinware. It said in impressive tones:

“It would not be a bad idea for some of you chaps that camp in the bunks
along there, to have a look at your things. Scotty’s bunk is next to
Tom’s.”

Scotty shot out of his place as if a snake had hold of his leg, starting a
plank in the table and upsetting three soup plates. He reached for his bunk
like a drowning man clutching at a plank, and tore out the bedding. Again,
Smith hadn’t forgot.

Then followed a general overhaul, and it was found in most cases that Smith had
remembered. The pent-up reservoir of blasphemy burst forth.

The Oracle came up with Smith that night at the nearest shanty, and found that
he had forgotten again, and in several instances, and was forgetting some more
under the influence of rum and of the flattering interest taken in his case by
a drunken Bachelor of Arts who happened to be at the pub. Tom came in quietly
from the rear, and crooked his finger at the shanty-keeper. They went apart
from the rest, and talked together a while very earnestly. Then they secretly
examined Smith’s swag, the core of which was composed of Tom’s and
his mate’s valuables.

Then The Oracle stirred up Smith’s recollections and departed.

Smith was about again in a couple of weeks. He was damaged somewhat physically,
but his memory was no longer impaired.

HUNGERFORD

One of the hungriest cleared roads in New South Wales runs to within a couple
of miles of Hungerford, and stops there; then you strike through the scrub to
the town. There is no distant prospect of Hungerford—you don’t see
the town till you are quite close to it, and then two or three white-washed
galvanized-iron roofs start out of the mulga.

They say that a past Ministry commenced to clear the road from Bourke, under
the impression that Hungerford was an important place, and went on, with the
blindness peculiar to governments, till they got to within two miles of the
town. Then they ran short of rum and rations, and sent a man on to get them,
and make inquiries. The member never came back, and two more were sent to find
him—or Hungerford. Three days later the two returned in an exhausted
condition, and submitted a motion of want-of-confidence, which was lost. Then
the whole House went on and was lost also. Strange to relate, that Government
was never missed.

However, we found Hungerford and camped there for a day. The town is right on
the Queensland border, and an interprovincial rabbit-proof fence—with
rabbits on both sides of it—runs across the main street.

This fence is a standing joke with Australian rabbits—about the only joke
they have out there, except the memory of Pasteur and poison and inoculation.
It is amusing to go a little way out of town, about sunset, and watch them
crack Noah’s Ark rabbit jokes about that fence, and burrow under and play
leap-frog over it till they get tired. One old buck rabbit sat up and nearly
laughed his ears off at a joke of his own about that fence. He laughed so much
that he couldn’t get away when I reached for him. I could hardly eat him
for laughing. I never saw a rabbit laugh before; but I’ve seen a
’possum do it.

Hungerford consists of two houses and a humpy in New South Wales, and five
houses in Queensland. Characteristically enough, both the pubs are in
Queensland. We got a glass of sour yeast at one and paid sixpence for
it—we had asked for English ale.

The post office is in New South Wales, and the police-barracks in Bananaland.
The police cannot do anything if there’s a row going on across the street
in New South Wales, except to send to Brisbane and have an extradition warrant
applied for; and they don’t do much if there’s a row in Queensland.
Most of the rows are across the border, where the pubs are.

At least, I believe that’s how it is, though the man who told me might
have been a liar. Another man said he was a liar, but then he might have
been a liar himself—a third person said he was one. I heard that there
was a fight over it, but the man who told me about the fight might not have
been telling the truth.

One part of the town swears at Brisbane when things go wrong, and the other
part curses Sydney.

The country looks as though a great ash-heap had been spread out there, and
mulga scrub and firewood planted—and neglected. The country looks just as
bad for a hundred miles round Hungerford, and beyond that it gets worse—a
blasted, barren wilderness that doesn’t even howl. If it howled it would
be a relief.

I believe that Bourke and Wills found Hungerford, and it’s a pity they
did; but, if I ever stand by the graves of the men who first travelled through
this country, when there were neither roads nor stations, nor tanks, nor bores,
nor pubs, I’ll—I’ll take my hat off. There were brave men in
the land in those days.

It is said that the explorers gave the district its name chiefly because of the
hunger they found there, which has remained there ever since. I don’t
know where the “ford” comes in—there’s nothing to ford,
except in flood-time. Hungerthirst would have been better. The town is supposed
to be situated on the banks of a river called the Paroo, but we saw no water
there, except what passed for it in a tank. The goats and sheep and dogs and
the rest of the population drink there. It is dangerous to take too much of
that water in a raw state.

Except in flood-time you couldn’t find the bed of the river without the
aid of a spirit-level and a long straight-edge. There is a Custom-house against
the fence on the northern side. A pound of tea often costs six shillings on
that side, and you can get a common lead pencil for fourpence at the rival
store across the street in the mother province. Also, a small loaf of sour
bread sells for a shilling at the humpy aforementioned. Only about sixty per
cent of the sugar will melt.

We saw one of the storekeepers give a dead-beat swagman five shillings’
worth of rations to take him on into Queensland. The storekeepers often do
this, and put it down on the loss side of their books. I hope the recording
angel listens, and puts it down on the right side of his book.

We camped on the Queensland side of the fence, and after tea had a yarn with an
old man who was minding a mixed flock of goats and sheep; and we asked him
whether he thought Queensland was better than New South Wales, or the other way
about.

He scratched the back of his head, and thought a while, and hesitated like a
stranger who is going to do you a favour at some personal inconvenience.

At last, with the bored air of a man who has gone through the same performance
too often before, he stepped deliberately up to the fence and spat over it into
New South Wales. After which he got leisurely through and spat back on
Queensland.

“That’s what I think of the blanky colonies!” he said.

He gave us time to become sufficiently impressed; then he said:

“And if I was at the Victorian and South Australian border I’d do
the same thing.”

He let that soak into our minds, and added: “And the same with West
Australia—and—and Tasmania.” Then he went away.

The last would have been a long spit—and he forgot Maoriland.

We heard afterwards that his name was Clancy and he had that day been offered a
job droving at “twenty-five shillings a week and find your own
horse.” Also find your own horse feed and tobacco and soap and other
luxuries, at station prices. Moreover, if you lost your own horse you would
have to find another, and if that died or went astray you would have to find a
third—or forfeit your pay and return on foot. The boss drover agreed to
provide flour and mutton—when such things were procurable.

Consequently, Clancy’s unfavourable opinion of the colonies.

My mate and I sat down on our swags against the fence to talk things over. One
of us was very deaf. Presently a black tracker went past and looked at us, and
returned to the pub. Then a trooper in Queensland uniform came along and asked
us what the trouble was about, and where we came from and were going, and where
we camped. We said we were discussing private business, and he explained that
he thought it was a row, and came over to see. Then he left us, and later on we
saw him sitting with the rest of the population on a bench under the hotel
veranda. Next morning we rolled up our swags and left Hungerford to the
north-west.

A CAMP-FIRE YARN

“This girl,” said Mitchell, continuing a yarn to his mate,
“was about the ugliest girl I ever saw, except one, and I’ll tell
you about her directly. The old man had a carpenter’s shop fixed up in a
shed at the back of his house, and he used to work there pretty often, and
sometimes I’d come over and yarn with him. One day I was sitting on the
end of the bench, and the old man was working away, and Mary was standing there
too, all three of us yarning—she mostly came poking round where I was if
I happened to be on the premises—or at least I thought so—and we
got yarning about getting married, and the old cove said he’d get married
again if the old woman died.

“‘You get married again!’ said Mary. ‘Why,
father, you wouldn’t get anyone to marry you—who’d have
you?’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘I bet I’ll get someone sooner
than you, anyway. You don’t seem to be able to get anyone, and it’s
pretty near time you thought of settlin’ down and gettin’ married.
I wish someone would have you.’

“He hit her pretty hard there, but it served her right. She got as good
as she gave. She looked at me and went all colours, and then she went back to
her washtub.

“She was mighty quiet at tea-time—she seemed hurt a lot, and I
began to feel sorry I’d laughed at the old man’s joke, for she was
really a good, hard-working girl, and you couldn’t help liking her.

“So after tea I went out to her in the kitchen, where she was washing up,
to try and cheer her up a bit. She’d scarcely speak at first, except to
say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, and kept her face turned away from
me; and I could see that she’d been crying. I began to feel sorry for her
and mad at the old man, and I started to comfort her. But I didn’t go the
right way to work about it. I told her that she mustn’t take any notice
of the old cove, as he didn’t mean half he said. But she seemed to take
it harder than ever, and at last I got so sorry for her that I told her that
I’d have her if she’d have me.”

“And what did she say?” asked Mitchell’s mate, after a pause.

“She said she wouldn’t have me at any price!”

The mate laughed, and Mitchell grinned his quiet grin.

“Well, this set me thinking,” he continued. “I always knew I
was a dashed ugly cove, and I began to wonder whether any girl would really
have me; and I kept on it till at last I made up my mind to find out and settle
the matter for good—or bad.

“There was another farmer’s daughter living close by, and I met her
pretty often coming home from work, and sometimes I had a yarn with her. She
was plain, and no mistake: Mary was a Venus alongside of her. She had feet like
a Lascar, and hands about ten sizes too large for her, and a face like that
camel—only red; she walked like a camel, too. She looked like a ladder
with a dress on, and she didn’t know a great A from a corner cupboard.

“Well, one evening I met her at the sliprails, and presently I asked her,
for a joke, if she’d marry me. Mind you, I never wanted to marry
her; I was only curious to know whether any girl would have me.

“She turned away her face and seemed to hesitate, and I was just turning
away and beginning to think I was a dashed hopeless case, when all of a sudden
she fell up against me and said she’d be my wife…. And it wasn’t
her fault that she wasn’t.”

“What did she do?”

“Do! What didn’t she do? Next day she went down to our place when I
was at work, and hugged and kissed mother and the girls all round, and cried,
and told mother that she’d try and be a dutiful daughter to her. Good
Lord! You should have seen the old woman and the girls when I came home.

“Then she let everyone know that Bridget Page was engaged to Jack
Mitchell, and told her friends that she went down on her knees every night and
thanked the Lord for getting the love of a good man. Didn’t the fellows
chyack me, though! My sisters were raving mad about it, for their chums kept
asking them how they liked their new sister, and when it was going to come off,
and who’d be bridesmaids and best man, and whether they weren’t
surprised at their brother Jack’s choice; and then I’d gammon at
home that it was all true.

“At last the place got too hot for me. I got sick of dodging that girl. I
sent a mate of mine to tell her that it was all a joke, and that I was already
married in secret; but she didn’t see it, then I cleared, and got a job
in Newcastle, but had to leave there when my mates sent me the office that she
was coming. I wouldn’t wonder but what she is humping her swag after me
now. In fact, I thought you was her in disguise when I set eyes on you
first…. You needn’t get mad about it; I don’t mean to say that
you’re quite as ugly as she was, because I never saw a man that
was—or a woman either. Anyway, I’ll never ask a woman to marry me
again unless I’m ready to marry her.”

Then Mitchell’s mate told a yarn.

“I knew a case once something like the one you were telling me about; the
landlady of a hash-house where I was stopping in Albany told me. There was a
young carpenter staying there, who’d run away from Sydney from an old
maid who wanted to marry him. He’d cleared from the church door, I
believe. He was scarcely more’n a boy—about nineteen—and a
soft kind of a fellow, something like you, only good-looking—that is, he
was passable. Well, as soon as the woman found out where he’d gone, she
came after him. She turned up at the boarding-house one Saturday morning when
Bobbie was at work; and the first thing she did was to rent a double room from
the landlady and buy some cups and saucers to start housekeeping with. When
Bobbie came home he just gave her one look and gave up the game.

“‘Get your dinner, Bobbie,’ she said, after she’d
slobbered over him a bit, ‘and then get dressed and come with me and get
married!’

“She was about three times his age, and had a face like that picture of a
lady over Sappho Smith’s letters in the Sydney Bulletin.

“Well, Bobbie went with her like a—like a lamb; never gave a kick
or tried to clear.”

“Hold on,” said Mitchell, “did you ever shear lambs?”

“Never mind. Let me finish the yarn. Bobbie was married; but she
wouldn’t let him out of her sight all that afternoon, and he had to put
up with her before them all. About bedtime he sneaked out and started along the
passage to his room that he shared with two or three mates. But she’d her
eye on him.

“‘Bobbie, Bobbie!’ she says, ‘Where are you
going?’

“‘I’m going to bed,’ said Bobbie. ‘Good
night!’

“‘Bobbie, Bobbie,’ she says, sharply. ‘That isn’t
our room; this is our room, Bobbie. Come back at once! What do you mean,
Bobbie? Do you hear me, Bobbie?’

“So Bobbie came back, and went in with the scarecrow. Next morning she
was first at the breakfast table, in a dressing-gown and curl papers. And when
they were all sitting down Bobbie sneaked in, looking awfully sheepish, and
sidled for his chair at the other end of the table. But she’d her eyes on
him.

“‘Bobbie, Bobbie!’ she said, ‘Come and kiss me,
Bobbie!’” And he had to do it in front of them all.

“But I believe she made him a good wife.”

HIS COUNTRY-AFTER ALL

The Blenheim coach was descending into the valley of the Avetere
River—pronounced Aveterry—from the saddle of Taylor’s Pass.
Across the river to the right, the grey slopes and flats stretched away to the
distant sea from a range of tussock hills. There was no native bush there; but
there were several groves of imported timber standing wide
apart—-sentinel-like—seeming lonely and striking in their
isolation.

“Grand country, New Zealand, eh?” said a stout man with a brown
face, grey beard, and grey eyes, who sat between the driver and another
passenger on the box.

“You don’t call this grand country!” exclaimed the other
passenger, who claimed to be, and looked like, a commercial traveller, and
might have been a professional spieler—quite possibly both. “Why,
it’s about the poorest country in New Zealand! You ought to see some of
the country in the North Island—Wairarapa and Napier districts, round
about Pahiatua. I call this damn poor country.”

“Well, I reckon you wouldn’t, if you’d ever been in
Australia—back in New South Wales. The people here don’t seem to
know what a grand country they’ve got. You say this is the worst, eh?
Well, this would make an Australian cockatoo’s mouth water-the worst of
New Zealand would.”

“I always thought Australia was all good country,” mused the
driver—a flax-stick. “I always thought—”

“Good country!” exclaimed the man with the grey beard, in a tone of
disgust. “Why, it’s only a mongrel desert, except some bits round
the coast. The worst dried-up and God-forsaken country I was ever in.”

There was a silence, thoughtful on the driver’s part, and aggressive on
that of the stranger.

“I always thought,” said the driver, reflectively, after the
pause—“I always thought Australia was a good country,” and he
placed his foot on the brake.

They let him think. The coach descended the natural terraces above the river
bank, and pulled up at the pub.

“So you’re a native of Australia?” said the bagman to the
grey-beard, as the coach went on again.

“Well, I suppose I am. Anyway, I was born there. That’s the main
thing I’ve got against the darned country.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“Till I got away,” said the stranger. Then, after a think, he
added, “I went away first when I was thirty-five—went to the
islands. I swore I’d never go back to Australia again; but I did. I
thought I had a kind of affection for old Sydney. I knocked about the blasted
country for five or six years, and then I cleared out to ’Frisco. I swore
I’d never go back again, and I never will.”

“But surely you’ll take a run over and have a look at old Sydney
and those places, before you go back to America, after getting so near?”

“What the blazes do I want to have a look at the blamed country
for?” snapped the stranger, who had refreshed considerably.
“I’ve got nothing to thank Australia for—except getting out
of it. It’s the best country to get out of that I was ever in.”

“Oh, well, I only thought you might have had some friends over
there,” interposed the traveller in an injured tone.

“Friends! That’s another reason. I wouldn’t go back there for
all the friends and relations since Adam. I had more than quite enough of it
while I was there. The worst and hardest years of my life were spent in
Australia. I might have starved there, and did do it half my time. I worked
harder and got less in my own country in five years than I ever did in any
other in fifteen”—he was getting mixed—“and I’ve
been in a few since then. No, Australia is the worst country that ever the Lord
had the sense to forget. I mean to stick to the country that stuck to me, when
I was starved out of my own dear native land—and that country is the
United States of America. What’s Australia? A big, thirsty, hungry
wilderness, with one or two cities for the convenience of foreign speculators,
and a few collections of humpies, called towns—also for the convenience
of foreign speculators; and populated mostly by mongrel sheep, and partly by
fools, who live like European slaves in the towns, and like dingoes in the
bush—who drivel about ‘democracy,’ and yet haven’t any
more spunk than to graft for a few Cockney dudes that razzle-dazzle most of the
time in Paris. Why, the Australians haven’t even got the grit to claim
enough of their own money to throw a few dams across their watercourses, and so
make some of the interior fit to live in. America’s bad enough, but it
was never so small as that…. Bah! The curse of Australia is sheep, and the
Australian war cry is Baa!”

“Well, you’re the first man I ever heard talk as you’ve been
doing about his own country,” said the bagman, getting tired and
impatient of being sat on all the time. “‘Lives there a man with a
soul so dead, who never said—to—to himself’… I forget the
darned thing.”

He tried to remember it. The man whose soul was dead cleared his throat for
action, and the driver—for whom the bagman had shouted twice as against
the stranger’s once—took the opportunity to observe that he always
thought a man ought to stick up for his own country.

The stranger ignored him and opened fire on the bagman. He proceeded to prove
that that was all rot—that patriotism was the greatest curse on earth;
that it had been the cause of all war; that it was the false, ignorant
sentiment which moved men to slave, starve, and fight for the comfort of their
sluggish masters; that it was the enemy of universal brotherhood, the mother of
hatred, murder, and slavery, and that the world would never be any better until
the deadly poison, called the sentiment of patriotism, had been
“educated” out of the stomachs of the people.
“Patriotism!” he exclaimed scornfully. “My country! The
darned fools; the country never belonged to them, but to the speculators, the
absentees, land-boomers, swindlers, gangs of thieves—the men the
patriotic fools starve and fight for—their masters. Ba-a!”

The opposition collapsed.

The coach had climbed the terraces on the south side of the river, and was
bowling along on a level stretch of road across the elevated flat.

“What trees are those?” asked the stranger, breaking the aggressive
silence which followed his unpatriotic argument, and pointing to a grove ahead
by the roadside. “They look as if they’ve been planted there. There
ain’t been a forest here surely?”

“Oh, they’re some trees the Government imported,” said the
bagman, whose knowledge on the subject was limited. “Our own bush
won’t grow in this soil.”

“But it looks as if anything else would—”

Here the stranger sniffed once by accident, and then several times with
interest.

It was a warm morning after rain. He fixed his eyes on those trees.

They didn’t look like Australian gums; they tapered to the tops, the
branches were pretty regular, and the boughs hung in shipshape fashion. There
was not the Australian heat to twist the branches and turn the leaves.

“Why!” exclaimed the stranger, still staring and sniffing hard.
“Why, dang me if they ain’t (sniff) Australian gums!”

“Yes,” said the driver, flicking his horses, “they
are.”

“Blanky (sniff) blanky old Australian gums!” exclaimed the
ex-Australian, with strange enthusiasm.

“They’re not old,” said the driver; “they’re only
young trees. But they say they don’t grow like that in
Australia—’count of the difference in the climate. I always
thought—”

But the other did not appear to hear him; he kept staring hard at the trees
they were passing. They had been planted in rows and cross-rows, and were
coming on grandly.

There was a rabbit trapper’s camp amongst those trees; he had made a fire
to boil his billy with gum-leaves and twigs, and it was the scent of that fire
which interested the exile’s nose, and brought a wave of memories with
it.

“Good day, mate!” he shouted suddenly to the rabbit trapper, and to
the astonishment of his fellow passengers.

“Good day, mate!” The answer came back like an echo—it seemed
to him—from the past.

Presently he caught sight of a few trees which had evidently been planted
before the others—as an experiment, perhaps—and, somehow, one of
them had grown after its own erratic native fashion—gnarled and twisted
and ragged, and could not be mistaken for anything else but an Australian gum.

“A thunderin’ old blue-gum!” ejaculated the traveller,
regarding the tree with great interest.

He screwed his neck to get a last glimpse, and then sat silently smoking and
gazing straight ahead, as if the past lay before him—and it was
before him.

“Ah, well!” he said, in explanation of a long meditative silence on
his part; “ah, well—them saplings—the smell of them
gum-leaves set me thinking.” And he thought some more.

“Well, for my part,” said a tourist in the coach, presently, in a
condescending tone, “I can’t see much in Australia. The bally
colonies are—”

“Oh, that be damned!” snarled the Australian-born—they had
finished the second flask of whisky. “What do you Britishers know about
Australia? She’s as good as England, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll go straight back to the States as soon as
you’ve done your business in Christchurch,” said the bagman, when
near their journey’s end they had become confidential.

“Well, I dunno. I reckon I’ll just take a run over to Australia
first. There’s an old mate of mine in business in Sydney, and I’d
like to have a yarn with him.”

A DAY ON A SELECTION

The scene is a small New South Wales western selection, the holder whereof is
native-English. His wife is native-Irish. Time, Sunday, about 8 a.m. A used-up
looking woman comes from the slab-and-bark house, turns her face towards the
hillside, and shrieks:

“T-o-o-mmay!”

No response, and presently she draws a long breath and screams again:

“Tomm-a-a-y!”

A faint echo comes from far up the siding where Tommy’s presence is
vaguely indicated by half a dozen cows moving slowly—very
slowly—down towards the cow-yard.

The woman retires. Ten minutes later she comes out again and screams:

“Tommy!

“Y-e-e-a-a-s-s!” very passionately and shrilly.

“Ain’t you goin’ to bring those cows down to-day?”

“Y-e-e-a-a-s-s-s!—carn’t yer see I’m
comin’?”

A boy is seen to run wildly along the siding and hurl a missile at a feeding
cow; the cow runs forward a short distance through the trees, and then stops to
graze again while the boy stirs up another milker.

An hour goes by.

The rising Australian generation is represented by a thin, lanky youth of about
fifteen. He is milking. The cow-yard is next the house, and is mostly
ankle-deep in slush. The boy drives a dusty, discouraged-looking cow into the
bail, and pins her head there; then he gets tackle on to her right hind leg,
hauls it back, and makes it fast to the fence. There are eleven cows, but not
one of them can be milked out of the bail—chiefly because their teats are
sore. The selector does not know what makes the teats sore, but he has an
unquestioning faith in a certain ointment, recommended to him by a man who
knows less about cows than he does himself, which he causes to be applied at
irregular intervals—leaving the mode of application to the discretion of
his son. Meanwhile the teats remain sore.

Having made the cow fast, the youngster cautiously takes hold of the least sore
teat, yanks it suddenly, and dodges the cow’s hock. When he gets enough
milk to dip his dirty hands in, he moistens the teats, and things go on more
smoothly. Now and then he relieves the monotony of his occupation by squirting
at the eye of a calf which is dozing in the adjacent pen. Other times he milks
into his mouth. Every time the cow kicks, a burr or a grass-seed or a bit of
something else falls into the milk, and the boy drowns these things with a
well-directed stream—on the principle that what’s out of sight is
out of mind.

Sometimes the boy sticks his head into the cow’s side, hangs on by a
teat, and dozes, while the bucket, mechanically gripped between his knees,
sinks lower and lower till it rests on the ground. Likely as not he’ll
doze on until his mother’s shrill voice startles him with an inquiry as
to whether he intends to get that milking done to-day; other times he is roused
by the plunging of the cow, or knocked over by a calf which has broken through
a defective panel in the pen. In the latter case the youth gets tackle on to
the calf, detaches its head from the teat with the heel of his boot, and makes
it fast somewhere. Sometimes the cow breaks or loosens the leg-rope and gets
her leg into the bucket and then the youth clings desperately to the pail and
hopes she’ll get her hoof out again without spilling the milk. Sometimes
she does, more often she doesn’t—it depends on the strength of the
boy and the pail and on the strategy of the former. Anyway, the boy will lam
the cow down with a jagged yard shovel, let her out, and bail up another.

When he considers that he has finished milking he lets the cows out with their
calves and carries the milk down to the dairy, where he has a heated argument
with his mother, who—judging from the quantity of milk—has reason
to believe that he has slummed some of the milkers. This he indignantly denies,
telling her she knows very well the cows are going dry.

The dairy is built of rotten box bark—though there is plenty of good
stringy-bark within easy distance—and the structure looks as if it wants
to lie down and is only prevented by three crooked props on the leaning side;
more props will soon be needed in the rear for the dairy shows signs of going
in that direction. The milk is set in dishes made of kerosene-tins, cut in
halves, which are placed on bark shelves fitted round against the walls. The
shelves are not level and the dishes are brought to a comparatively horizontal
position by means of chips and bits of bark, inserted under the lower side. The
milk is covered by soiled sheets of old newspapers supported on sticks laid
across the dishes. This protection is necessary, because the box bark in the
roof has crumbled away and left fringed holes—also because the fowls
roost up there. Sometimes the paper sags, and the cream may have to be scraped
off an article on dairy farming.

The selector’s wife removes the newspapers, and reveals a thick, yellow
layer of rich cream, plentifully peppered with dust that has drifted in
somehow. She runs a forefinger round the edges of the cream to detach it from
the tin, wipes her finger in her mouth, and skims. If the milk and cream are
very thick she rolls the cream over like a pancake with her fingers, and lifts
it out in sections. The thick milk is poured into a slop-bucket, for the pigs
and calves, the dishes are “cleaned”—by the aid of a dipper
full of warm water and a rag—and the wife proceeds to set the
morning’s milk. Tom holds up the doubtful-looking rag that serves as a
strainer while his mother pours in the milk. Sometimes the boy’s hands
get tired and he lets some of the milk run over, and gets into trouble; but it
doesn’t matter much, for the straining-cloth has several sizable holes in
the middle.

The door of the dairy faces the dusty road and is off its hinges and has to be
propped up. The prop is missing this morning, and Tommy is accused of having
been seen chasing old Poley with it at an earlier hour. He never seed the damn
prop, never chased no cow with it, and wants to know what’s the use of
always accusing him. He further complains that he’s always blamed for
everything. The pole is not forthcoming, and so an old dray is backed against
the door to keep it in position. There is more trouble about a cow that is
lost, and hasn’t been milked for two days. The boy takes the cows up to
the paddock sliprails and lets the top rail down: the lower rail fits rather
tightly and some exertion is required to free it, so he makes the animals jump
that one. Then he “poddies“–hand-feeds—the calves which have
been weaned too early. He carries the skim-milk to the yard in a bucket made
out of an oil-drum—sometimes a kerosene-tin—seizes a calf by the
nape of the neck with his left hand, inserts the dirty forefinger of his right
into its mouth, and shoves its head down into the milk. The calf sucks,
thinking it has a teat, and pretty soon it butts violently—as calves do
to remind their mothers to let down the milk—and the boy’s wrist
gets barked against the jagged edge of the bucket. He welts that calf in the
jaw, kicks it in the stomach, tries to smother it with its nose in the milk,
and finally dismisses it with the assistance of the calf rope and a shovel, and
gets another. His hand feels sticky and the cleaned finger makes it look as if
he wore a filthy, greasy glove with the forefinger torn off.

The selector himself is standing against a fence talking to a neighbour. His
arms rest on the top rail of the fence, his chin rests on his hands, his pipe
rests between his fingers, and his eyes rest on a white cow that is chewing her
cud on the opposite side of the fence. The neighbour’s arms rest on the
top rail also, his chin rests on his hands, his pipe rests between his fingers,
and his eyes rest on the cow. They are talking about that cow. They have been
talking about her for three hours. She is chewing her cud. Her nose is well up
and forward, and her eyes are shut. She lets her lower jaw fall a little, moves
it to one side, lifts it again, and brings it back into position with a
springing kind of jerk that has almost a visible recoil. Then her jaws stay
perfectly still for a moment, and you would think she had stopped chewing. But
she hasn’t. Now and again a soft, easy, smooth-going swallow passes
visibly along her clean, white throat and disappears. She chews again, and by
and by she loses consciousness and forgets to chew. She never opens her eyes.
She is young and in good condition; she has had enough to eat, the sun is just
properly warm for her, and—well, if an animal can be really happy, she
ought to be.

Presently the two men drag themselves away from the fence, fill their pipes,
and go to have a look at some rows of forked sticks, apparently stuck in the
ground for some purpose. The selector calls these sticks fruit-trees, and he
calls the place “the orchard.” They fool round these wretched
sticks until dinnertime, when the neighbour says he must be getting home.
“Stay and have some dinner! Man alive! Stay and have some dinner!”
says the selector; and so the friend stays.

It is a broiling hot day in summer, and the dinner consists of hot roast meat,
hot baked potatoes, hot cabbage, hot pumpkin, hot peas, and burning-hot
plum-pudding. The family drinks on an average four cups of tea each per meal.
The wife takes her place at the head of the table with a broom to keep the
fowls out, and at short intervals she interrupts the conversation with such
exclamations as “Shoo! shoo!” “Tommy, can’t you see
that fowl? Drive it out!” The fowls evidently pass a lot of their time in
the house. They mark the circle described by the broom, and take care to keep
two or three inches beyond it. Every now and then you see a fowl on the dresser
amongst the crockery, and there is great concern to get it out before it breaks
something. While dinner is in progress two steers get into the wheat through a
broken rail which has been spliced with stringy-bark, and a calf or two break
into the vineyard. And yet this careless Australian selector, who is too
shiftless to put up a decent fence, or build a decent house and who knows
little or nothing about farming, would seem by his conversation to have read up
all the great social and political questions of the day. Here are some
fragments of conversation caught at the dinner-table. Present—the
selector, the missus, the neighbour, Corney George—nicknamed “Henry
George”—Tommy, Jacky, and the younger children. The spaces
represent interruptions by the fowls and children:

Corney George (continuing conversation): “But Henry George says, in
‘Progress and Poverty,’ he says—”

Missus (to the fowls): “Shoo! Shoo!”

Corney: “He says—”

Tom: “Marther, jist speak to this Jack.”

Missus (to Jack): “If you can’t behave yourself, leave the
table.”

Tom [Corney, probably]: “He says in Progress and—”

Missus: “Shoo!”

Neighbour: “I think ‘Lookin’ Backwards’ is
more—”

Missus: “Shoo! Shoo! Tom, can’t you see that fowl?”

Selector: “Now I think ‘Caesar’s Column’ is more
likely—Just look at—”

Missus: “Shoo! Shoo!”

Selector: “Just look at the French Revolution.”

Corney: “Now, Henry George-”

Tom: “Marther! I seen a old-man kangaroo up on—”

Missus: “Shut up! Eat your dinner an’ hold your tongue.
Carn’t you see someone’s speakin’?”

Selector: “Just look at the French—”

Missus (to the fowls): “Shoo! Shoo!” (turning suddenly and
unexpectedly on Jacky): “Take your fingers out of the sugar!—Blast
yer! that I should say such a thing.”

Neighbour: “But ‘Lookin’ Backwards”’

Missus: “There you go, Tom! Didn’t I say you’d spill that
tea? Go away from the table!”

Selector: “I think ‘Caesar’s Column’ is the only
natural—”

Missus: “Shoo! Shoo!” She loses patience, gets up and fetches a
young rooster with the flat of the broom, sending him flying into the yard; he
falls with his head towards the door and starts in again. Later on the
conversation is about Deeming.

Selector: “There’s no doubt the man’s mad—”

Missus: “Deeming! That Windsor wretch! Why, if I was in the law I’d
have him boiled alive! Don’t tell me he didn’t know what he was
doing! Why, I’d have him—”

Corney: “But, missus, you—”

Missus (to the fowls): “Shoo! Shoo!”

THAT THERE DOG O’ MINE

Macquarie the shearer had met with an accident. To tell the truth, he had been
in a drunken row at a wayside shanty, from which he had escaped with three
fractured ribs, a cracked head, and various minor abrasions. His dog, Tally,
had been a sober but savage participator in the drunken row, and had escaped
with a broken leg. Macquarie afterwards shouldered his swag and staggered and
struggled along the track ten miles to the Union Town hospital. Lord knows how
he did it. He didn’t exactly know himself. Tally limped behind all the
way, on three legs.

The doctors examined the man’s injuries and were surprised at his
endurance. Even doctors are surprised sometimes—though they don’t
always show it. Of course they would take him in, but they objected to Tally.
Dogs were not allowed on the premises.

“You will have to turn that dog out,” they said to the shearer, as
he sat on the edge of a bed.

Macquarie said nothing.

“We cannot allow dogs about the place, my man,” said the doctor in
a louder tone, thinking the man was deaf.

“Tie him up in the yard then.”

“No. He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds.”

Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his set teeth,
painfully buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up his waistcoat, and
staggered to the corner where the swag lay.

“What are you going to do?” they asked.

“You ain’t going to let my dog stop?”

“No. It’s against the rules. There are no dogs allowed on
premises.”

He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great, and he leaned back
against the wall.

“Come, come now! man alive!” exclaimed the doctor, impatiently.
“You must be mad. You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the
wardsman help you to undress.”

“No!” said Macquarie. “No. If you won’t take my dog in
you don’t take me. He’s got a broken leg and wants fixing up
just—just as much as—as I do. If I’m good enough to come in,
he’s good enough—and—and better.”

He paused awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on.

“That—that there old dog of mine has follered me faithful and true,
these twelve long hard and hungry years. He’s about—about the only
thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed
track.”

He rested again; then he continued: “That—that there dog was pupped
on the track,” he said, with a sad sort of a smile. “I carried him
for months in a billy, and afterwards on my swag when he knocked up…. And the
old slut—his mother—she’d foller along quite
contented—and sniff the billy now and again—just to see if he was
all right…. She follered me for God knows how many years. She follered me
till she was blind—and for a year after. She follered me till she could
crawl along through the dust no longer, and—and then I killed her,
because I couldn’t leave her behind alive!”

He rested again.

“And this here old dog,” he continued, touching Tally’s
upturned nose with his knotted fingers, “this here old dog has follered
me for—for ten years; through floods and droughts, through fair times
and—and hard—mostly hard; and kept me from going mad when I had no
mate nor money on the lonely track; and watched over me for weeks when I was
drunk—drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and saved my life
more’n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgave
me for it all; and—and fought for me. He was the only living thing that
stood up for me against that crawling push of curs when they set onter me at
the shanty back yonder—and he left his mark on some of ’em too;
and—and so did I.”

He took another spell.

Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag, stepped
into the doorway, and faced round again.

The dog limped out of the corner and looked up anxiously.

“That there dog,” said Macquarie to the hospital staff in general,
“is a better dog than I’m a man—or you too, it
seems—and a better Christian. He’s been a better mate to me than I
ever was to any man—or any man to me. He’s watched over me;
kep’ me from getting robbed many a time; fought for me; saved my life and
took drunken kicks and curses for thanks—and forgave me. He’s been
a true, straight, honest, and faithful mate to me—and I ain’t going
to desert him now. I ain’t going to kick him out in the road with a
broken leg. I—Oh, my God! my back!”

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off the swag, and
laid him on a bed.

Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up.

“Where’s my dog!” he asked, when he came to himself.

“Oh, the dog’s all right,” said the nurse, rather
impatiently. “Don’t bother. The doctor’s setting his leg out
in the yard.”

GOING BLIND

I met him in the Full-and-Plenty Dining Rooms. It was a cheap place in the
city, with good beds upstairs let at one shilling per night—“Board
and residence for respectable single men, fifteen shillings per week.” I
was a respectable single man then. I boarded and resided there. I boarded at a
greasy little table in the greasy little corner under the fluffy little
staircase in the hot and greasy little dining-room or restaurant downstairs.
They called it dining-rooms, but it was only one room, and them wasn’t
half enough room in it to work your elbows when the seven little tables and
forty-nine chairs were occupied. There was not room for an ordinary-sized
steward to pass up and down between the tables; but our waiter was not an
ordinary-sized man—he was a living skeleton in miniature. We handed the
soup, and the “roast beef one,” and “roast lamb one,”
“corn beef and cabbage one,” “veal and stuffing one,”
and the “veal and pickled pork,” one—or two, or three, as the
case might be—and the tea and coffee, and the various kinds of
puddings—we handed them over each other, and dodged the drops as well as
we could. The very hot and very greasy little kitchen was adjacent, and it
contained the bathroom and other conveniences, behind screens of whitewashed
boards.

I resided upstairs in a room where there were five beds and one wash-stand; one
candle-stick, with a very short bit of soft yellow candle in it; the back of a
hair-brush, with about a dozen bristles in it; and half a comb—the
big-tooth end—with nine and a half teeth at irregular distances apart.

He was a typical bushman, not one of those tall, straight, wiry, brown men of
the West, but from the old Selection Districts, where many drovers came from,
and of the old bush school; one of those slight active little fellows whom we
used to see in cabbage-tree hats, Crimean shirts, strapped trousers, and
elastic-side boots—“larstins,” they called them. They could
dance well; sing indifferently, and mostly through their noses, the old bush
songs; play the concertina horribly; and ride like—like—well, they
could ride.

He seemed as if he had forgotten to grow old and die out with this old colonial
school to which he belonged. They had careless and forgetful ways about
them. His name was Jack Gunther, he said, and he’d come to Sydney to try
to get something done to his eyes. He had a portmanteau, a carpet bag, some
things in a three-bushel bag, and a tin bog. I sat beside him on his bed, and
struck up an acquaintance, and he told me all about it. First he asked me would
I mind shifting round to the other side, as he was rather deaf in that ear.
He’d been kicked by a horse, he said, and had been a little dull o’
hearing on that side ever since.

He was as good as blind. “I can see the people near me,” he said,
“but I can’t make out their faces. I can just make out the pavement
and the houses close at hand, and all the rest is a sort of white blur.”
He looked up: “That ceiling is a kind of white, ain’t it? And
this,” tapping the wall and putting his nose close to it, “is a
sort of green, ain’t it?” The ceiling might have been whiter. The
prevalent tints of the wall-paper had originally been blue and red, but it was
mostly green enough now—a damp, rotten green; but I was ready to swear
that the ceiling was snow and that the walls were as green as grass if it would
have made him feel more comfortable. His sight began to get bad about six years
before, he said; he didn’t take much notice of it at first, and then he
saw a quack, who made his eyes worse. He had already the manner of the
blind—the touch of every finger, and even the gentleness in his speech.
He had a boy down with him—a “sorter cousin of his,” and the
boy saw him round. “I’ll have to be sending that youngster
back,” he said, “I think I’ll send him home next week.
He’ll be picking up and learning too much down here.”

I happened to know the district he came from, and we would sit by the hour and
talk about the country, and chaps by the name of this and chaps by the name of
that—drovers mostly, whom we had met or had heard of. He asked me if
I’d ever heard of a chap by the name of Joe Scott—a big
sandy-complexioned chap, who might be droving; he was his brother, or, at
least, his half-brother, but he hadn’t heard of him for years; he’d
last heard of him at Blackall, in Queensland; he might have gone overland to
Western Australia with Tyson’s cattle to the new country.

We talked about grubbing and fencing and digging and droving and
shearing—all about the bush—and it all came back to me as we
talked. “I can see it all now,” he said once, in an abstracted
tone, seeming to fix his helpless eyes on the wall opposite. But he
didn’t see the dirty blind wall, nor the dingy window, nor the skimpy
little bed, nor the greasy wash-stand; he saw the dark blue ridges in the
sunlight, the grassy sidings and flats, the creek with clumps of she-oak here
and there, the course of the willow-fringed river below, the distant peaks and
ranges fading away into a lighter azure, the granite ridge in the middle
distance, and the rocky rises, the stringy-bark and the apple-tree flats, the
scrubs, and the sunlit plains—and all. I could see it, too—plainer
than ever I did.

He had done a bit of fencing in his time, and we got talking about timber. He
didn’t believe in having fencing-posts with big butts; he reckoned it was
a mistake. “You see,” he said, “the top of the butt catches
the rain water and makes the post rot quicker. I’d back posts without any
butt at all to last as long or longer than posts with
’em—that’s if the fence is well put up and well
rammed.” He had supplied fencing stuff, and fenced by contract,
and—well, you can get more posts without butts out of a tree than posts
with them. He also objected to charring the butts. He said it only made more
work—and wasted time—the butts lasted longer without being charred.

I asked him if he’d ever got stringy-bark palings or shingles out of
mountain ash, and he smiled a smile that did my heart good to see, and said he
had. He had also got them out of various other kinds of trees.

We talked about soil and grass, and gold-digging, and many other things which
came back to one like a revelation as we yarned.

He had been to the hospital several times. “The doctors don’t say
they can cure me,” he said, “they say they might, be able to
improve my sight and hearing, but it would take a long time—anyway, the
treatment would improve my general health. They know what’s the matter
with my eyes,” and he explained it as well as he could. “I wish
I’d seen a good doctor when my eyes first began to get weak; but young
chaps are always careless over things. It’s harder to get cured of
anything when you’re done growing.”

He was always hopeful and cheerful. “If the worst comes to the
worst,” he said, “there’s things I can do where I come from.
I might do a bit o’ wool-sorting, for instance. I’m a pretty fair
expert. Or else when they’re weeding out I could help. I’d just
have to sit down and they’d bring the sheep to me, and I’d feel the
wool and tell them what it was—being blind improves the feeling, you
know.”

He had a packet of portraits, but he couldn’t make them out very well
now. They were sort of blurred to him, but I described them and he told me who
they were. “That’s a girl o’ mine,” he said, with
reference to one—a jolly, good-looking bush girl. “I got a letter
from her yesterday. I managed to scribble something, but I’ll get you, if
you don’t mind, to write something more I want to put in on another piece
of paper, and address an envelope for me.”

Darkness fell quickly upon him now—or, rather, the “sort of white
blur” increased and closed in. But his hearing was better, he said, and
he was glad of that and still cheerful. I thought it natural that his hearing
should improve as he went blind.

One day he said that he did not think he would bother going to the hospital any
more. He reckoned he’d get back to where he was known. He’d stayed
down too long already, and the “stuff” wouldn’t stand it. He
was expecting a letter that didn’t come. I was away for a couple of days,
and when I came back he had been shifted out of the room and had a bed in an
angle of the landing on top of the staircase, with the people brushing against
him and stumbling over his things all day on their way up and down. I felt
indignant, thinking that—the house being full—the boss had taken
advantage of the bushman’s helplessness and good nature to put him there.
But he said that he was quite comfortable. “I can get a whiff of air
here,” he said.

Going in next day I thought for a moment that I had dropped suddenly back into
the past and into a bush dance, for there was a concertina going upstairs. He
was sitting on the bed, with his legs crossed, and a new cheap concertina on
his knee, and his eyes turned to the patch of ceiling as if it were a piece of
music and he could read it. “I’m trying to knock a few tunes into
my head,” he said, with a brave smile, “in case the worst comes to
the worst.” He tried to be cheerful, but seemed worried and anxious. The
letter hadn’t come. I thought of the many blind musicians in Sydney, and
I thought of the bushman’s chance, standing at a corner swanking a cheap
concertina, and I felt sorry for him.

I went out with a vague idea of seeing someone about the matter, and getting
something done for the bushman—of bringing a little influence to his
assistance; but I suddenly remembered that my clothes were worn out, my hat in
a shocking state, my boots burst, and that I owed for a week’s board and
lodging, and was likely to be thrown out at any moment myself; and so I was not
in a position to go where there was influence.

When I went back to the restaurant there was a long, gaunt sandy-complexioned
bushman sitting by Jack’s side. Jack introduced him as his brother, who
had returned unexpectedly to his native district, and had followed him to
Sydney. The brother was rather short with me at first, and seemed to regard the
restaurant people—all of us, in fact—in the light of spielers who
wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of Jack’s blindness if he left
him a moment; and he looked ready to knock down the first man who stumbled
against Jack, or over his luggage—but that soon wore off. Jack was going
to stay with Joe at the Coffee Palace for a few weeks, and then go back
up-country, he told me. He was excited and happy. His brother’s manner
towards him was as if Jack had just lost his wife, or boy or someone very dear
to him. He would not allow him to do anything for himself, nor try to—not
even lace up his boot. He seemed to think that he was thoroughly helpless, and
when I saw him pack up Jack’s things, and help him at the table and fix
his tie and collar with his great brown hands, which trembled all the time with
grief and gentleness, and make Jack sit down on the bed whilst he got a cab and
carried the trap down to it, and take him downstairs as if he were made of thin
glass, and settle with the landlord—then I knew that Jack was all right.

We had a drink together—Joe, Jack, the cabman, and I. Joe was very
careful to hand Jack the glass, and Jack made joke about it for Joe’s
benefit. He swore he could see a glass yet, and Joe laughed, but looked extra
troubled the next moment.

I felt their grips on my hand for five minutes after we parted.

ARVIE ASPINALL’S ALARM CLOCK

In one of these years a paragraph appeared in a daily paper to the effect that
a constable had discovered a little boy asleep on the steps of Grinder
Bros’ factory at four o’clock one rainy morning. He awakened him,
and demanded an explanation.

The little fellow explained that he worked there, and was frightened of being
late; he started work at six, and was apparently greatly astonished to hear
that it was only four. The constable examined a small parcel which the
frightened child had in his hand. It contained a clean apron and three slices
of bread and treacle.

The child further explained that he woke up and thought it was late, and
didn’t like to wake mother and ask her the time “because
she’d been washin’.” He didn’t look at the clock,
because they “didn’t have one.” He volunteered no
explanations as to how he expected mother to know the time, but, perhaps, like
many other mites of his kind, he had unbounded faith in the infinitude of a
mother’s wisdom. His name was Arvie Aspinall, please sir, and he lived in
Jones’s Alley. Father was dead.

A few days later the same paper took great pleasure in stating, in reference to
that “Touching Incident” noticed in a recent issue, that a
benevolent society lady had started a subscription among her friends with the
object of purchasing an alarm-clock for the little boy found asleep at Grinder
Bros’ workshop door.

Later on, it was mentioned, in connection with the touching incident, that the
alarm-clock had been bought and delivered to the boy’s mother, who
appeared to be quite overcome with gratitude. It was learned, also, from
another source, that the last assertion was greatly exaggerated.

The touching incident was worn out in another paragraph, which left no doubt
that the benevolent society lady was none other than a charming and
accomplished daughter of the House of Grinder.

It was late in the last day of the Easter Holidays, during which Arvie Aspinall
had lain in bed with a bad cold. He was still what he called
“croopy.” It was about nine o’clock, and the business of
Jones’s Alley was in full swing.

“That’s better, mother, I’m far better,” said Arvie,
“the sugar and vinegar cuts the phlegm, and the both’rin’
cough gits out. It got out to such an extent for the next few minutes that he
could not speak. When he recovered his breath, he said:

“Better or worse, I’ll have to go to work to-morrow. Gimme the
clock, mother.”

“I tell you you shall not go! It will be your death.”

“It’s no use talking, mother; we can’t
starve—and—s’posin’ somebody got my place! Gimme the
clock, mother.”

“I’ll send one of the children round to say you’re ill.
They’ll surely let you off for a day or two.”

“Tain’t no use; they won’t wait; I know them—what does
Grinder Bros care if I’m ill? Never mind, mother, I’ll rise above
’em all yet. Give me the clock, mother.”

She gave him the clock, and he proceeded to wind it up and set the alarm.

“There’s somethin’ wrong with the gong,” he muttered,
“it’s gone wrong two nights now, but I’ll chance it.
I’ll set the alarm at five, that’ll give me time to dress and git
there early. I wish I hadn’t to walk so far.”

He paused to read some words engraved round the dial:

Early to bed and early to rise
Makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise.

He had read the verse often before, and was much taken with the swing and
rhythm of it. He had repeated it to himself, over and over again, without
reference to the sense or philosophy of it. He had never dreamed of doubting
anything in print—and this was engraved. But now a new light seemed to
dawn upon him. He studied the sentence awhile, and then read it aloud for the
second time. He turned it over in his mind again in silence.

“Mother!” he said suddenly, “I think it lies.” She
placed the clock on the shelf, tucked him into his little bed on the sofa, and
blew out the light.

Arvie seemed to sleep, but she lay awake thinking of her troubles. Of her
husband carried home dead from his work one morning; of her eldest son who only
came to loaf on her when he was out of jail; of the second son, who had
feathered his nest in another city, and had no use for her any longer; of the
next—poor delicate little Arvie—struggling manfully to help, and
wearing his young life out at Grinder Bros when he should be at school; of the
five helpless younger children asleep in the next room: of her hard
life—scrubbing floors from half-past five till eight, and then starting
her day’s work—washing!—of having to rear her children in the
atmosphere of the slums, because she could not afford to move and pay a higher
rent; and of the rent.

Arvie commenced to mutter in his sleep.

“Can’t you get to sleep, Arvie?” she asked. “Is your
throat sore? Can I get anything for you?”

“I’d like to sleep,” he muttered, dreamily, “but it
won’t seem more’n a moment before—before—”

“Before what, Arvie?” she asked, quickly, fearing that he was
becoming delirious.

“Before the alarm goes off!”

He was talking in his sleep.

She rose gently and put the alarm on two hours. “He can rest now,”
she whispered to herself.

Presently Arvie sat bolt upright, and said quickly, “Mother! I thought
the alarm went off!” Then, without waiting for an answer, he lay down as
suddenly and slept.

The rain had cleared away, and a bright, starry dome was over sea and city,
over slum and villa alike; but little of it could be seen from the hovel in
Jones’s Alley, save a glimpse of the Southern Cross and a few stars round
it. It was what ladies call a “lovely night,” as seen from the
house of Grinder—“Grinderville”—with its moonlit
terraces and gardens sloping gently to the water, and its windows lit up for an
Easter ball, and its reception-rooms thronged by its own exclusive set, and one
of its charming and accomplished daughters melting a select party to tears by
her pathetic recitation about a little crossing sweeper.

There was something wrong with the alarm-clock, or else Mrs Aspinall had
made a mistake, for the gong sounded startlingly in the dead of night. She woke
with a painful start, and lay still, expecting to hear Arvie get up; but he
made no sign. She turned a white, frightened face towards the sofa where he
lay—the light from the alley’s solitary lamp on the pavement above
shone down through the window, and she saw that he had not moved.

Why didn’t the clock wake him? He was such a light sleeper!
“Arvie!” she called; no answer. “Arvie!” she called
again, with a strange ring of remonstrance mingling with the terror in her
voice. Arvie never answered.

“Oh! my God!” she moaned.

She rose and stood by the sofa. Arvie lay on his back with his arms
folded—a favourite sleeping position of his; but his eyes were wide open
and staring upwards as though they would stare through ceiling and roof to the
place where God ought to be.

STRAGGLERS

An oblong hut, walled with blue-grey hardwood slabs, adzed at the ends and set
horizontally between the round sapling studs; high roof of the eternal
galvanized iron. A big rubbish heap lies about a yard to the right of the door,
which opens from the middle of one of the side walls; it might be the front or
the back wall—there is nothing to fix it. Two rows of rough bunks run
round three sides of the interior; and a fire-place occupies one end—the
kitchen end. Sleeping, eating, gambling and cooking accommodation for thirty
men in about eighteen by forty feet.

The rouseabouts and shearers use the hut in common during shearing. Down the
centre of the place runs a table made of stakes driven into the ground, with
cross-pieces supporting a top of half-round slabs set with the flat sides up,
and affording a few level places for soup-plates; on each side are crooked,
unbarked poles laid in short forks, to serve as seats. The poles are worn
smoothest opposite the level places on the table. The floor is littered with
rubbish—old wool-bales, newspapers, boots, worn-out shearing pants, rough
bedding, etc., raked out of the bunks in impatient search for missing
articles—signs of a glad and eager departure with cheques when the shed
last cut out.

To the west is a dam, holding back a broad, shallow sheet of grey water, with
dead trees standing in it.

Further up along this water is a brush shearing-shed, a rough framework of
poles with a brush roof. This kind of shed has the advantage of being cooler
than iron. It is not rain-proof, but shearers do not work in rainy weather;
shearing even slightly damp sheep is considered the surest and quickest way to
get the worst kind of rheumatism. The floor is covered with rubbish from the
roof, and here and there lies a rusty pair of shears. A couple of dry tar-pots
hang by nails in the posts. The “board” is very uneven and must be
bad for sweeping. The pens are formed by round, crooked stakes driven into the
ground in irregular lines, and the whole business reminds us of the
“cubby-house” style of architecture of our childhood.

Opposite stands the wool-shed, built entirely of galvanized iron; a blinding
object to start out of the scrub on a blazing, hot day. God forgive the man who
invented galvanized iron, and the greed which introduced it into Australia: you
could not get worse roofing material for a hot country.

The wool-washing, soap-boiling, and wool-pressing arrangements are further up
the dam. “Government House” is a mile away, and is nothing better
than a bush hut; this station belongs to a company. And the company belongs to
a bank. And the banks belong to England, mostly.

Mulga scrub all round, and, in between, patches of reddish sand where the grass
ought to be.

It is New Year’s Eve. Half a dozen travellers are camping in the hut,
having a spell. They need it, for there are twenty miles of dry lignum plain
between here and the government bore to the east; and about eighteen miles of
heavy, sandy, cleared road north-west to the next water in that direction. With
one exception, the men do not seem hard up; at least, not as that condition is
understood by the swagmen of these times. The least lucky one of the lot had
three weeks’ work in a shed last season, and there might probably be five
pounds amongst the whole crowd. They are all shearers, or at least they say
they are. Some might be only “rousers.”

These men have a kind of stock hope of getting a few stragglers to shear
somewhere; but their main object is to live till next shearing. In order to do
this they must tramp for tucker, and trust to the regulation—and partly
mythical—pint of flour, and bit of meat, or tea and sugar, and to the
goodness of cooks and storekeepers and boundary-riders. You can only depend on
getting tucker once at one place; then you must tramp on to the next. If
you cannot get it once you must go short; but there is a lot of energy in an
empty stomach. If you get an extra supply you may camp for a day and have a
spell. To live you must walk. To cease walking is to die.

The Exception is an outcast amongst bush outcasts, and looks better fitted for
Sydney Domain. He lies on the bottom of a galvanized-iron case, with a piece of
blue blanket for a pillow. He is dressed in a blue cotton jumper, a pair of
very old and ragged tweed trousers, and one boot and one slipper. He found the
slipper in the last shed, and the boot in the rubbish-heap here. When his own
boots gave out he walked a hundred and fifty miles with his feet roughly sewn
up in pieces of sacking from an old wool-bale. No sign of a patch, or an
attempt at mending anywhere about his clothes, and that is a bad sign; when a
swagman leaves off mending or patching his garments, his case is about
hopeless. The Exception’s swag consists of the aforesaid bit of blanket
rolled up and tied with pieces of rag. He has no water-bag; carries his water
in a billy; and how he manages without a bag is known only to himself. He has
read every scrap of print within reach, and now lies on his side, with his face
to the wall and one arm thrown up over his head; the jumper is twisted back,
and leaves his skin bare from hip to arm-pit. His lower face is brutal, his
eyes small and shifty, and ugly straight lines run across his low forehead. He
says very little, but scowls most of the time—poor devil. He might be, or
at least seem, a totally different man under more favourable conditions.
He is probably a free labourer.

A very sick jackaroo lies in one of the bunks. A sandy, sawney-looking Bourke
native takes great interest in this wreck; watches his every movement as though
he never saw a sick man before. The men lie about in the bunks, or the shade of
the hut, and rest, and read all the soiled and mutilated scraps of literature
they can rake out of the rubbish, and sleep, and wake up swimming in
perspiration, and growl about the heat.

It is hot, and two shearers’ cats—a black and a white
one—sit in one of the upper bunks with their little red tongues out,
panting like dogs. These cats live well during shearing, and take their chances
the rest of the year—just as shed rouseabouts have to do. They seem glad
to see the traveller come; he makes things more homelike. They curl and sidle
affectionately round the table-legs, and the legs of the men, and purr, and
carry their masts up, and regard the cooking with feline interest and approval,
and look as cheerful as cats can—and as contented. God knows how many
tired, dusty, and sockless ankles they rub against in their time.

Now and then a man takes his tucker-bags and goes down to the station for a bit
of flour, or meat, or tea, or sugar, choosing the time when the manager is
likely to be out on the run. The cook here is a “good cook,” from a
traveller’s point of view; too good to keep his place long.

Occasionally someone gets some water in an old kerosene-tin and washes a shirt
or pair of trousers, and a pair or two of socks—or
foot-rags—(Prince Alfreds they call them). That is, he soaks some of the
stiffness out of these articles.

Three times a day the black billies and cloudy nose-bags are placed on the
table. The men eat in a casual kind of way, as though it were only a custom of
theirs, a matter of form—a habit which could be left off if it were worth
while.

The Exception is heard to remark to no one in particular that he’ll give
all he has for a square meal.

“An’ ye’d get it cheap, begod!” says a big Irish
shearer. “Come and have dinner with us; there’s plenty
there.”

But the Exception only eats a few mouthfuls, and his appetite is gone; his
stomach has become contracted, perhaps.

The Wreck cannot eat at all, and seems internally disturbed by the sight of
others eating.

One of the men is a cook, and this morning he volunteered good-naturedly to
bake bread for the rest. His mates amuse themselves by chyacking him.

“I’ve heard he’s a dirty and slow cook,” says one,
addressing Eternity.

“Ah!” says the cook, “you’ll be glad to come to me for
a pint of flour when I’m cooking and you’re on the track, some
day.”

Sunset. Some of the men sit at the end of the hut to get the full benefit of a
breeze which comes from the west. A great bank of rain-clouds is rising in that
direction, but no one says he thinks it will rain; neither does anybody think
we’re going to have some rain. None but the greenest jackaroo would
venture that risky and foolish observation. Out here, it can look more like
rain without raining, and continue to do so for a longer time, than in most
other places.

The Wreck went down to the station this afternoon to get some medicine and bush
medical advice. The Bourke sawney helped him to do up his swag; he did it with
an awed look and manner, as though he thought it a great distinction to be
allowed to touch the belongings of such a curiosity. It was afterwards
generally agreed that it was a good idea for the Wreck to go to the station; he
would get some physic and, a bit of tucker to take him on. “For
they’ll give tucker to a sick man sooner than to a chap what’s all
right.”

The Exception is rooting about in the rubbish for the other blucher boot.

The men get a little more sociable, and “feel” each other to find
out who’s “Union,” and talk about water, and exchange hints
as to good tucker-tracks, and discuss the strike, and curse the squatter (which
is all they have got to curse), and growl about Union leaders, and tell lies
against each other sociably. There are tally lies; and lies about getting
tucker by trickery; and long-tramp-with-heavy-swag-and-no-water lies; and lies
about getting the best of squatters and bosses-over-the-board; and droving,
fighting, racing, gambling and drinking lies. Lies ad libitum; and every
true Australian bushman must try his best to tell a bigger out-back lie than
the last bush-liar.

Pat is not quite easy in his mind. He found an old pair of pants in the scrub
this morning, and cannot decide whether they are better than his own, or,
rather, whether his own are worse—if that’s possible. He does not
want to increase the weight of his swag unnecessarily by taking both pairs. He
reckons that the pants were thrown away when the shed cut out last, but then
they might have been lying out exposed to the weather for a longer period. It
is rather an important question, for it is very annoying, after you’ve
mended and patched an old pair of pants, to find, when a day or two further on
the track, that they are more rotten than the pair you left behind.

There is some growling about the water here, and one of the men makes a billy
of tea. The water is better cooked. Pint-pots and sugar-bags are groped out and
brought to the kitchen hut, and each man fills his pannikin; the Irishman keeps
a thumb on the edge of his, so as to know when the pot is full, for it is very
dark, and there is no more firewood. You soon know this way, especially if you
are in the habit of pressing lighted tobacco down into your pipe with the top
of your thumb. The old slush-lamps are all burnt out.

Each man feels for the mouth of his sugar-bag with one hand while he keeps the
bearings of his pot with the other.

The Irishman has lost his match-box, and feels for it all over the table
without success. He stoops down with his hands on his knees, gets the table-top
on a level with the flicker of firelight, and “moons” the object,
as it were.

Time to turn in. It is very dark inside and bright moonlight without; every
crack seems like a ghost peering in. Some of the men will roll up their swags
on the morrow and depart; some will take another day’s spell. It is all
according to the tucker.

THE UNION BURIES ITS DEAD

While out boating one Sunday afternoon on a billabong across the river, we saw
a young man on horseback driving some horses along the bank. He said it was a
fine day, and asked if the Water was deep there. The joker of our party said it
was deep enough to drown him, and he laughed and rode farther up. We
didn’t take much notice of him.

Next day a funeral gathered at a corner pub and asked each other in to have a
drink while waiting for the hearse. They passed away some of the time dancing
jigs to a piano in the bar parlour. They passed away the rest of the time
skylarking and fighting.

The defunct was a young Union labourer, about twenty-five, who had been drowned
the previous day while trying to swim some horses across a billabong of the
Darling.

He was almost a stranger in town, and the fact of his having been a Union man
accounted for the funeral. The police found some Union papers in his swag, and
called at the General Labourers’ Union Office for information about him.
That’s how we knew. The secretary had very little information to give.
The departed was a “Roman,” and the majority of the town were
otherwise—but Unionism is stronger than creed. Liquor, however, is
stronger than Unionism; and, when the hearse presently arrived, more than
two-thirds of the funeral were unable to follow.

The procession numbered fifteen, fourteen souls following the broken shell of a
soul. Perhaps not one of the fourteen possessed a soul any more than the corpse
did—but that doesn’t matter.

Four or five of the funeral, who were boarders at the pub, borrowed a trap
which the landlord used to carry passengers to and from the railway station.
They were strangers to us who were on foot, and we to them. We were all
strangers to the corpse.

A horseman, who looked like a drover just returned from a big trip, dropped
into our dusty wake and followed us a few hundred yards, dragging his packhorse
behind him, but a friend made wild and demonstrative signals from a hotel
veranda—hooking at the air in front with his right hand and jobbing his
left thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar—so the drover
hauled off and didn’t catch up to us any more. He was a stranger to the
entire show.

We walked in twos. There were three twos. It was very hot and dusty; the heat
rushed in fierce dazzling rays across every iron roof and light-coloured wall
that was turned to the sun. One or two pubs closed respectfully until we got
past. They closed their bar doors and the patrons went in and out through some
side or back entrance for a few minutes. Bushmen seldom grumble at an
inconvenience of this sort, when it is caused by a funeral. They have too much
respect for the dead.

On the way to the cemetery we passed three shearers sitting on the shady side
of a fence. One was drunk—very drunk. The other two covered their right
ears with their hats, out of respect for the departed—whoever he might
have been—and one of them kicked the drunk and muttered something to him.

He straightened himself up, stared, and reached helplessly for his hat, which
he shoved half off and then on again. Then he made a great effort to pull
himself together—and succeeded. He stood up, braced his back against the
fence, knocked off his hat, and remorsefully placed his foot on it—to
keep it off his head till the funeral passed.

A tall, sentimental drover, who walked by my side, cynically quoted Byronic
verses suitable to the occasion—to death—and asked with pathetic
humour whether we thought the dead man’s ticket would be recognized
“over yonder.” It was a G.L.U. ticket, and the general opinion was
that it would be recognized.

Presently my friend said:

“You remember when we were in the boat yesterday, we saw a man driving
some horses along the bank?”

“Yes.”

He nodded at the hearse and said “Well, that’s him.”

I thought awhile.

“I didn’t take any particular notice of him,” I said.
“He said something, didn’t he?”

“Yes; said it was a fine day. You’d have taken more notice if
you’d known that he was doomed to die in the hour, and that those were
the last words he would say to any man in this world.”

“To be sure,” said a full voice from the rear. “If ye’d
known that, ye’d have prolonged the conversation.”

We plodded on across the railway line and along the hot, dusty road which ran
to the cemetery, some of us talking about the accident, and lying about the
narrow escapes we had had ourselves. Presently someone said:

“There’s the Devil.”

I looked up and saw a priest standing in the shade of the tree by the cemetery
gate.

The hearse was drawn up and the tail-boards were opened. The funeral
extinguished its right ear with its hat as four men lifted the coffin out and
laid it over the grave. The priest—a pale, quiet young fellow—stood
under the shade of a sapling which grew at the head of the grave. He took off
his hat, dropped it carelessly on the ground, and proceeded to business. I
noticed that one or two heathens winced slightly when the holy water was
sprinkled on the coffin. The drops quickly evaporated, and the little round
black spots they left were soon dusted over; but the spots showed, by contrast,
the cheapness and shabbiness of the cloth with which the coffin was covered. It
seemed black before; now it looked a dusky grey.

Just here man’s ignorance and vanity made a farce of the funeral. A big,
bull-necked publican, with heavy, blotchy features, and a supremely ignorant
expression, picked up the priest’s straw hat and held it about two inches
over the head of his reverence during the whole of the service. The father, be
it remembered, was standing in the shade. A few shoved their hats on and off
uneasily, struggling between their disgust for the living and their respect for
the dead. The hat had a conical crown and a brim sloping down all round like a
sunshade, and the publican held it with his great red claw spread over the
crown. To do the priest justice, perhaps he didn’t notice the incident. A
stage priest or parson in the same position might have said, “Put the hat
down, my friend; is not the memory of our departed brother worth more than my
complexion?” A wattle-bark layman might have expressed himself in
stronger language, none the less to the point. But my priest seemed unconscious
of what was going on. Besides, the publican was a great and important pillar of
the church. He couldn’t, as an ignorant and conceited ass, lose such a
good opportunity of asserting his faithfulness and importance to his church.

The grave looked very narrow under the coffin, and I drew a breath of relief
when the box slid easily down. I saw a coffin get stuck once, at Rookwood, and
it had to be yanked out with difficulty, and laid on the sods at the feet of
the heart-broken relations, who howled dismally while the grave-diggers widened
the hole. But they don’t cut contracts so fine in the West. Our
grave-digger was not altogether bowelless, and, out of respect for that human
quality described as “feelin’s,” he scraped up some light and
dusty soil and threw it down to deaden the fall of the clay lumps on the
coffin. He also tried to steer the first few shovelfuls gently down against the
end of the grave with the back of the shovel turned outwards, but the hard dry
Darling River clods rebounded and knocked all the same. It didn’t matter
much—nothing does. The fall of lumps of clay on a stranger’s coffin
doesn’t sound any different from the fall of the same things on an
ordinary wooden box—at least I didn’t notice anything awesome or
unusual in the sound; but, perhaps, one of us—the most
sensitive—might have been impressed by being reminded of a burial of long
ago, when the thump of every sod jolted his heart.

I have left out the wattle—because it wasn’t there. I have also
neglected to mention the heart-broken old mate, with his grizzled head bowed
and great pearly drops streaming down his rugged cheeks. He was absent—he
was probably “Out Back.” For similar reasons I have omitted
reference to the suspicious moisture in the eyes of a bearded bush ruffian
named Bill. Bill failed to turn up, and the only moisture was that which was
induced by the heat. I have left out the “sad Australian sunset”
because the sun was not going down at the time. The burial took place exactly
at midday.

The dead bushman’s name was Jim, apparently; but they found no portraits,
nor locks of hair, nor any love letters, nor anything of that kind in his
swag—not even a reference to his mother; only some papers relating to
Union matters. Most of us didn’t know the name till we saw it on the
coffin; we knew him as “that poor chap that got drowned yesterday.”

“So his name’s James Tyson,” said my drover acquaintance,
looking at the plate.

“Why! Didn’t you know that before?” I asked.

“No; but I knew he was a Union man.”

It turned out, afterwards, that J.T. wasn’t his real name—only
“the name he went by.” Anyhow he was buried by it, and most of the
“Great Australian Dailies” have mentioned in their brevity columns
that a young man named James John Tyson was drowned in a billabong of the
Darling last Sunday.

We did hear, later on, what his real name was; but if we ever chance to read it
in the “Missing Friends Column,” we shall not be able to give any
information to heart-broken mother or sister or wife, nor to anyone who could
let him hear something to his advantage—for we have already forgotten the
name.

ON THE EDGE OF A PLAIN

“I’d been away from home for eight years,” said Mitchell to
his mate, as they dropped their swags in the mulga shade and sat down. “I
hadn’t written a letter—kept putting it off, and a blundering fool
of a fellow that got down the day before me told the old folks that he’d
heard I was dead.”

Here he took a pull at his water-bag.

“When I got home they were all in mourning for me. It was night, and the
girl that opened the door screamed and fainted away like a shot.”

He lit his pipe.

“Mother was upstairs howling and moaning in a chair, with all the girls
boo-hoo-ing round her for company. The old man was sitting in the back kitchen
crying to himself.”

He put his hat down on the ground, dinted in the crown, and poured some water
into the hollow for his cattle-pup.

“The girls came rushing down. Mother was so pumped out that she
couldn’t get up. They thought at first I was a ghost, and then they all
tried to get holt of me at once—nearly smothered me. Look at that pup!
You want to carry a tank of water on a dry stretch when you’ve got a pup
that drinks as much as two men.”

He poured a drop more water into the top of his hat.

“Well, mother screamed and nearly fainted when she saw me. Such a picnic
you never saw. They kept it up all night. I thought the old cove was gone off
his chump. The old woman wouldn’t let go my hand for three mortal hours.
Have you got the knife?”

He cut up some more tobacco.

“All next day the house was full of neighbours, and the first to come was
an old sweetheart of mine; I never thought she cared for me till then. Mother
and the girls made me swear never to go away any more; and they kept watching
me, and hardly let me go outside for fear I’d—”

“Get drunk?”

“No—you’re smart—for fear I’d clear. At last I
swore on the Bible that I’d never leave home while the old folks were
alive; and then mother seemed easier in her mind.”

He rolled the pup over and examined his feet. “I expect I’ll have
to carry him a bit—his feet are sore. Well, he’s done pretty well
this morning, and anyway he won’t drink so much when he’s
carried.”

“You broke your promise about leaving home,” said his mate.

Mitchell stood up, stretched himself, and looked dolefully from his heavy swag
to the wide, hot, shadeless cotton-bush plain ahead.

“Oh, yes,” he yawned, “I stopped at home for a week, and then
they began to growl because I couldn’t get any work to do.”

The mate guffawed and Mitchell grinned. They shouldered the swags, with the pup
on top of Mitchell’s, took up their billies and water-bags, turned their
unshaven faces to the wide, hazy distance, and left the timber behind them.

IN A DRY SEASON

Draw a wire fence and a few ragged gums, and add some scattered sheep running
away from the train. Then you’ll have the bush all along the New South
Wales western line from Bathurst on.

The railway towns consist of a public house and a general store, with a square
tank and a school-house on piles in the nearer distance. The tank stands at the
end of the school and is not many times smaller than the building itself. It is
safe to call the pub “The Railway Hotel,” and the store “The
Railway Stores,” with an “s.” A couple of patient, ungroomed
hacks are probably standing outside the pub, while their masters are inside
having a drink—several drinks. Also it’s safe to draw a sundowner
sitting listlessly on a bench on the veranda, reading the Bulletin. The
Railway Stores seem to exist only in the shadow of the pub, and it is
impossible to conceive either as being independent of the other. There is
sometimes a small, oblong weather-board building—unpainted, and generally
leaning in one of the eight possible directions, and perhaps with a twist in
another—which, from its half-obliterated sign, seems to have started as a
rival to the Railway Stores; but the shutters are up and the place empty.

The only town I saw that differed much from the above consisted of a box-bark
humpy with a clay chimney, and a woman standing at the door throwing out the
wash-up water.

By way of variety, the artist might make a water-colour sketch of a
fettler’s tent on the line, with a billy hanging over the fire in front,
and three fettlers standing round filling their pipes.

Slop sac suits, red faces, and old-fashioned, flat-brimmed hats, with wire
round the brims, begin to drop into the train on the other side of Bathurst;
and here and there a hat with three inches of crape round the crown, which
perhaps signifies death in the family at some remote date, and perhaps
doesn’t. Sometimes, I believe, it only means grease under the band. I
notice that when a bushman puts crape round his hat he generally leaves it
there till the hat wears out, or another friend dies. In the latter case, he
buys a new piece of crape. This outward sign of bereavement usually has a jolly
red face beneath it. Death is about the only cheerful thing in the bush.

We crossed the Macquarie—a narrow, muddy gutter with a dog swimming
across, and three goats interested.

A little farther on we saw the first sundowner. He carried a Royal Alfred, and
had a billy in one hand and a stick in the other. He was dressed in a tail-coat
turned yellow, a print shirt, and a pair of moleskin trousers, with big square
calico patches on the knees; and his old straw hat was covered with calico.
Suddenly he slipped his swag, dropped his billy, and ran forward, boldly
flourishing the stick. I thought that he was mad, and was about to attack the
train, but he wasn’t; he was only killing a snake. I didn’t have
time to see whether he cooked the snake or not—perhaps he only thought of
Adam.

Somebody told me that the country was very dry on the other side of Nevertire.
It is. I wouldn’t like to sit down on it any where. The least horrible
spot in the bush, in a dry season, is where the bush isn’t—where it
has been cleared away and a green crop is trying to grow. They talk of settling
people on the land! Better settle in it. I’d rather settle on the
water; at least, until some gigantic system of irrigation is perfected in the
West.

Along about Byrock we saw the first shearers. They dress like the unemployed,
but differ from that body in their looks of independence. They sat on trucks
and wool-bales and the fence, watching the train, and hailed Bill, and Jim, and
Tom, and asked how those individuals were getting on.

Here we came across soft felt hats with straps round the crowns, and
full-bearded faces under them. Also a splendid-looking black tracker in a
masher uniform and a pair of Wellington boots.

One or two square-cuts and stand-up collars struggle dismally through to the
bitter end. Often a member of the unemployed starts cheerfully out, with a
letter from the Government Labour Bureau in his pocket, and nothing else. He
has an idea that the station where he has the job will be within easy walking
distance of Bourke. Perhaps he thinks there’ll be a cart or a buggy
waiting for him. He travels for a night and day without a bite to eat, and, on
arrival, he finds that the station is eighty or a hundred miles away. Then he
has to explain matters to a publican and a coach-driver. God bless the publican
and the coach-driver! God forgive our social system!

Native industry was represented at one place along the line by three tiles, a
chimney-pot, and a length of piping on a slab.

Somebody said to me, “Yer wanter go out back, young man, if yer wanter
see the country. Yer wanter get away from the line.” I don’t
wanter; I’ve been there.

You could go to the brink of eternity so far as Australia is concerned and yet
meet an animated mummy of a swagman who will talk of going “out
back.” Out upon the out-back fiend!

About Byrock we met the bush liar in all his glory. He was dressed
like—like a bush larrikin. His name was Jim. He had been to a ball where
some blank had “touched” his blanky overcoat. The overcoat had a
cheque for ten “quid” in the pocket. He didn’t seem to feel
the loss much. “Wot’s ten quid?” He’d been everywhere,
including the Gulf country. He still had three or four sheds to go to. He had
telegrams in his pocket from half a dozen squatters and supers offering him
pens on any terms. He didn’t give a blank whether he took them or no. He
thought at first he had the telegrams on him but found that he had left them in
the pocket of the overcoat aforesaid. He had learned butchering in a day. He
was a bit of a scrapper himself and talked a lot about the ring. At the last
station where he shore he gave the super the father of a hiding. The super was
a big chap, about six-foot-three, and had knocked out Paddy Somebody in one
round. He worked with a man who shore four hundred sheep in nine hours.

Here a quiet-looking bushman in a corner of the carriage grew restless, and
presently he opened his mouth and took the liar down in about three minutes.

At 5.30 we saw a long line of camels moving out across the sunset.
There’s something snaky about camels. They remind me of turtles and
goannas.

Somebody said, “Here’s Bourke.”

HE’D COME BACK

The yarn was all lies, I suppose; but it wasn’t bad. A city bushman told
it, of course, and he told it in the travellers’ hut.

“As true’s God hears me I never meant to desert her in cold
blood,” he said. “We’d only been married about two years, and
we’d got along grand together; but times was hard, and I had to jump at
the first chance of a job, and leave her with her people, an’ go
up-country.”

He paused and fumbled with his pipe until all ears were brought to bear on him.

“She was a beauty, and no mistake; she was far too good for me—I
often wondered how she came to have a chap like me.”

He paused again, and the others thought over it—and wondered too,
perhaps.

The joker opened his lips to speak, but altered his mind about it.

“Well, I travelled up into Queensland, and worked back into Victoria
’n’ South Australia, an’ I wrote home pretty reg’lar
and sent what money I could. Last I got down on to the south-western coast of
South Australia—an’ there I got mixed up with another
woman—you know what that means, boys?”

Sympathetic silence.

“Well, this went on for two years, and then the other woman drove me to
drink. You know what a woman can do when the devil’s in her?”

Sound between a sigh and a groan from Lally Thompson. “My oath,” he
said, sadly.

“You should have made it three years, Jack,” interposed the
joker; “you said two years before.” But he was suppressed.

“Well, I got free of them both, at last—drink and the woman, I
mean; but it took another—it took a couple of years to pull myself
straight—”

Here the joker opened his mouth again, but was warmly requested to shut it.

“Then, chaps, I got thinking. My conscience began to hurt me,
and—and hurt worse every day. It nearly drove me to drink again. Ah,
boys, a man—if he is a man—can’t expect to wrong a woman and
escape scot-free in the end.” (Sigh from Lally Thompson.)
“It’s the one thing that always comes home to a man, sooner or
later—you know what that means, boys.”

Lally Thompson: “My oath!”

The joker: “Dry up yer crimson oath! What do you know about women?”

Cries of “Order!”

“Well,” continued the story-teller, “I got thinking. I heard
that my wife had broken her heart when I left her, and that made matters worse.
I began to feel very bad about it. I felt mean. I felt disgusted with myself. I
pictured my poor, ill-treated, little wife and children in misery and poverty,
and my conscience wouldn’t let me rest night or day”—(Lally
Thompson seemed greatly moved)—“so at last I made up my mind to be
a man, and make—what’s the word?”

“Reparation,” suggested the joker.

“Yes, so I slaved like a nigger for a year or so, got a few pounds
together and went to find my wife. I found out that she was living in a cottage
in Burwood, Sydney, and struggling through the winter on what she’d saved
from the money her father left her.

“I got a shave and dressed up quiet and decent. I was older-looking and
more subdued like, and I’d got pretty grey in those few years that
I’d been making a fool of myself; and, some how, I felt rather glad about
it, because I reckoned she’d notice it first thing—she was always
quick at noticing things—and forgive me all the quicker. Well, I waylaid
the school kids that evening, and found out mine—a little boy and a
girl—and fine youngsters they were. The girl took after her mother, and
the youngster was the dead spit o’ me. I gave ’em half a crows each
and told them to tell their mother that someone would come when the sun went
down.”

Bogan Bill nodded approvingly.

“So at sundown I went and knocked at the door. It opened and there stood
my little wife looking prettier than ever—only careworn.”

Long, impressive pause.

“Well, Jack, what did she do?” asked Bogan.

“She didn’t do nothing.”

“Well, Jack, and what did she say?”

Jack sighed and straightened himself up: “She said—she
said—‘Well, so you’ve come back.’”

“Painful silence.

“Well, Jack, and what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Well, and so you had!” said Tom Moonlight.

“It wasn’t that, Tom,” said Jack sadly and
wearily—“It was the way she said it!”

Lally Thompson rubbed his eyes: “And what did you do, Jack?” he
asked gently.

“I stayed for a year, and then I deserted her again—but meant it
that time.”

“Ah, well! It’s time to turn in.”

ANOTHER OF MITCHELL’S PLANS FOR THE FUTURE

“I’ll get down among the cockies along the Lachlan, or some of
these rivers,” said Mitchell, throwing down his swag beneath a big tree.
“A man stands a better show down there. It’s a mistake to come out
back. I knocked around a good deal down there among the farms. Could always get
plenty of tucker, and a job if I wanted it. One cocky I worked for wanted me to
stay with him for good. Sorry I didn’t. I’d have been better off
now. I was treated more like one of the family, and there was a couple of
good-looking daughters. One of them was clean gone on me. There are some grand
girls down that way. I always got on well with the girls, because I could play
the fiddle and sing a bit. They’ll be glad to see me when I get back
there again, I know. I’ll be all right—no more bother about tucker.
I’ll just let things slide as soon as I spot the house. I’ll bet my
boots the kettle will be boiling, and everything in the house will be on the
table before I’m there twenty minutes. And the girls will be running to
meet the old cocky when he comes riding home at night, and they’ll let
down the sliprails, and ask him to guess ‘who’s up at our
place?’ Yes, I’ll find a job with some old cocky, with a
good-looking daughter or two. I’ll get on ploughing if I can;
that’s the sort of work I like; best graft about a farm.

“By and by the cocky’ll have a few sheep he wants shorn, and one
day he’ll say to me, ‘Jack, if you hear of a shearer knockin’
round let me know—I’ve got a few sheep I want shore.’

“‘How many have you got?’ I’ll say.

“‘Oh, about fifteen hundred.’

“‘And what d’you think of giving?’

“‘Well, about twenty-five bob a hundred, but if a shearer sticks
out for thirty, send him up to talk with me. I want to get ’em shore as
soon as possible.’

“‘It’s all right,’ I’ll say, ‘you
needn’t bother; I’ll shear your sheep.’

“‘Why,’ he’ll say, ‘can you shear?’

“‘Shear? Of course I can! I shore before you were born.’ It
won’t matter if he’s twice as old as me.

“So I’ll shear his sheep and make a few pounds, and he’ll be
glad and all the more eager to keep me on, so’s to always have someone to
shear his sheep. But by and by I’ll get tired of stopping in the one
place and want to be on the move, so I’ll tell him I’m going to
leave.

“‘Why, what do you want to go for?’ he’ll say,
surprised, ‘ain’t you satisfied?’

“‘Oh, yes, I’m satisfied, but I want a change.’

“‘Oh, don’t go,’ he’ll say; ‘stop and
we’ll call it twenty-five bob a week.’

“But I’ll tell him I’m off—wouldn’t stay for a
hundred when I’d made up my mind; so, when he sees he can’t
persuade me he’ll get a bit stiff and say:

“‘Well, what about that there girl? Are you goin’ to go away
and leave her like that?’

“‘Why, what d’yer mean?’ I’ll say. ‘Leave
her like what?’ I won’t pretend to know what he’s driving at.

“‘Oh!’ he’ll say, ‘you know very well what I
mean. The question is: Are you going to marry the girl or not?’

“I’ll see that things are gettin’ a little warm and that
I’m in a corner, so I’ll say:

“‘Why, I never thought about it. This is pretty sudden and out of
the common, isn’t it? I don’t mind marrying the girl if
she’ll have me. Why! I haven’t asked her yet!’

“‘Well, look here,’ he’ll say, ‘if you agree to
marry the girl—and I’ll make you marry her, any
road—I’ll give you that there farm over there and a couple of
hundred to start on.’

“So, I’ll marry her and settle down and be a cocky myself and if
you ever happen to be knocking round there hard up, you needn’t go short
of tucker a week or two; but don’t come knocking round the house when
I’m not at home.”

STEELMAN

Steelman was a hard case. If you were married, and settled down, and were so
unfortunate as to have known Steelman in other days, he would, if in your
neighbourhood and dead-beat, be sure to look you up. He would find you
anywhere, no matter what precautions you might take. If he came to your house,
he would stay to tea without invitation, and if he stayed to tea, he would ask
you to “fix up a shake-down on the floor, old man,” and put him up
for the night; and, if he stopped all night, he’d remain—well,
until something better turned up.

There was no shaking off Steelman. He had a way about him which would often
make it appear as if you had invited him to stay, and pressed him against his
roving inclination, and were glad to have him round for company, while he
remained only out of pure goodwill to you. He didn’t like to offend an
old friend by refusing his invitation.

Steelman knew his men.

The married victim generally had neither the courage nor the ability to turn
him out. He was cheerfully blind and deaf to all hints, and if the exasperated
missus said anything to him straight, he would look shocked, and reply, as
likely as not:

“Why, my good woman, you must be mad! I’m your husband’s
guest!”

And if she wouldn’t cook for him, he’d cook for himself. There was
no choking him off. Few people care to call the police in a case like this; and
besides, as before remarked, Steelman knew his men. The only way to escape from
him was to move—but then, as likely as not, he’d help pack up and
come along with his portmanteau right on top of the last load of furniture, and
drive you and your wife to the verge of madness by the calm style in which he
proceeded to superintend the hanging of your pictures.

Once he quartered himself like this on an old schoolmate of his, named Brown,
who had got married and steady and settled down. Brown tried all ways to get
rid of Steelman, but he couldn’t do it. One day Brown said to Steelman:

“Look here, Steely, old man, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid
we won’t be able to accommodate you any longer—to make you
comfortable, I mean. You see, a sister of the missus is coming down on a visit
for a month or two, and we ain’t got anywhere to put her, except in your
room. I wish the missus’s relations to blazes! I didn’t marry the
whole blessed family; but it seems I’ve got to keep them.”

Pause—very awkward and painful for poor Brown. Discouraging silence from
Steelman. Brown rested his elbows on his knees, and, with a pathetic and
appealing movement of his hand across his forehead, he continued desperately:

“I’m very sorry, you see, old man—you know I’d like you
to stay—I want you to stay…. It isn’t my fault—it’s
the missus’s doings. I’ve done my best with her, but I can’t
help it. I’ve been more like a master in my own house—more
comfortable—and I’ve been better treated since I’ve had you
to back me up…. I’ll feel mighty lonely, anyway, when ycu’re
gone…. But… you know… as soon as her sister goes… you know…. ”

Here poor Brown broke down—very sorry he had spoken at all; but Steely
came to the rescue with a ray of light.

“What’s the matter with the little room at the back?” he
asked.

“Oh, we couldn’t think of putting you there,” said Brown,
with a last effort; “it’s not fined up; you wouldn’t be
comfortable, and, besides, it’s damp, and you’d catch your death of
cold. It was never meant for anything but a wash-house. I’m sorry I
didn’t get another room built on to the house.”

“Bosh!” interrupted Steelman, cheerfully. “Catch a cold! Here
I’ve been knocking about the country for the last five
years—sleeping out in all weathers—and do you think a little damp
is going to hurt me? Pooh! What do you take me for? Don’t you bother your
head about it any more, old man; I’ll fix up the lumber-room for myself,
all right; and all you’ve got to do is to let me know when the
sister-in-law business is coming on, and I’ll shift out of my room in
time for the missus to get it ready for her. Here, have you got a bob on you?
I’ll go out and get some beer. A drop’ll do you good.”

“Well, if you can make yourself comfortable, I’ll be only too glad
for you to stay,” said Brown, wearily.

“You’d better invite some woman you know to come on a visit, and
pass her off as your sister,” said Brown to his wife, while Steelman was
gone for the beer. “I’ve made a mess of it.”

Mrs Brown said, “I knew you would.”

Steelman knew his men.

But at last Brown reckoned that he could stand it no longer. The thought of it
made him so wild that he couldn’t work. He took a day off to get
thoroughly worked up in, came home that night full to the chin of indignation
and Dunedin beer, and tried to kick Steelman out. And Steelman gave him a
hiding.

Next morning Steelman was sitting beside Brown’s bed with a saucer of
vinegar, some brown paper, a raw beef-steak, and a bottle of soda.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself now, Brown?” he said,
sternly. “Ain’t you jolly well ashamed of yourself to come home in
the beastly state you did last night, and insult a guest in your house, to say
nothing of an old friend—and perhaps the best friend you ever had, if you
only knew it? Anybody else would have given you in charge and got you three
months for the assault. You ought to have some consideration for your wife and
children, and your own character—even if you haven’t any for your
old mate’s feelings. Here, drink this, and let me fix you up a bit; the
missus has got the breakfast waiting.”

DRIFTED BACK

The stranger walked into the corner grocery with the air of one who had come
back after many years to see someone who would be glad to see him. He shed his
swag and stood it by the wall with great deliberation; then he rested his elbow
on the counter, stroked his beard, and grinned quizzically at the shopman, who
smiled back presently in a puzzled way.

“Good afternoon,” said the grocer.

“Good afternoon.”

Pause.

“Nice day,” said the grocer.

Pause.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes; tell the old man there’s a chap wants to speak to him for a
minute.”

“Old man? What old man?”

“Hake, of course—old Ben Hake! Ain’t he in?”

The grocer smiled.

“Hake ain’t here now. I’m here.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, he sold out to me ten years ago.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll find him somewhere about town?”

“I don’t think you will. He left Australia when he sold out.
He’s—he’s dead now.”

“Dead! Old Ben Hake?”

“Yes. You knew him, then?”

The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his assurance. He turned his
side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed out through the door
along Sunset Track.

“You can give me half a pound of nailrod,” he said, in a quiet
tone—“I s’pose young Hake is in town?”

“No; the whole family went away. I think there’s one of the sons in
business in Sydney now.”

“I s’pose the M’Lachlans are here yet?”

“No; they are not. The old people died about five years ago; the sons are
in Queensland, I think; and both the girls are married and in Sydney.”

“Ah, well!… I see you’ve got the railway here now.”

“Oh, yes! Six years.”

“Times is changed a lot.”

“They are.”

“I s’pose—I s’pose you can tell me where I’ll
find old Jimmy Nowlett?”

“Jimmy Nowlett? Jimmy Nowlett? I never heard of the name. What was
he?”

“Oh, he was a bullock-driver. Used to carry from the mountains before the
railway was made.”

“Before my time, perhaps. There’s no one of that name round here
now.”

“Ah, well!… I don’t suppose you knew the Duggans?”

“Yes, I did. The old man’s dead, too, and the family’s gone
away—Lord knows where. They weren’t much loss, to all accounts. The
sons got into trouble, I b’lieve—went to the bad. They had a bad
name here.”

“Did they? Well, they had good hearts—at least, old Malachi Duggan
and the eldest son had…. You can give me a couple of pounds of sugar.”

“Right. I suppose it’s a long time since you were here last?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. I don’t s’pose I remind you of anyone you know around
here?”

“N—no!” said the grocer with a smile. “I can’t
say you do.”

“Ah, well! I s’pose I’ll find the Wilds still living in the
same place?”

“The Wilds? Well, no. The old man is dead, too, and—”

“And—and where’s Jim? He ain’t dead?”

“No; he’s married and settled down in Sydney.”

Long pause.

“Can you—” said the stranger, hesitatingly; “did
you—I suppose you knew Mary—Mary Wild?”

“Mary?” said the grocer, smilingly. “That was my wife’s
maiden name. Would you like to see her?”

“No, no! She mightn’t remember me!”

He reached hastily for his swag, and shouldered it.

“Well, I must be gettin’ on.”

“I s’pose you’ll camp here over Christmas?”

“No; there’s nothing to stop here for—I’ll push on. I
did intend to have a Christmas here—in fact, I came a long way out of my
road a-purpose…. I meant to have just one more Christmas with old Ben Hake
an’ the rest of the boys—but I didn’t know as they’d
moved on so far west. The old bush school is dyin’ out.”

There was a smile in his eyes, but his bearded lips twitched a little.

“Things is changed. The old houses is pretty much the same, an’ the
old signs want touchin’ up and paintin’ jest as had as ever;
an’ there’s that old palin’ fence that me an’ Ben Hake
an’ Jimmy Nowlett put up twenty year ago. I’ve tramped and
travelled long ways since then. But things is changed—at least, people
is…. Well, I must be goin’. There’s nothing to keep me here.
I’ll push on and get into my track again. It’s cooler
travellin’ in the night.”

“Yes, it’s been pretty hot to-day.”

“Yes, it has. Well, s’long.”

“Good day. Merry Christmas!”

“Eh? What? Oh, yes! Same to you! S’long!”

“Good day!” He drifted out and away along Sunset Track.

REMAILED

There is an old custom prevalent in Australasia—and other parts, too,
perhaps, for that matter—which, we think, deserves to be written up. It
might not be an “honoured” custom from a newspaper manager’s
or proprietor’s point of view, or from the point of view (if any)
occupied by the shareholders on the subject; but, nevertheless, it is a
time-honoured and a good old custom. Perhaps, for several reasons, it was more
prevalent among diggers than with the comparatively settled bushmen of
to-day—the poor, hopeless, wandering swaggy doesn’t count in the
matter, for he has neither the wherewithal nor the opportunity to honour the
old custom; also his movements are too sadly uncertain to permit of his being
honoured by it. We refer to the remailing of newspapers and journals from one
mate to another.

Bill gets his paper and reads it through conscientiously from beginning to end
by candle or slush-lamp as he lies on his back in the hut or tent with his pipe
in his mouth; or, better still, on a Sunday afternoon as he reclines on the
grass in the shade, in all the glory and comfort of a clean pair of moleskins
and socks and a clean shirt. And when he has finished reading the
paper—if it is not immediately bespoke—he turns it right side out,
folds it, and puts it away where he’ll know where to find it. The paper
is generally bespoke in the following manner:

“Let’s have a look at that paper after you, Bill, when yer done
with it,” says Jack.

And Bill says:

“I just promised it to Bob. You can get it after him.”

And, when it is finally lent, Bill says:

“Don’t forget to give that paper back to me when yer done with it.
Don’t let any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I
won’t set eyes on it again.”

But the other blanks get it in their turn after being referred to Bill.
“You must ask Bill,” says Jack to the next blank, “I got it
from him.” And when Bill gets his paper back finally—which is often
only after much bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial—he
severely and carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks it
away up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillow where it
will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim.

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothing about
wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and in various ways,
but the first result is often the best, and is finally adopted. The parcel
looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weight upon it so that it
won’t fly open, and looks round for a piece of string to tie it with.
Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimes at both ends; at other
times he runs the string down inside the folds and ties it that way, or both
ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it won’t come undone—which
it doesn’t as a rule. If he can’t find a piece of string long
enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result to a rather severe
test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use thread, he doubles it.
Then he worries round to find out who has got the ink, or whether anyone has
seen anything of the pen; and when he gets them, he writes the address with
painful exactitude on the margin of the paper, sometimes in two or three
places. He has to think a moment before he writes; and perhaps he’ll
scratch the back of his head afterwards with an inky finger, and regard the
address with a sort of mild, passive surprise. His old mate Jim was always
plain Jim to him, and nothing else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has
to be addressed to—

MR JAMES MITCHELL,                    
c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq.,          
Munnigrub Station—

and so on. “Mitchell” seems strange—Bill couldn’t think
of it for the moment—and so does “James.”

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northern Queensland,
or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to the post office
after tea on mail night. He doesn’t expect any letters, but there might
be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him a newspaper. They seldom write
to each other, these old mates.

There were points, of course, upon which Bill and Jim couldn’t
agree—subjects upon which they argued long and loud and often in the old
days; and it sometimes happens that Bill comes across an article or a paragraph
which agrees with and, so to speak, barracks for a pet theory of his as against
one held by Jim; and Bill marks it with a chuckle and four crosses at the
corners—and an extra one at each side perhaps—and sends it on to
Jim; he reckons it’ll rather corner old Jim. The crosses are not over
ornamental nor artistic, but very distinct; Jim sees them from the reverse side
of the sheet first, maybe, and turns it over with interest to see what it is.
He grins a good-humoured grin as he reads—poor old Bill is just as
thick-headed and obstinate as ever—just as far gone on his old fad.
It’s rather rough on Jim, because he’s too far off to argue; but,
if he’s very earnest on the subject, he’ll sit down and write,
using all his old arguments to prove that the man who wrote that rot was a
fool. This is one of the few things that will make them write to each other. Or
else Jim will wait till he comes across a paragraph in another paper which
barracks for his side of the argument, and, in his opinion; rather knocks the
stuffing out of Bill’s man; then he marks it with more and bigger crosses
and a grin, and sends it along to Bill. They are both democrats—these old
mates generally are—and at times one comes across a stirring article or
poem, and marks it with approval and sends it along. Or it may be a good joke,
or the notice of the death of an old mate. What a wave of feeling and memories
a little par can take through the land!

Jim is a sinner and a scoffer, and Bill is an earnest, thorough, respectable
old freethinker, and consequently they often get a War Cry or a tract
sent inside their exchanges—somebody puts it in for a joke.

Long years ago—long years ago Bill and Jim were sweet on a rose of the
bush—or a lily of the goldfields—call her Lily King. Both courted
her at the same time, and quarrelled over her—fought over her,
perhaps—and were parted by her for years. But that’s all bygones.
Perhaps she loved Bill, perhaps she loved Jim—perhaps both; or, maybe,
she wasn’t sure which. Perhaps she loved neither, and was only stringing
them on. Anyway, she didn’t marry either the one or the other. She
married another man—call him Jim Smith. And so, in after years, Bill
comes across a paragraph in a local paper, something like the following:

On July 10th, at her residence, Eureka Cottage, Ballarat-street, Tally Town,
the wife of James Smith of twins (boy and girl); all three doing well.

And Bill marks it with a loud chuckle and big crosses, and sends it along to
Jim. Then Bill sits and thinks and smokes, and thinks till the fire goes out,
and quite forgets all about putting that necessary patch on his pants.

And away down on Auckland gum-fields, perhaps, Jim reads the par with a grin;
then grows serious, and sits and scrapes his gum by the flickering firelight in
a mechanical manner, and—thinks. His thoughts are far away in the back
years—faint and far, far and faint. For the old, lingering, banished pain
returns and hurts a man’s heart like the false wife who comes back again,
falls on her knees before him, and holds up her trembling arms and pleads with
swimming, upturned eyes, which are eloquent with the love she felt too late.

It is supposed to be something to have your work published in an English
magazine, to have it published in book form, to be flattered by critics and
reprinted throughout the country press, or even to be cut up well and severely.
But, after all, now we come to think of it, we would almost as soon see a piece
of ours marked with big inky crosses in the soiled and crumpled rag that Bill
or Jim gets sent him by an old mate of his—the paper that goes thousands
of miles scrawled all over with smudgy addresses and tied with a piece of
string.

MITCHELL DOESN’T BELIEVE IN THE SACK

“If ever I do get a job again,” said Mitchell, “I’ll
stick to it while there’s a hand’s turn of work to do, and put a
few pounds together. I won’t be the fool I always was. If I’d had
sense a couple of years ago, I wouldn’t be tramping through this damned
sand and mulga now. I’ll get a job on a station, or at some toff’s
house, knocking about the stables and garden, and I’ll make up my mind to
settle down to graft for four or five years.”

“But supposing you git the sack?” said his mate.

“I won’t take it. Only for taking the sack I wouldn’t be hard
up to-day. The boss might come round and say:

‘I won’t want you after this week, Mitchell. I haven’t got
any more work for you to do. Come up and see me at the office presently.’

“So I’ll go up and get my money; but I’ll be pottering round
as usual on Monday, and come up to the kitchen for my breakfast. Some time in
the day the boss’ll be knocking round and see me.

“‘Why, Mitchell,’ he’ll say, ‘I thought you was
gone.’

“‘I didn’t say I was going,’ I’ll say. ‘Who
told you that—or what made you think so?’

“‘I thought I told you on Saturday that I wouldn’t want you
any more,’ he’ll say, a bit short. ‘I haven’t got
enough work to keep a man going; I told you that; I thought you understood.
Didn’t I give you the sack on Saturday?’

“‘It’s no use;’ I’ll say, ‘that sort of
thing’s played out. I’ve been had too often that way; I’ve
been sacked once too often. Taking the sack’s been the cause of all my
trouble; I don’t believe in it. If I’d never taken the sack
I’d have been a rich man to-day; it might be all very well for horses,
but it doesn’t suit me; it doesn’t hurt you, but it hurts me. I
made up my mind that when I got a place to suit me, I’d stick in it.
I’m comfortable here and satisfied, and you’ve had no cause to find
fault with me. It’s no use you trying to sack me, because I won’t
take it. I’ve been there before, and you might as well try to catch an
old bird with chaff.’

“‘Well, I won’t pay you, and you’d better be
off,’ he’ll say, trying not to grin.

“‘Never mind the money,’ I’ll say, ‘the bit of
tucker won’t cost you anything, and I’ll find something to do round
the house till you have some more work. I won’t ask you for anything,
and, surely to God I’ll find enough to do to pay for my grub!’

“So I’ll potter round and take things easy and call up at the
kitchen as usual at meal times, and by and by the boss’ll think to
himself: ‘Well, if I’ve got to feed this chap I might as well get
some work out of him.’

“So he’ll find me, something regular to do—a bit of fencing,
or carpentering, or painting, or something, and then I’ll begin to call
up for my stuff again, as usual.”

SHOOTING THE MOON

We lay in camp in the fringe of the mulga, and watched the big, red, smoky,
rising moon out on the edge of the misty plain, and smoked and thought together
sociably. Our nose-bags were nice and heavy, and we still had about a pound of
nail-rod between us.

The moon reminded my mate, Jack Mitchell, of something—anything reminded
him of something, in fact.

“Did you ever notice,” said Jack, in a lazy tone, just as if he
didn’t want to tell a yarn—“Did you ever notice that people
always shoot the moon when there’s no moon? Have you got the
matches?”

He lit up; he was always lighting up when he was reminded of something.

“This reminds me—Have you got the knife? My pipe’s stuffed
up.”

He dug it out, loaded afresh, and lit up again.

“I remember once, at a pub I was staying at, I had to leave without
saying good-bye to the landlord. I didn’t know him very well at that
time.

“My room was upstairs at the back, with the window opening on to the
backyard. I always carried a bit of clothes-line in my swag or portmanteau
those times. I travelled along with a portmanteau those times. I carried the
rope in case of accident, or in case of fire, to lower my things out of the
window—or hang myself, maybe, if things got too bad. No, now I come to
think of it, I carried a revolver for that, and it was the only thing I never
pawned.”

“To hang yourself with?” asked the mate.

“Yes—you’re very smart,” snapped Mitchell; “never
mind—-. This reminds me that I got a chap at a pub to pawn my last suit,
while I stopped inside and waited for an old mate to send me a pound; but I
kept the shooter, and if he hadn’t sent it I’d have been the late
John Mitchell long ago.”

“And sometimes you lower’d out when there wasn’t a
fire.”

“Yes, that will pass; you’re improving in the funny business. But
about the yarn. There was two beds in my room at the pub, where I had to go
away without shouting for the boss, and, as it happened, there was a strange
chap sleeping in the other bed that night, and, just as I raised the window and
was going to lower my bag out, he woke up.

“‘Now, look here,’ I said, shaking my fist at him, like that,
‘if you say a word, I’ll stoush yer!’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, you needn’t be in such a
sweat to jump down a man’s throat. I’ve got my swag under the bed,
and I was just going to ask you for the loan of the rope when you’re done
with it.’

“Well, we chummed. His name was Tom—Tom—something, I forget
the other name, but it doesn’t matter. Have you got the matches?”

He wasted three matches, and continued—

“There was a lot of old galvanized iron lying about under the window, and
I was frightened the swag would make a noise; anyway, I’d have to drop
the rope, and that was sure to make a noise. So we agreed for one of us to go
down and land the swag. If we were seen going down without the swags it
didn’t matter, for we could say we wanted to go out in the yard for
something.”

“If you had the swag you might pretend you were walking in your
sleep,” I suggested, for the want of something funnier to say.

“Bosh,” said Jack, “and get woke up with a black eye. Bushies
don’t generally carry their swags out of pubs in their sleep, or walk
neither; it’s only city swells who do that. Where’s the blessed
matches?

“Well, Tom agreed to go, and presently I saw a shadow under the window,
and lowered away.

“‘All right?’ I asked in a whisper.

“‘All right!” whispered the shadow.

“I lowered the other swag.

“‘All right?’

“‘All right!’ said the shadow, and just then the moon came
out.

“‘All right!’ says the shadow.

“But it wasn’t all right. It was the landlord himself!

“It seems he got up and went out to the back in the night, and just
happened to be coming in when my mate Tom was sneaking out of the back door. He
saw Tom, and Tom saw him, and smoked through a hole in the palings into the
scrub. The boss looked up at the window, and dropped to it. I went down, funky
enough, I can tell you, and faced him. He said:

“‘Look here, mate, why didn’t you come straight to me, and
tell me how you was fixed, instead of sneaking round the trouble in that
fashion? There’s no occasion for it.’

“I felt mean at once, but I said: ‘Well, you see, we didn’t
know you, boss.’

“‘So it seems. Well, I didn’t think of that. Anyway, call up
your mate and come and have a drink; we’ll talk over it
afterwards.’ So I called Tom. ‘Come on,’ I shouted.
‘It’s all right.’

“And the boss kept us a couple of days, and then gave us as much tucker
as we could carry, and a drop of stuff and a few bob to go on the track again
with.”

“Well, he was white, any road.”

“Yes. I knew him well after that, and only heard one man say a word
against him.”

“And did you stoush him?”

“No; I was going to, but Tom wouldn’t let me. He said he was
frightened I might make a mess of it, and he did it himself.”

“Did what? Make a mess of it?”

“He made a mess of the other man that slandered that publican. I’d
be funny if I was you. Where’s the matches?”

“And could Tom fight?”

“Yes. Tom could fight.”

“Did you travel long with him after that?”

“Ten years.”

“And where is he now?”

“Dead—Give us the matches.”

HIS FATHER’S MATE

It was Golden Gully still, but golden in name only, unless indeed the yellow
mullock heaps or the bloom of the wattle-trees on the hillside gave it a claim
to the title. But the gold was gone from the gully, and the diggers were gone,
too, after the manner of Timon’s friends when his wealth deserted him.
Golden Gully was a dreary place, dreary even for an abandoned goldfield. The
poor, tortured earth, with its wounds all bare, seemed to make a mute appeal to
the surrounding bush to come up and hide it, and, as if in answer to its
appeal, the shrub and saplings were beginning to close in from the foot of the
range. The wilderness was reclaiming its own again.

The two dark, sullen hills that stood on each side were clothed from tip to
hollow with dark scrub and scraggy box-trees; but above the highest row of
shafts on one side ran a line of wattle-trees in full bloom.

The top of the western hill was shaped somewhat like a saddle, and standing
high above the eucalypti on the point corresponding with the pommel were three
tall pines. These lonely trees, seen for many miles around, had caught the
yellow rays of many a setting sun long before the white man wandered over the
ranges.

The predominant note of the scene was a painful sense of listening, that never
seemed to lose its tension—a listening as though for the sounds of digger
life, sounds that had gone and left a void that was accentuated by the signs of
a former presence. The main army of diggers had long ago vanished to new
rushes, leaving only its stragglers and deserters behind. These were men who
were too poor to drag families about, men who were old and feeble, and men who
had lost their faith in fortune. They had dropped unnoticed out of the ranks;
and remained to scratch out a living among the abandoned claims.

Golden Gully had its little community of fossickers who lived in a clearing
called Spencer’s Flat on one side and Pounding Flat on the other, but
they lent no life to the scene; they only haunted it. A stranger might have
thought the field entirely deserted until he came on a coat and a billy at the
foot of saplings amongst the holes, and heard, in the shallow ground
underneath, the thud of a pick, which told of some fossicker below rooting out
what little wash remained.

One afternoon towards Christmas, a windlass was erected over an old shaft of
considerable depth at the foot of the gully. A greenhide bucket attached to a
rope on the windlass was lying next morning near the mouth of the shaft, and
beside it, on a clear-swept patch, was a little mound of cool wet wash-dirt.

A clump of saplings near at hand threw a shade over part of the mullock heap,
and in this shade, seated on an old coat, was a small boy of eleven or twelve
years, writing on a slate.

He had fair hair, blue eyes, and a thin old-fashioned face—a face that
would scarcely alter as he grew to manhood. His costume consisted of a pair of
moleskin trousers, a cotton shirt, and one suspender. He held the slate rigidly
with a corner of its frame pressed close against his ribs, whilst his head hung
to one side, so close to the slate that his straggling hair almost touched it.
He was regarding his work fixedly out of the corners of his eyes, whilst he
painfully copied down the head line, spelling it in a different way each time.
In this laborious task he appeared to be greatly assisted by a tongue that
lolled out of the corner of his mouth and made an occasional revolution round
it, leaving a circle of temporarily clean face. His small clay-covered toes
also entered into the spirit of the thing, and helped him not a little by their
energetic wriggling. He paused occasionally to draw the back of his small brown
arm across his mouth.

Little Isley Mason, or, as he was called, “His Father’s
Mate,” had always been a favourite with the diggers and fossickers from
the days when he used to slip out first thing in the morning and take a run
across the frosty flat in his shirt. Long Bob Sawkins would often tell how
Isley came home one morning from his run in the long, wet grass as naked as he
was born, with the information that he had lost his shirt.

Later on, when most of the diggers had gone, and Isley’s mother was dead,
he was to be seen about the place with bare, sunbrowned arms and legs, a pick
and shovel, and a gold dish about two-thirds of his height in diameter, with
which he used to go “a-speckin’” and
“fossickin’” amongst the old mullock heaps. Long Bob was
Isley’s special crony, and he would often go out of his way to lay the
boy outer bits o’ wash and likely spots, lamely excusing his long yarns
with the child by the explanation that it was “amusin’ to draw
Isley out.”

Isley had been sitting writing for some time when a deep voice called out from
below:

“Isley!”

“Yes, father.”

“Send down the bucket.”

“Right.”

Isley put down his slate, and going to the shaft dropped the bucket down as far
as the slack rope reached; then, placing one hand on the bole of the windlass
and holding the other against it underneath, he let it slip round between his
palms until the bucket reached bottom. A sound of shovelling was heard for a
few moments, and presently the voice cried, “Wind away, sonny.”

“Thet ain’t half enough,” said the boy, peering down.
“Don’t be frightened to pile it in, father. I kin wind up a lot
more’n thet.”

A little more scraping, and the boy braced his feet well upon the little mound
of clay which he had raised under the handle of the windlass to make up for his
deficiency in stature.

“Now then, Isley!”

Isley wound slowly but sturdily, and soon the bucket of “wash”
appeared above the surface; then he took it in short lifts and deposited it
with the rest of the wash-dirt.

“Isley!” called his father again.

“Yes, father.”

“Have you done that writing lesson yet?”

“Very near.”

“Then send down the slate next time for some sums.”

“All right.”

The boy resumed his seat, fixed the corner of the slate well into his ribs,
humped his back, and commenced another wavering line.

Tom Mason was known on the place as a silent, hard worker. He was a man of
about sixty, tall, and dark bearded. There was nothing uncommon about his face,
except, perhaps, that it hardened, as the face of a man might harden who had
suffered a long succession of griefs and disappointments. He lived in little
hut under a peppermint tree at the far edge of Pounding Flat. His wife had died
there about six years before, and new rushes broke out and he was well able to
go, he never left Golden Gully.

Mason was kneeling in front of the “face” digging away by the light
of a tallow candle stuck in the side. The floor of the drive was very wet, and
his trousers were heavy and cold with clay and water; but the old digger was
used to this sort of thing. His pick was not bringing out much to-day, however,
for he seemed abstracted and would occasionally pause in his work, while his
thoughts wandered far away from the narrow streak of wash-dirt in the
“face.”

He was digging out pictures from a past life. They were not pleasant ones, for
his face was stony and white in the dim glow of the candle.

Thud, thud, thud—the blows became slower and more irregular as the
fossicker’s mind wandered off into the past. The sides of the drive
seemed to vanish slowly away, and the “face” retreated far out
beyond a horizon that was hazy in the glow of the southern ocean. He was
standing on the deck of a ship and by his side stood a brother. They were
sailing southward to the Land of Promise that was shining there in all its
golden glory! The sails pressed forward in the bracing wind, and the clipper
ship raced along with its burden of the wildest dreamers ever borne in a
vessel’s hull! Up over long blue ocean ridges, down into long blue ocean
gullies; on to lands so new, and yet so old, where above the sunny glow of the
southern skies blazed the shining names of Ballarat! and Bendigo! The deck
seemed to lurch, and the fossicker fell forward against the face of the drive.
The shock recalled him, and he lifted his pick once more.

But the blows slacken again as another vision rises before him. It is Ballarat
now. He is working in a shallow claim at Eureka, his brother by his side. The
brother looks pale and ill, for he has been up all night dancing and drinking.
Out behind them is the line of blue hills; in front is the famous Bakery Hill,
and down to the left Golden Point. Two mounted troopers are riding up over
Specimen Hill. What do they want?

They take the brother away, handcuffed. Manslaughter last night.
Cause—drink and jealousy.

The vision is gone again. Thud, thud, goes the pick; it counts the years that
follow—one, two, three, four, up to twenty, and then it stops for the
next scene—a selection on the banks of a bright river in New South Wales.
The little homestead is surrounded by vines and fruit-trees. Many swarms of
bees work under the shade of the trees, and a crop of wheat is nearly ripe on
the hillside.

A man and a boy are engaged in clearing a paddock just below the homestead.
They are father and son; the son, a boy of about seventeen, is the image of his
father.

Horses’ feet again! Here comes Nemesis in mounted troopers’
uniform.

The mail was stuck up last night about five miles away, and a refractory
passenger shot. The son had been out ‘possum shooting’ all night
with some friends.

The troopers take the son away handcuffed: “Robbery under arms.”

The father was taking out a stump when the troopers came. His foot is still
resting on the spade, which is half driven home. He watches the troopers take
the boy up to the house, and then, driving the spade to its full depth, he
turns up another sod. The troopers reach the door of the homestead; but still
he digs steadily, and does not seem to hear his wife’s cry of despair.
The troopers search the boy’s room and bring out some clothing in two
bundles; but still the father digs. They have saddled up one of the farm horses
and made the boy mount. The father digs. They ride off along the ridge with the
boy between them. The father never lifts his eyes; the hole widens round the
stump; he digs away till the brave little wife comes and takes him gently by
the arm. He half rouses himself and follows her to the house like an obedient
dog.

Trial and disgrace follow, and then other misfortunes, pleuro among the cattle,
drought, and poverty.

Thud, thud, thud again! But it is not the sound of the fossicker’s
pick—it is the fall of sods on his wife’s coffin.

It is a little bush cemetery, and he stands stonily watching them fill up her
grave. She died of a broken heart and shame. “I can’t bear
disgrace! I can’t bear disgrace!” she had moaned all these six
weary years—for the poor are often proud.

But he lives on, for it takes a lot to break a man’s heart. He holds up
his head and toils on for the sake of a child that is left, and that child
is—Isley.

And now the fossicker seems to see a vision of the future. He seems to be
standing somewhere, an old, old man, with a younger one at his side; the
younger one has Isley’s face. Horses’ feet again! Ah, God! Nemesis
once more in troopers’ uniform!

The fossicker falls on his knees in the mud and clay at the bottom of the
drive, and prays Heaven to take his last child ere Nemesis comes for him.

Long Bob Sawkins had been known on the diggings as “Bob the Devil.”
His profile at least from one side, certainly did recall that of the sarcastic
Mephistopheles; but the other side, like his true character, was by no means a
devil’s. His physiognomy had been much damaged, and one eye removed by
the premature explosion of a blast in some old Ballarat mine. The blind eye was
covered with a green patch, which gave a sardonic appearance to the remaining
features.

He was a stupid, heavy, good-natured Englishman. He stuttered a little, and had
a peculiar habit of wedging the monosyllable “why” into his
conversation at times when it served no other purpose than to fill up the
pauses caused by his stuttering; but this by no means assisted him in his
speech, for he often stuttered over the “why” itself.

The sun was getting low down, and its yellow rays reached far up among the
saplings of Golden Gully when Bob appeared coming down by the path that ran
under the western hill. He was dressed in the usual costume-cotton shirt,
moleskin trousers, faded hat and waistcoat, and blucher boots. He carried a
pick over his shoulder, the handle of which was run through the heft of a short
shovel that hung down behind, and he had a big dish under his arm. He paused
opposite the shaft with the windlass, and hailed the boy in his usual form of
salutation.

“Look, see here Isley!”

“What is it, Bob?”

“I seed a young—why—magpie up in the scrub, and yer oughter
be able to catch it.”

“Can’t leave the shaft; father’s b’low.”

“How did yer father know there was any—why—wash in the old
shaft?”

“Seed old Corney in town Saturday, ’n he said thur was enough to
make it worth while bailin’ out. Bin bailin’ all the
mornin’.”

Bob came over, and letting his tools down with a clatter he hitched up the
knees of his moleskins and sat down on one heel.

“What are yer—why—doin’ on the slate, Isley?”
said he, taking out an old clay pipe and lighting it.

“Sums,” said Isley.

Bob puffed away at his pipe a moment.

“’Tain’t no use!” he said, sitting down on the clay and
drawing his knees up. “Edication’s a failyer.”

“Listen at ’im!” exclaimed the boy. “D’yer mean
ter say it ain’t no use learnin’ readin’ and writin’
and sums?”

“Isley!”

“Right, father.”

The boy went to the windlass and let the bucket down. Bob offered to help him
wind up, but Isley, proud of showing his strength to his friend, insisted on
winding by himself.

“You’ll be—why—a strong man some day, Isley,”
said Bob, landing the bucket.

“Oh, I could wind up a lot more’n father puts in. Look how I
greased the handles! It works like butter now,” and the boy sent the
handles spinning round with a jerk to illustrate his meaning.

“Why did they call yer Isley for?” queried Bob, as they resumed
their seats. “It ain’t yer real name, is it?”

“No, my name’s Harry. A digger useter say I was a isle in the ocean
to father ’n mother, ’n then I was nicknamed Isle, ’n then
Isley.”

“You hed a—why—brother once, didn’t yer?”

“Yes, but thet was afore I was borned. He died, at least mother used ter
say she didn’t know if he was dead; but father says he’s dead as
fur’s he’s concerned.”

“And your father hed a brother, too. Did yer ever—why—hear of
him?”

“Yes, I heard father talkin’ about it wonst to mother. I think
father’s brother got into some row in a bar where a man was
killed.”

“And was yer—why—father—why—fond of him?”

“I heard father say that he was wonst, but thet was all past.”

Bob smoked in silence for a while, and seemed to look at some dark clouds that
were drifting along like a funeral out in the west. Presently he said half
aloud something that sounded like “All, all—why—past.”

“Eh?” said Isley.

“Oh, it’s—why, why—nothin’,” answered Bob,
rousing himself. “Is that a paper in yer father’s coat-pocket,
Isley?”

“Yes,” said the boy, taking it out.

Bob took the paper and stared hard at it for a moment or so.

“There’s something about the new goldfields there,” said Bob,
putting his finger on a tailor’s advertisement. “I wish
you’d—why—read it to me, Isley; I can’t see the small
print they uses nowadays.”

“No, thet’s not it,” said the boy, taking the paper,
“it’s something about—”

“Isley!”

“’Old on, Bob, father wants me.”

The boy ran to the shaft, rested his hands and forehead against the bole of the
windlass, and leant over to hear what his father was saying.

Without a moment’s warning the treacherous bole slipped round; a small
body bounded a couple of times against the sides of the shaft and fell at
Mason’s feet, where it lay motionless!

“Mason!”

“Ay?”

“Put him in the bucket and lash him to the rope with your belt!”

A few moments, and—

“Now, Bob!”

Bob’s trembling hands would scarcely grasp the handle, but he managed to
wind somehow.

Presently the form of the child appeared, motionless and covered with clay and
water. Mason was climbing up by the steps in the side of the shaft.

Bob tenderly unlashed the boy and laid him under the saplings on the grass;
then he wiped some of the clay and blood away from the child’s forehead,
and dashed over him some muddy water.

Presently Isley gave a gasp and opened his eyes.

“Are yer—why—hurt much, Isley?” asked Bob.

“Ba-back’s bruk, Bob!”

“Not so bad as that, old man.”

“Where’s father?”

“Coming up.”

Silence awhile, and then—

“Father! father! be quick, father!”

Mason reached the surface and came and knelt by the other side of the boy.

“I’ll, I’ll—why—run fur some brandy,” said
Bob.

“No use, Bob,” said Isley. “I’m all bruk up.”

“Don’t yer feel better, sonny?”

“No—I’m—goin’ to—die, Bob.”

“Don’t say it, Isley,” groaned Bob.

A short silence, and then the boy’s body suddenly twisted with pain. But
it was soon over. He lay still awhile, and then said quietly:

“Good-bye, Bob!”

Bob made a vain attempt to speak. “Isley!” he
said,”—-”

The child turned and stretched out his hands to the silent, stony-faced man on
the other side.

“Father—father, I’m goin’!”

A shuddering groan broke from Mason’s lips, and then all was quiet.

Bob had taken off his hat to wipe his, forehead, and his face, in spite of its
disfigurement, was strangely like the face of the stone-like man opposite.

For a moment they looked at one another across the body of the child, and then
Bob said quietly:

“He never knowed.”

“What does it matter?” said Mason gruffly; and, taking up the dead
child, he walked towards the hut.

It was a very sad little group that gathered outside Mason’s but next
morning. Martin’s wife had been there all the morning cleaning up and
doing what she could. One of the women had torn up her husband’s only
white shirt for a shroud, and they had made the little body look clean and even
beautiful in the wretched little hut.

One after another the fossickers took off their hats and entered, stooping
through the low door. Mason sat silently at the foot of the bunk with his head
supported by his hand, and watched the men with a strange, abstracted air.

Bob had ransacked the camp in search of some boards for a coffin.

“It will be the last I’ll be able to—why—do for
him,” he said.

At last he came to Mrs Martin in despair. That lady took him into the
dining-room, and pointed to a large pine table, of which she was very proud.

“Knock that table to pieces,” she said.

Taking off the few things that were lying on it, Bob turned it over and began
to knock the top off.

When he had finished the coffin one of the fossicker’s wives said it
looked too bare, and she ripped up her black riding-skirt, and made Bob tack
the cloth over the coffin.

There was only one vehicle available in the place, and that was Martin’s
old dray; so about two o’clock Pat Martin attached his old horse Dublin
to the shafts with sundry bits of harness and plenty of old rope, and dragged
Dublin, dray and all, across to Mason’s hut.

The little coffin was carried out, and two gin-cases were placed by its side in
the dray to serve as seats for Mrs Martin and Mrs Grimshaw, who mounted in
tearful silence.

Pat Martin felt for his pipe, but remembered himself and mounted on the shaft.
Mason fastened up the door of the hut with a padlock. A couple of blows on one
of his sharp points roused Dublin from his reverie. With a lurch to the right
and another to the left he started, and presently the little funeral
disappeared down the road that led to the “town” and its cemetery.

About six months afterwards Bob Sawkins went on a short journey, and returned
with a tall, bearded young man. He and Bob arrived after dark, and went
straight to Mason’s hut. There was a light inside, but when Bob knocked
there was no answer.

“Go in; don’t be afraid,’” he said to his companion.

The stranger pushed open the creaking door, and stood bareheaded just inside
the doorway.

A billy was boiling unheeded on the fire. Mason sat at the table with his face
buried in his arms.

“Father!”

There was no answer, but the flickering of the firelight made the stranger
think he could detect an impatient shrug in Mason’s shoulders.

For a moment the stranger paused irresolute, and then stepping up to the table
he laid his hand on Mason’s arm, and said gently:

“Father! Do you want another mate?”

But the sleeper did not—at least, not in this world.

AN ECHO FROM THE OLD BARK SCHOOL

It was the first Monday after the holidays. The children had taken their seats
in the Old Bark School, and the master called out the roll as usual:

“Arvie Aspinall.”… “’Es, sir.”

“David Cooper.”… “Yes, sir.”

“John Heegard.”… “Yezzer.”

“Joseph Swallow.”… “Yesser.”

“James Bullock.”… “Present.”

“Frederick Swallow.”… “Y’sir.”

“James Nowlett.”… . (Chorus of “Absent.”)

“William Atkins.”… (Chorus of “Absent.”)

“Daniel Lyons.”… “Perresent, sor-r-r.”

Dan was a young immigrant, just out from the sod, and rolled his
“r’s” like a cock-dove. His brogue was rich enough to make an
Irishman laugh.

Bill was “wagging it.” His own especial chum was of the opinion
that Bill was sick. The master’s opinion did not coincide, so he penned a
note to William’s parents, to be delivered by the model boy of the
school.

“Bertha Lambert.”… “Yes, ’air.”

“May Carey.”… “Pesin’, sair.”

“Rose Cooper.”… “Yes, sir.”

“Janet Wild.”… “Y-y-yes, s-sir.”

“Mary Wild.”…

A solemn hush fell upon the school, and presently Janet Wild threw her arms out
on the desk before her, let her face fall on them, and sobbed heart-brokenly.
The master saw his mistake too late; he gave his head a little
half-affirmative, half-negative movement, in that pathetic old way of his;
rested his head on one hand, gazed sadly at the name, and sighed.

But the galoot of the school spoilt the pathos of it all, for, during the awed
silence which followed the calling of the girl’s name, he suddenly
brightened up—the first time he was ever observed to do so during school
hours—and said, briskly and cheerfully “Dead—sir!”

He hadn’t been able to answer a question correctly for several days.

“Children,” said the master gravely and sadly, “children,
this is the first time I ever had to put ‘D’ to the name of one of
my scholars. Poor Mary! she was one of my first pupils—came the first
morning the school was opened. Children, I want you to be a little quieter
to-day during play-hour, out of respect for the name of your dead schoolmate
whom it has pleased the Almighty to take in her youth.”

“Please, sir,” asked the galoot, evidently encouraged by his
fancied success, “please, sir, what does ‘D’ stand
for?”

“Damn you for a hass!” snarled Jim Bullock between his teeth,
giving the galoot a vicious dig in the side with his elbow.

THE SHEARING OF THE COOK’S DOG

The dog was a little conservative mongrel poodle, with long dirty white hair
all over him—longest and most over his eyes, which glistened through it
like black beads. Also he seemed to have a bad liver. He always looked as if he
was suffering from a sense of injury, past or to come. It did come. He used to
follow the shearers up to the shed after breakfast every morning, but he
couldn’t have done this for love—there was none lost between him
and the men. He wasn’t an affectionate dog; it wasn’t his style. He
would sit close against the shed for an hour or two, and hump himself, and
sulk, and look sick, and snarl whenever the “Sheep-Ho” dog passed,
or a man took notice of him. Then he’d go home. What he wanted at the
shed at all was only known to himself; no one asked him to come. Perhaps he
came to collect evidence against us. The cook called him “my darg,”
and the men called the cook “Curry and Rice,” with
“old” before it mostly.

Rice was a little, dumpy, fat man, with a round, smooth, good-humoured face, a
bald head, feet wide apart, and a big blue cotton apron. He had been a
ship’s cook. He didn’t look so much out of place in the hut as the
hut did round him. To a man with a vivid imagination, if he regarded the cook
dreamily for a while, the floor might seem to roll gently like the deck of a
ship, and mast, rigging, and cuddy rise mistily in the background. Curry might
have dreamed of the cook’s galley at times, but he never mentioned it. He
ought to have been at sea, or comfortably dead and stowed away under ground,
instead of cooking for a mob of unredeemed rouseabouts in an uncivilized shed
in the scrub, six hundred miles from the ocean.

They chyacked the cook occasionally, and grumbled—or pretended to
grumble—about their tucker, and then he’d make a roughly pathetic
speech, with many references to his age, and the hardness of his work, and the
smallness of his wages, and the inconsiderateness of the men. Then the joker of
the shed would sympathize with the cook with his tongue and one side of his
face—and joke with the other.

One day in the shed, during smoke-ho the devil whispered to a shearer named
Geordie that it would be a lark to shear the cook’s dog—the Evil
One having previously arranged that the dog should be there, sitting close to
Geordie’s pen, and that the shearer should have a fine lamb comb on his
machine. The idea was communicated through Geordie to his mates, and met with
entire and general approval; and for five or ten minutes the air was kept alive
by shouting and laughter of the men, and the protestations of the dog. When the
shearer touched skin, he yelled “Tar!” and when he finished he
shouted “Wool away!” at the top of his voice, and his mates echoed
him with a will. A picker-up gathered the fleece with a great show of labour
and care, and tabled it, to the well-ventilated disgust of old Scotty, the
wool-roller. When they let the dog go he struck for home—a clean-shaven
poodle, except for a ferocious moustache and a tuft at the end of his tail.

The cook’s assistant said that he’d have given a five-pound note
for a portrait of Curry-and-Rice when that poodle came back from the shed. The
cook was naturally very indignant; he was surprised at first—then he got
mad. He had the whole afternoon to get worked up in, and at tea-time he went
for the men properly.

“Wotter yer growlin’ about?” asked one. “Wot’s
the matter with yer, anyway?”

“I don’t know nothing about yer dog!” protested a rouseabout;
“wotyer gettin’ on to me for?”

“Wotter they bin doin’ to the cook now?” inquired a ring
leader innocently, as he sprawled into his place at the table.
“Can’t yer let Curry alone? Wot d’yer want to be
chyackin’ him for? Give it a rest.”

“Well, look here, chaps,” observed Geordie, in a determined tone,
“I call it a shame, that’s what I call it. Why couldn’t you
leave an old man’s dog alone? It was a mean, dirty trick to do, and I
suppose you thought it funny. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the whole
lot of you, for a drafted mob of crawlers. If I’d been there it
wouldn’t have been done; and I wouldn’t blame Curry if he was to
poison the whole convicted push.”

General lowering of faces and pulling of hats down over eyes, and great working
of knives and forks; also sounds like men trying not to laugh.

“Why couldn’t you play a trick on another man’s darg?”
said Curry. “It’s no use tellin’ me. I can see it all as
plain as if I was on the board—all of you runnin’ an’
shoutin’ an’ cheerin’ an’ laughin’, and all over
shearin’ and ill-usin’ a poor little darg! Why couldn’t you
play a trick on another man’s darg?… It doesn’t matter
much—I’m nearly done cookie’ here now…. Only that
I’ve got a family to think of I wouldn’t ’a’ stayed so
long. I’ve got to be up at five every mornin’, an’
don’t get to bed till ten at night, cookin’ an’ bakin’
an’ cleanin’ for you an’ waitin’ on you. First one lot
in from the wool-wash, an’ then one lot in from the shed, an’
another lot in, an’ at all hours an’ times, an’ all
wantin’ their meals kept hot, an’ then they ain’t satisfied.
And now you must go an’ play a dirty trick on my darg! Why couldn’t
you have a lark with some other man’s darg!”

Geordie bowed his head and ate as though he had a cud, like a cow, and could
chew at leisure. He seemed ashamed, as indeed we all were—secretly. Poor
old Curry’s oft-repeated appeal, “Why couldn’t you play a
trick with another man’s dog?” seemed to have something pathetic
about it. The men didn’t notice that it lacked philanthropy and logic,
and probably the cook didn’t notice it either, else he wouldn’t
have harped on it. Geordie lowered his face, and just then, as luck or the
devil would have it, he caught sight of the dog. Then he exploded.

The cook usually forgot all about it in an hour, and then, if you asked him
what the chaps had been doing, he’d say, “Oh, nothing! nothing!
Only their larks!” But this time he didn’t; he was narked for three
days, and the chaps marvelled much and were sorry, and treated him with great
respect and consideration. They hadn’t thought he’d take it so
hard—the dog shearing business—else they wouldn’t have done
it. They were a little puzzled too, and getting a trifle angry, and would
shortly be prepared to take the place of the injured party, and make things
unpleasant for the cook. However, he brightened up towards the end of the week,
and then it all came out.

“I wouldn’t ’a’ minded so much,” he said,
standing by the table with a dipper in one hand, a bucket in the other, and a
smile on his face. “I wouldn’t ’a’ minded so much only
they’ll think me a flash man in Bourke with that theer darg trimmed up
like that!”

“DOSSING OUT” AND “CAMPING”

At least two hundred poor beggars were counted sleeping out on the pavements of
the main streets of Sydney the other night—grotesque bundles of rags
lying under the verandas of the old Fruit Markets and York Street shops, with
their heads to the wall and their feet to the gutter. It was raining and cold
that night, and the unemployed had been driven in from Hyde Park and the bleak
Domain—from dripping trees, damp seats, and drenched grass—from the
rain, and cold, and the wind. Some had sheets of old newspapers to cover
them-and some hadn’t. Two were mates, and they divided a Herald
between them. One had a sheet of brown paper, and another (lucky man!) had a
bag—the only bag there. They all shrank as far into their rags as
possible—and tried to sleep. The rats seemed to take them for rubbish,
too, and only scampered away when one of the outcasts moved uneasily, or
coughed, or groaned—or when a policeman came along.

One or two rose occasionally and rooted in the dust-boxes on the pavement
outside the shops—but they didn’t seem to get anything. They were
feeling “peckish,” no doubt, and wanted to see if they could get
something to eat before the corporation carts came along. So did the rats.

Some men can’t sleep very well on an empty stomach—at least, not at
first; but it mostly comes with practice. They often sleep for ever in London.
Not in Sydney as yet—so we say.

Now and then one of our outcasts would stretch his cramped limbs to ease
them—but the cold soon made him huddle again. The pavement must have been
hard on the men’s “points,” too; they couldn’t dig
holes nor make soft places for their hips, as you can in camp out back. And
then, again, the stones had nasty edges and awkward slopes, for the pavements
were very uneven.

The Law came along now and then, and had a careless glance at the unemployed in
bed. They didn’t look like sleeping beauties. The Law appeared to regard
them as so much rubbish that ought not to have been placed there, and for the
presence of which somebody ought to be prosecuted by the Inspector of
Nuisances. At least, that was the expression the policeman had on his face.

And so Australian workmen lay at two o’clock in the morning in the
streets of Sydney, and tried to get a little sleep before the traffic came
along and took their bed.

The idea of sleeping out might be nothing to bushmen—not even an idea;
but “dossing out” in the city and “camping” in the bush
are two very different things. In the bush you can light a fire, boil your
billy, and make some tea—if you have any; also fry a chop (there are no
sheep running round in the city). You can have a clean meal, take off your
shirt and wash it, and wash yourself—if there’s water
enough—and feel fresh and clean. You can whistle and sing by the
camp-fire, and make poetry, and breathe fresh air, and watch the everlasting
stars that keep the mateless traveller from going mad as he lies in his lonely
camp on the plains. Your privacy is even more perfect than if you had a suite
of rooms at the Australia; you are at the mercy of no policeman; there’s
no one to watch you but God—and He won’t move you on. God watches
the “dossers-out,” too, in the city, but He doesn’t keep them
from being moved on or run in.

With the city unemployed the case is entirely different. The city outcast
cannot light a fire and boil a billy—even if he has one—he’d
be run in at once for attempting to commit arson, or create a riot, or on
suspicion of being a person of unsound mind. If he took off his shirt to wash
it, or went in for a swim, he’d be had up for indecently exposing his
bones—and perhaps he’d get flogged. He cannot whistle or sing on
his pavement bed at night, for, if he did, he’d be violently arrested by
two great policemen for riotous conduct. He doesn’t see many stars, and
he’s generally too hungry to make poetry. He only sleeps on the pavement
on sufferance, and when the policeman finds the small hours hang heavily on
him, he can root up the unemployed with his big foot and move him on—or
arrest him for being around with the intention to commit a felony; and, when
the wretched “dosser” rises in the morning, he cannot shoulder his
swag and take the track—he must cadge a breakfast at some back gate or
restaurant, and then sit in the park or walk round and round, the same old
hopeless round, all day. There’s no prison like the city for a poor man.

Nearly every man the traveller meets in the bush is about as dirty and ragged
as himself, and just about as hard up; but in the city nearly every man the
poor unemployed meets is a dude, or at least, well dressed, and the unemployed
feels dirty and mean and degraded by the contrast—and despised.

And he can’t help feeling like a criminal. It may be imagination, but
every policeman seems to regard him with suspicion, and this is terrible to a
sensitive man.

We once had the key of the street for a night. We don’t know how much
tobacco we smoked, how many seats we sat on, or how many miles we walked before
morning. But we do know that we felt like a felon, and that every policeman
seemed to regard us with a suspicious eye; and at last we began to squint
furtively at every trap we met, which, perhaps, made him more suspicious, till
finally we felt bad enough to be run in and to get six months’ hard.

Three winters ago a man, whose name doesn’t matter, had a small office
near Elizabeth Street, Sydney. He was an hotel broker, debt collector,
commission agent, canvasser, and so on, in a small way—a very small
way—but his heart was big. He had a partner. They batched in the office,
and did their cooking over a gas lamp. Now, every day the
man-whose-name-doesn’t-matter would carefully collect the scraps of food,
add a slice or two of bread and butter, wrap it all up in a piece of newspaper,
and, after dark, step out and leave the parcel on a ledge of the stonework
outside the building in the street. Every morning it would be gone. A shadow
came along in the night and took it. This went on for many months, till at last
one night the man-whose-name-doesn’t-matter forgot to put the parcel out,
and didn’t think of it till he was in bed. It worried him, so that at
last he had to get up and put the scraps outside. It was midnight. He felt
curious to see the shadow, so he waited until it came along. It wasn’t
his long-lost brother, but it was an old mate of his.

Let us finish with a sketch:

The scene was Circular Quay, outside the Messageries sheds. The usual number of
bundles of misery—covered more or less with dirty sheets of
newspaper—lay along the wall under the ghastly glare of the electric
light. Time—shortly after midnight. From among the bundles an old man sat
up. He cautiously drew off his pants, and then stood close to the wall, in his
shirt, tenderly examining the seat of the trousers. Presently he shook them
out, folded them with great care, wrapped them in a scrap of newspaper, and
laid them down where his head was to be. He had thin, hairy legs and a long
grey beard. From a bundle of rags he extracted another pair of pants, which
were all patches and tatters, and into which he engineered his way with great
caution. Then he sat down, arranged the paper over his knees, laid his old
ragged grey head back on his precious Sunday-go-meetings-and slept.

ACROSS THE STRAITS

We crossed Cook’s Straits from Wellington in one of those rusty little
iron tanks that go up and down and across there for twenty or thirty years and
never get wrecked—for no other reason, apparently, than that they have
every possible excuse to go ashore or go down on those stormy coasts. The age,
construction, or condition of these boats, and the south-easters, and the
construction of the coastline, are all decidedly in favour of their going down;
the fares are high and the accommodation is small and dirty. It is always the
same where there is no competition.

A year or two ago, when a company was running boats between Australia and New
Zealand without competition, the steerage fare was three pound direct single,
and two pound ten shillings between Auckland and Wellington. The potatoes were
black and green and soggy, the beef like bits scraped off the inside of a hide
which had lain out for a day or so, the cabbage was cabbage leaves, the tea
muddy. The whole business took away our appetite regularly three times a day,
and there wasn’t enough to go round, even if it had been
good—enough tucker, we mean; there was enough appetite to go round three
or four times, but it was driven away by disgust until after meals. If we had
not, under cover of darkness, broached a deck cargo of oranges, lemons, and
pineapples, and thereby run the risk of being run in on arrival, there would
have been starvation, disease, and death on that boat before the
end—perhaps mutiny.

You can go across now for one pound, and get something to eat on the road; but
the travelling public will go on patronizing the latest reducer of fares until
the poorer company gets starved out and fares go up again—then the
travelling public will have to pay three or four times as much as they do now,
and go hungry on the voyage; all of which ought to go to prove that the
travelling public is as big a fool as the general public.

We can’t help thinking that the captains and crews of our primitive
little coastal steamers take the chances so often that they in time get used to
it, and, being used to it, have no longer any misgivings or anxiety in rough
weather concerning a watery grave, but feel as perfectly safe as if they were
in church with their wives or sisters—only more comfortable—and go
on feeling so until the worn-out machinery breaks down and lets the old tub run
ashore, or knocks a hole in her side, or the side itself rusts through at last
and lets the water in, or the last straw in the shape of an extra ton of brine
tumbles on board, and the John Smith (Newcastle), goes down with a
swoosh before the cook has time to leave off peeling his potatoes and take to
prayer.

These cheerful—and, maybe, unjust—reflections are perhaps in
consequence of our having lost half a sovereign to start with. We arrived at
the booking-office with two minutes to spare, two sticks of Juno tobacco, a
spare wooden pipe—in case we lost the other—a letter to a
friend’s friend down south, a pound note (Bank of New Zealand), and two
half-crowns, with which to try our fortunes in the South Island. We also had a
few things in a portmanteau and two blankets in a three-bushel bag, but they
didn’t amount to much. The clerk put down the ticket with the
half-sovereign on top of it, and we wrapped the latter in the former and ran
for the wharf. On the way we snatched the ticket out to see the name of the
boat we were going by, in order to find it, and it was then, we suppose, that
the semi-quid got lost.

Did you ever lose a sovereign or a half-sovereign under similar circumstances?
You think of it casually and feel for it carelessly at first, to be sure that
it’s there all right; then, after going through your pockets three or
four times with rapidly growing uneasiness, you lose your head a little and
dredge for that coin hurriedly and with painful anxiety. Then you force
yourself to be calm, and proceed to search yourself systematically, in a
methodical manner. At this stage, if you have time, it’s a good plan to
sit down and think out when and where you last had that half-sovereign, and
where you have been since, and which way you came from there, and what you took
out of your pocket, and where, and whether you might have given it in mistake
for sixpence at that pub where you rushed in to have a beer—and then you
calculate the chances against getting it back again. The last of these
reflections is apt to be painful, and the painfulness is complicated and
increased when there happen to have been several pubs and a like number of
hurried farewell beers in the recent past.

And for months after that you cannot get rid of the idea that that half-sov.
might be about your clothes somewhere. It haunts you. You turn your pockets
out, and feel the lining of your coat and vest inch by inch, and examine your
letter papers—everything you happen to have had in your pocket that
day—over and over again, and by and by you peer in envelopes and unfold
papers that you didn’t have in your pocket at all, but might have had.
And when the novelty of the first search has worn off, and the fit takes you,
you make another search. Even after many months have passed away, some
day—or night—when you are hard up for tobacco and a drink, you
suddenly think of that late lamented half-sov., and are moved by adverse
circumstances to look through your old clothes in a sort of forlorn hope, or to
give good luck a sort of chance to surprise you—the only chance that you
can give it.

By the way, seven-and-six of that half-quid should have gone to the landlord of
the hotel where we stayed last, and somehow, in spite of this enlightened age,
the loss of it seemed a judgment; and seeing that the boat was old and
primitive, and there was every sign of a three days’ sou’-easter,
we sincerely hoped that judgment was complete—that supreme wrath had been
appeased by the fine of ten bob without adding any Jonah business to it.

This reminds us that we once found a lost half-sovereign in the bowl of a spare
pipe six months after it was lost. We wish it had stayed there and turned up
to-night. But, although when you are in great danger—say, adrift in an
open boat—tales of providential escapes and rescues may interest and
comfort you, you can’t get any comfort out of anecdotes concerning the
turning up of lost quids when you have just lost one yourself. All you want is
to find it.

It bothers you even not to be able to account for a bob. You always like to
know that you have had something for your money, if only a long beer. You would
sooner know that you fooled your money away on a spree, and made yourself sick
than lost it out of an extra hole in your pocket, and kept well.

We left Wellington with a feeling of pained regret, a fellow-wanderer by our
side telling us how he had once lost “fi-pun-note”—and about
two-thirds of the city unemployed on the wharf looking for that half-sovereign.
Well, we hope that some poor devil found it; although, to tell the truth, we
would then have by far preferred to have found it ourselves.

A sailor said that the Moa was a good sea-boat, and, although she was
small and old, he was never afraid of her. He’d sooner travel in
her than in some of those big cheap ocean liners with more sand in them than
iron or steel—You, know the rest. Further on, in a conversation
concerning the age of these coasters, he said that they’d last fully
thirty years if well painted and looked after. He said that this one was seldom
painted, and never painted properly; and then, seemingly in direct
contradiction to his previously expressed confidence in the safety and
seaworthiness of the Moa, he said that he could poke a stick through her
anywhere. We asked him not to do it.

It came on to splash, and we went below to reflect, and search once more for
that half-sovereign. The cabin was small and close, and dimly lighted, and evil
smelling, and shaped like the butt end of a coffin. It might not have smelt so
bad if we hadn’t lost that half-sovereign. There was a party of those
gipsy-like Assyrians—two families apparently—the women and children
lying very sick about the lower bunks; and a big, good-humoured-looking young
Maori propped between the end of the table and the wall, playing a concertina.
The sick people were too sick, and the concertina seemed too much in sympathy
with them, and the lost half-quid haunted us more than ever down there; so we
started to climb out.

The first thing that struck us was the jagged top edge of that iron hood-like
arrangement over the gangway. The top half only of the scuttle was open. There
was nothing to be seen except a fog of spray and a Newfoundland dog sea-sick
under the lee of something. The next thing that struck us was a tub of salt
water, which came like a cannon ball and broke against the hood affair, and
spattered on deck like a crockery shop. We climbed down again backwards, and
sat on the floor with emphasis, in consequence of stepping down a last step
that wasn’t there, and cracked the back of our heads against the edge of
the table. The Maori helped us up, and we had a drink with him at the expense
of one of the half-casers mentioned in the beginning of this sketch. Then the
Maori shouted, then we, then the Maori again, then we again; and then we
thought, “Dash it, what’s a half-sovereign? We’ll fall on our
feet all right.”

We went up Queen Charlotte’s Sound, a long crooked arm of the sea between
big, rugged, black-looking hills. There was a sort of lighthouse down near the
entrance, and they said an old Maori woman kept it. There were some whitish
things on the sides of the hills, which we at first took for cattle, and then
for goats. They were sheep. Someone said that that country was only fit to
carry sheep. It must have been bad, then, judging from some of the country in
Australia which is only fit to carry sheep. Country that wouldn’t carry
goats would carry sheep, we think. Sheep are about the hardiest animals on the
face of this planet—barring crocodiles.

You may rip a sheep open whilst watching for the boss’s boots or yarning
to a pen-mate, and then when you have stuffed the works back into the animal,
and put a stitch in the slit, and poked it somewhere with a tar-stick (it
doesn’t matter much where) the jumbuck will be all right and just as
lively as ever, and turn up next shearing without the ghost of a scratch on its
skin.

We reached Picton, a small collection of twinkling lights in a dark pocket,
apparently at the top of a sound. We climbed up on to the wharf, got through
between two railway trucks, and asked a policeman where we were, and where the
telegraph office was. There were several pretty girls in the office, laughing
and chyacking the counter clerks, which jarred upon the feelings of this poor
orphan wanderer in strange lands. We gloomily took a telegram form, and wired
to a friend in North Island, using the following words: “Wire quid;
stumped.”

Then we crossed the street to a pub and asked for a roof and they told us to go
up to No. 8. We went up, struck a match, lit the candle, put our bag in a
corner, cleared the looking-glass off the toilet table, got some paper and a
pencil out of our portmanteau, and sat down and wrote this sketch.

The candle is going out.

“SOME DAY”

The two travellers had yarned late in their camp, and the moon was getting low
down through the mulga. Mitchell’s mate had just finished a rather racy
yarn, but it seemed to fall flat on Mitchell—he was in a sentimental
mood. He smoked a while, and thought, and then said:

“Ah! there was one little girl that I was properly struck on. She came to
our place on a visit to my sister. I think she was the best little girl that
ever lived, and about the prettiest. She was just eighteen, and didn’t
come up to my shoulder; the biggest blue eyes you ever saw, and she had hair
that reached down to her knees, and so thick you couldn’t span it with
your two hands—brown and glossy—and her skin with like lilies and
roses. Of course, I never thought she’d look at a rough, ugly, ignorant
brute like me, and I used to keep out of her way and act a little stiff towards
her; I didn’t want the others to think I was gone on her, because I knew
they’d laugh at me, and maybe she’d laugh at me more than all. She
would come and talk to me, and sit near me at table; but I thought that that
was on account of her good nature, and she pitied me because I was such a
rough, awkward chap. I was gone on that girl, and no joking; and I felt quite
proud to think she was a countrywoman of mine. But I wouldn’t let her
know that, for I felt sure she’d only laugh.

“Well, things went on till I got the offer of two or three years’
work on a station up near the border, and I had to go, for I was hard up;
besides, I wanted to get away. Stopping round where she was only made me
miserable.

“The night I left they were all down at the station to see me
off—including the girl I was gone on. When the train was ready to start
she was standing away by herself on the dark end of the platform, and my sister
kept nudging me and winking, and fooling about, but I didn’t know what
she was driving at. At last she said:

“‘Go and speak to her, you noodle; go and say good-bye to
Edie.’

“So I went up to where she was, and, when the others turned their
backs—

“‘Well, good-bye, Miss Brown,’ I said, holding out my hand;
‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again, for Lord knows when
I’ll be back. Thank you for coming to see me off.’

“Just then she turned her face to the light, and I saw she was crying.
She was trembling all over. Suddenly she said, ‘Jack! Jack!’ just
like that, and held up her arms like this.”

Mitchell was speaking in a tone of voice that didn’t belong to him, and
his mate looked up. Mitchell’s face was solemn, and his eyes were fixed
on the fire.

“I suppose you gave her a good hug then, and a kiss?” asked the
mate.

“I s’pose so,” snapped Mitchell. “There is some things
a man doesn’t want to joke about…. Well, I think we’ll shove on
one of the billies, and have a drink of tea before we turn in.”

“I suppose,” said Mitchell’s mate, as they drank their tea,
“I suppose you’ll go back and marry her some day?”

“Some day! That’s it; it looks like it, doesn’t it? We all
say, ‘Some day.’ I used to say it ten years ago, and look at me
now. I’ve been knocking round for five years, and the last two years
constant on the track, and no show of getting off it unless I go for good, and
what have I got for it? I look like going home and getting married, without a
penny in my pocket or a rag to my back scarcely, and no show of getting them. I
swore I’d never go back home without a cheque, and, what’s more, I
never will; but the cheque days are past. Look at that boot! If we were down
among the settled districts we’d be called tramps and beggars; and
what’s the difference? I’ve been a fool, I know, but I’ve
paid for it; and now there’s nothing for it but to tramp, tramp, tramp
for your tucker, and keep tramping till you get old and careless and dirty, and
older, and more careless and dirtier, and you get used to the dust and sand,
and heat, and flies, and mosquitoes, just as a bullock does, and lose ambition
and hope, and get contented with this animal life, like a dog, and till your
swag seems part of yourself, and you’d be lost and uneasy and
light-shouldered without it, and you don’t care a damn if you’ll
ever get work again, or live like a Christian; and you go on like this till the
spirit of a bullock takes the place of the heart of a man. Who cares? If we
hadn’t found the track yesterday we might have lain and rotted in that
lignum, and no one been any the wiser—or sorrier—who knows?
Somebody might have found us in the end, but it mightn’t have been worth
his while to go out of his way and report us. Damn the world, say I!”

He smoked for a while in savage silence; then he knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, felt for his tobacco with a sigh, and said:

“Well, I am a bit out of sorts to-night. I’ve been thinking…. I
think we’d best turn in, old man; we’ve got a long, dry stretch
before us to-morrow.”

They rolled out their swags on the sand, lay down, and wrapped themselves in
their blankets. Mitchell covered his face with a piece of calico, because the
moonlight and wind kept him awake.

“BRUMMY USEN”

We caught up with an old swagman crossing the plain, and tramped along with him
till we came to good shade to have a smoke in. We had got yarning about men
getting lost in the bush or going away and being reported dead.

“Yes,” said the old ‘whaler’, as he dropped his swag in
the shade, sat down on it, and felt for his smoking tackle,
“there’s scarcely an old bushman alive—or dead, for the
matter of that—who hasn’t been dead a few times in his
life—or reported dead, which amounts to the same thing for a while. In my
time there was as many live men in the bush who was supposed to be dead as
there was dead men who was supposed to be alive—though it’s the
other way about now—what with so many jackaroos tramping about out back
and getting lost in the dry country that they don’t know anything about,
and dying within a few yards of water sometimes. But even now, whenever I hear
that an old bush mate of mine is dead, I don’t fret about it or put a
black band round my hat, because I know he’ll be pretty sure to turn up
sometimes, pretty bad with the booze, and want to borrow half a crown.

“I’ve been dead a few times myself, and found out afterwards that
my friends was so sorry about it, and that I was such a good sort of a chap
after all, when I was dead that—that I was sorry I didn’t stop
dead. You see, I was one of them chaps that’s better treated by their
friends and better thought of when—when they’re dead.

“Ah, well! Never mind…. Talking of killing bushmen before their time
reminds me of some cases I knew. They mostly happened among the western spurs
of the ranges. There was a bullock-driver named Billy Nowlett. He had a small
selection, where he kept his family, and used to carry from the railway
terminus to the stations up-country. One time he went up with a load and was
not heard of for such a long time that his missus got mighty uneasy; and then
she got a letter from a publican up Coonamble way to say that Billy was dead.
Someone wrote, for the widow, to ask about the wagon and the bullocks, but the
shanty-keeper wrote that Billy had drunk them before he died, and that
he’d also to say that he’d drunk the money he got for the carrying;
and the publican enclosed a five-pound note for the widow—which was
considered very kind of him.

“Well, the widow struggled along and managed without her husband just the
same as she had always struggled along and managed with him—a little
better, perhaps. An old digger used to drop in of evenings and sit by the
widow’s fire, and yarn, and sympathize, and smoke, and think; and just as
he began to yarn a lot less, and smoke and think a lot more, Billy Nowlett
himself turned up with a load of rations for a sheep station. He’d been
down by the other road, and the letter he’d wrote to his missus had gone
astray. Billy wasn’t surprised to hear that he was dead—he’d
been killed before—but he was surprised about the five quid.

“You see, it must have been another bullock-driver that died. There was
an old shanty-keeper up Coonamble way, so Billy said, that used to always
mistake him for another bullocky and mistake the other bullocky for
him—couldn’t tell the one from the other no way—and he used
to have bills against Billy that the other bullock-driver’d run up, and
bills against the other that Billy’d run up, and generally got things
mixed up in various ways, till Billy wished that one of ’em was dead. And
the funniest part of the business was that Billy wasn’t no more like the
other man than chalk is like cheese. You’ll often drop across some
colour-blind old codger that can’t tell the difference between two people
that ain’t got a bit of likeness between ’em.

“Then there was young Joe Swallow. He was found dead under a burned-down
tree in Dead Man’s Gully—‘dead past all recognition,’
they said—and he was buried there, and by and by his ghost began to haunt
the gully: at least, all the schoolkids seen it, and there was scarcely a
grown-up person who didn’t know another person who’d seen the
ghost—and the other person was always a sober chap that wouldn’t
bother about telling a lie. But just as the ghost was beginning to settle down
to work in the gully, Joe himself turned up, and then the folks began to reckon
that it was another man was killed there, and that the ghost belonged to the
other man; and some of them began to recollect that they’d thought all
along that the ghost wasn’t Joe’s ghost—even when they
thought that it was really Joe that was killed there.

“Then, again, there was the case of Brummy Usen—Hughison I think
they spelled it—the bushranger; he was shot by old Mr S—-, of
E—-, while trying to stick the old gentleman up. There’s something
about it in a book called ‘Robbery Under Arms’, though the names is
all altered—and some other time I’ll tell you all about the digging
of the body up for the inquest and burying it again. This Brummy used to work
for a publican in a sawmill that the publican had; and this publican and his
daughter identified the body by a woman holding up a branch tattooed on the
right arm. I’ll tell you all about that another time. This girl
remembered how she used to watch this tattooed woman going up and down on
Brummy’s arm when he was working in the saw-pit—going up and down
and up and down, like this, while Brummy was working his end of the saw. So the
bushranger was inquested and justifiable-homicided as Brummy Usen, and buried
again in his dust and blood stains and monkey-jacket.

“All the same it wasn’t him; for the real Brummy turned up later
on; but he couldn’t make the people believe he wasn’t dead. They
was mostly English country people from Kent and Yorkshire and those places; and
the most self-opinionated and obstinate people that ever lived when they got a
thing into their heads; and they got it into their heads that Brummy Usen was
shot while trying to bail up old Mr S—— and was dead and buried.

“But the wife of the publican that had the saw-pit knew him; he went to
her, and she recognized him at once; she’d got it into her head from the
first that it wasn’t Brummy that was shot, and she stuck to it—she
was just as self-opinionated as the neighbours, and many a barney she had with
them about it. She would argue about it till the day she died, and then she
said with her dying breath: ‘It wasn’t Brummy Usen.’ No more
it was—he was a different kind of man; he hadn’t spunk enough to be
a bushranger, and it was a better man that was buried for him; it was a
different kind of woman, holding up a different kind of branch, that was
tattooed on Brummy’s arm. But, you see, Brummy’d always kept
himself pretty much to himself, and no one knew him very well; and, besides,
most of them were pretty drunk at the inquest—except the girl, and she
was too scared to know what she was saying—they had to be so because the
corpse was in such a bad state.

“Well, Brummy hung around for a time, and tried to prove that he
wasn’t an impostor, but no one wouldn’t believe him. He wanted to
get some wages that was owing to him.

“He tried the police, but they were just as obstinate as the rest; and,
beside, they had their dignity to hold up. ‘If I ain’t
Brummy,’ he’d say, ‘who are I?’ But they answered that
he knew best. So he did.

“At last he said that it didn’t matter much, any road; and so he
went away—Lord knows where—to begin life again, I
s’pose.”

The traveller smoked awhile reflectively; then he quietly rolled up his right
sleeve and scratched his arm.

And on that arm we saw the tattooed figure of a woman, holding up a branch.

We tramped on by his side again towards the station-thinking very hard and not
feeling very comfortable.

He must have been an awful old liar, now we come to think of it.

SECOND SERIES

THE DROVER’S WIFE

The two-roomed house is built of round timber, slabs, and stringy-bark, and
floored with split slabs. A big bark kitchen standing at one end is larger than
the house itself, veranda included.

Bush all round—bush with no horizon, for the country is flat. No ranges
in the distance. The bush consists of stunted, rotten native apple-trees. No
undergrowth. Nothing to relieve the eye save the darker green of a few she-oaks
which are sighing above the narrow, almost waterless creek. Nineteen miles to
the nearest sign of civilization—a shanty on the main road.

The drover, an ex-squatter, is away with sheep. His wife and children are left
here alone.

Four ragged, dried-up-looking children are playing about the house. Suddenly
one of them yells: “Snake! Mother, here’s a snake!”

The gaunt, sun-browned bushwoman dashes from the kitchen, snatches her baby
from the ground, holds it on her left hip, and reaches for a stick.

“Where is it?”

“Here! gone into the wood-heap!” yells the eldest boy—a
sharp-faced urchin of eleven. “Stop there, mother! I’ll have him.
Stand back! I’ll have the beggar!”

“Tommy, come here, or you’ll be bit. Come here at once when I tell
you, you little wretch!”

The youngster comes reluctantly, carrying a stick bigger than himself. Then he
yells, triumphantly:

“There it goes—under the house!” and darts away with club
uplifted. At the same time the big, black, yellow-eyed dog-of-all-breeds, who
has shown the wildest interest in the proceedings, breaks his chain and rushes
after that snake. He is a moment late, however, and his nose reaches the crack
in the slabs just as the end of its tail disappears. Almost at the same moment
the boy’s club comes down and skins the aforesaid nose. Alligator takes
small notice of this, and proceeds to undermine the building; but he is subdued
after a struggle and chained up. They cannot afford to lose him.

The drover’s wife makes the children stand together near the dog-house
while she watches for the snake. She gets two small dishes of milk and sets
them down near the wall to tempt it to come out; but an hour goes by and it
does not show itself.

It is near sunset, and a thunderstorm is coming. The children must be brought
inside. She will not take them into the house, for she knows the snake is
there, and may at any moment come up through a crack in the rough slab floor;
so she carries several armfuls of firewood into the kitchen, and then takes the
children there. The kitchen has no floor—or, rather, an earthen
one—called a “ground floor” in this part of the bush. There
is a large, roughly-made table in the centre of the place. She brings the
children in, and makes them get on this table. They are two boys and two
girls—mere babies. She gives them some supper, and then, before it gets
dark, she goes into the house, and snatches up some pillows and
bedclothes—expecting to see or lay her hand on the snake any minute. She
makes a bed on the kitchen table for the children, and sits down beside it to
watch all night.

She has an eye on the corner, and a green sapling club laid in readiness on the
dresser by her side; also her sewing basket and a copy of the Young
Ladies’ Journal. She has brought the dog into the room.

Tommy turns in, under protest, but says he’ll lie awake all night and
smash that blinded snake.

His mother asks him how many times she has told him not to swear.

He has his club with him under the bedclothes, and Jacky protests:

“Mummy! Tommy’s skinnin’ me alive wif his club. Make him take
it out.”

Tommy: “Shet up, you little—-! D’yer want to be bit with the
snake?”

Jacky shuts up.

“If yer bit,” says Tommy, after a pause, “you’ll swell
up, an’ smell, an’ turn red an’ green an’ blue all over
till yer bust. Won’t he, mother?”

“Now then, don’t frighten the child. Go to sleep,” she says.

The two younger children go to sleep, and now and then Jacky complains of being
“skeezed.” More room is made for him. Presently Tommy says:
“Mother! listen to them (adjective) little possums. I’d like to
screw their blanky necks.”

And Jacky protests drowsily.

“But they don’t hurt us, the little blanks!”.

Mother: “There, I told you you’d teach Jacky to swear.” But
the remark makes her smile. Jacky goes to sleep. Presently Tommy asks:

“Mother! Do you think they’ll ever extricate the (adjective)
kangaroo?”

“Lord! How am I to know, child? Go to sleep.”

“Will you wake me if the snake comes out?”

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

Near midnight. The children are all asleep and she sits there still, sewing and
reading by turns. From time to time she glances round the floor and wall-plate,
and, whenever she hears a noise, she reaches for the stick. The thunderstorm
comes on, and the wind, rushing through the cracks in the slab wall, threatens
to blow out her candle. She places it on a sheltered part of the dresser and
fixes up a newspaper to protect it. At every flash of lightning, the cracks
between the slabs gleam like polished silver. The thunder rolls, and the rain
comes down in torrents.

Alligator lies at full length on the floor, with his eyes turned towards the
partition. She knows by this that the snake is there. There are large cracks in
that wall opening under the floor of the dwelling-house.

She is not a coward, but recent events have shaken her nerves. A little son of
her brother-in-law was lately bitten by a snake, and died. Besides, she has not
heard from her husband for six months, and is anxious about him.

He was a drover, and started squatting here when they were married. The drought
of 18— ruined him. He had to sacrifice the remnant of his flock and go
droving again. He intends to move his family into the nearest town when he
comes back, and, in the meantime, his brother, who keeps a shanty on the main
road, comes over about once a month with provisions. The wife has still a
couple of cows, one horse, and a few sheep. The brother-in-law kills one of the
latter occasionally, gives her what she needs of it, and takes the rest in
return for other provisions. She is used to being left alone. She once lived
like this for eighteen months. As a girl she built the usual castles in the
air; but all her girlish hopes and aspirations have long been dead. She finds
all the excitement and recreation she needs in the Young Ladies’
Journal, and Heaven help her! takes a pleasure in the fashion-plates.

Her husband is an Australian, and so is she. He is careless, but a good enough
husband. If he had the means he would take her to the city and keep her there
like a princess. They are used to being apart, or at least she is. “No
use fretting,” she says. He may forget sometimes that he is married; but
if he has a good cheque when he comes back he will give most of it to her. When
he had money he took her to the city several times—hired a railway
sleeping compartment, and put up at the best hotels. He also bought her a
buggy, but they had to sacrifice that along with the rest.

The last two children were born in the bush—one while her husband was
bringing a drunken doctor, by force, to attend to her. She was alone on this
occasion, and very weak. She had been ill with a fever. She prayed to God to
send her assistance. God sent Black Mary—the “whitest” gin in
all the land. Or, at least, God sent King Jimmy first, and he sent Black Mary.
He put his black face round the door post, took in the situation at a glance,
and said cheerfully: “All right, missus—I bring my old woman, she
down alonga creek.”

One of the children died while she was here alone. She rode nineteen miles for
assistance, carrying the dead child.

It must be near one or two o’clock. The fire is burning low. Alligator
lies with his head resting on his paws, and watches the wall. He is not a very
beautiful dog, and the light shows numerous old wounds where the hair will not
grow. He is afraid of nothing on the face of the earth or under it. He will
tackle a bullock as readily as he will tackle a flea. He hates all other
dogs—except kangaroo-dogs—and has a marked dislike to friends or
relations of the family. They seldom call, however. He sometimes makes friends
with strangers. He hates snakes and has killed many, but he will be bitten some
day and die; most snake-dogs end that way.

Now and then the bushwoman lays down her work and watches, and listens, and
thinks. She thinks of things in her own life, for there is little else to think
about.

The rain will make the grass grow, and this reminds her how she fought a
bush-fire once while her husband was away. The grass was long, and very dry,
and the fire threatened to burn her out. She put on an old pair of her
husband’s trousers and beat out the flames with a green bough, till great
drops of sooty perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran in streaks down
her blackened arms. The sight of his mother in trousers greatly amused Tommy,
who worked like a little hero by her side, but the terrified baby howled
lustily for his “mummy.” The fire would have mastered her but for
four excited bushmen who arrived in the nick of time. It was a mixed-up affair
all round; when she went to take up the baby he screamed and struggled
convulsively, thinking it was a “blackman;” and Alligator, trusting
more to the child’s sense than his own instinct, charged furiously, and
(being old and slightly deaf) did not in his excitement at first recognize his
mistress’s voice, but continued to hang on to the moleskins until choked
off by Tommy with a saddle-strap. The dog’s sorrow for his blunder, and
his anxiety to let it be known that it was all a mistake, was as evident as his
ragged tail and a twelve-inch grin could make it. It was a glorious time for
the boys; a day to look back to, and talk about, and laugh over for many years.

She thinks how she fought a flood during her husband’s absence. She stood
for hours in the drenching downpour, and dug an overflow gutter to save the dam
across the creek. But she could not save it. There are things that a bushwoman
can not do. Next morning the dam was broken, and her heart was nearly broken
too, for she thought how her husband would feel when he came home and saw the
result of years of labour swept away. She cried then.

She also fought the pleuro-pneumonia—dosed and bled the few remaining
cattle, and wept again when her two best cows died.

Again, she fought a mad bullock that besieged the house for a day. She made
bullets and fired at him through cracks in the slabs with an old shot-gun. He
was dead in the morning. She skinned him and got seventeen-and-sixpence for the
hide.

She also fights the crows and eagles that have designs on her chickens. Her
plan of campaign is very original. The children cry “Crows,
mother!” and she rushes out and aims a broomstick at the birds as though
it were a gun, and says “Bung!” The crows leave in a hurry; they
are cunning, but a woman’s cunning is greater.

Occasionally a bushman in the horrors, or a villainous-looking sundowner, comes
and nearly scares the life out of her. She generally tells the
suspicious-looking stranger that her husband and two sons are at work below the
dam, or over at the yard, for he always cunningly inquires for the boss.

Only last week a gallows-faced swagman—having satisfied himself that
there were no men on the place—threw his swag down on the veranda, and
demanded tucker. She gave him something to eat; then he expressed his intention
of staying for the night. It was sundown then. She got a batten from the sofa,
loosened the dog, and confronted the stranger, holding the batten in one hand
and the dog’s collar with the other. “Now you go!” she said.
He looked at her and at the dog, said “All right, mum,” in a
cringing tone, and left. She was a determined-looking woman, and
Alligator’s yellow eyes glared unpleasantly—besides, the
dog’s chawing-up apparatus greatly resembled that of the reptile he was
named after.

She has few pleasures to think of as she sits here alone by the fire, on guard
against a snake. All days are much the same to her; but on Sunday afternoon she
dresses herself, tidies the children, smartens up baby, and goes for a lonely
walk along the bush-track, pushing an old perambulator in front of her. She
does this every Sunday. She takes as much care to make herself and the children
look smart as she would if she were going to do the block in the city. There is
nothing to see, however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty
miles along this track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless
you are a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening sameness of
the stunted trees—that monotony which makes a man long to break away and
travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ship can sail—and
farther.

But this bushwoman is used to the loneliness of it. As a girl-wife she hated
it, but now she would feel strange away from it.

She is glad when her husband returns, but she does not gush or make a fuss
about it. She gets him something good to eat, and tidies up the children.

She seems contented with her lot. She loves her children, but has no time to
show it. She seems harsh to them. Her surroundings are not favourable to the
development of the “womanly” or sentimental side of nature.

It must be near morning now; but the clock is in the dwellinghouse. Her candle
is nearly done; she forgot that she was out of candles. Some more wood must be
got to keep the fire up, and so she shuts the dog inside and hurries round to
the woodheap. The rain has cleared off. She seizes a stick, pulls it out,
and—crash! the whole pile collapses.

Yesterday she bargained with a stray blackfellow to bring her some wood, and
while he was at work she went in search of a missing cow. She was absent an
hour or so, and the native black made good use of his time. On her return she
was so astonished to see a good heap of wood by the chimney, that she gave him
an extra fig of tobacco, and praised him for not being lazy. He thanked her,
and left with head erect and chest well out. He was the last of his tribe and a
King; but he had built that wood-heap hollow.

She is hurt now, and tears spring to her eyes as she sits down again by the
table. She takes up a handkerchief to wipe the tears away, but pokes her eyes
with her bare fingers instead. The handkerchief is full of holes, and she finds
that she has put her thumb through one, and her forefinger through another.

This makes her laugh, to the surprise of the dog. She has a keen, very keen,
sense of the ridiculous; and some time or other she will amuse bushmen with the
story.

She had been amused before like that. One day she sat down “to have a
good cry,” as she said—and the old cat rubbed against her dress and
“cried too.” Then she had to laugh.

It must be near daylight now. The room is very close and hot because of the
fire. Alligator still watches the wall from time to time. Suddenly he becomes
greatly interested; he draws himself a few inches nearer the partition, and a
thrill runs through his body. The hair on the back of his neck begins to
bristle, and the battle-light is in his yellow eyes. She knows what this means,
and lays her hand on the stick. The lower end of one of the partition slabs has
a large crack on both sides. An evil pair of small, bright bead-like eyes
glisten at one of these holes. The snake—a black one—comes slowly
out, about a foot, and moves its head up and down. The dog lies still, and the
woman sits as one fascinated. The snake comes out a foot farther. She lifts her
stick, and the reptile, as though suddenly aware of danger, sticks his head in
through the crack on the other side of the slab, and hurries to get his tail
round after him. Alligator springs, and his jaws come together with a snap. He
misses, for his nose is large, and the snake’s body close down in the
angle formed by the slabs and the floor. He snaps again as the tail comes
round. He has the snake now, and tugs it out eighteen inches. Thud, thud comes
the woman’s club on the ground. Alligator pulls again. Thud, thud.
Alligator gives another pull and he has the snake out—a black brute, five
feet long. The head rises to dart about, but the dog has the enemy close to the
neck. He is a big, heavy dog, but quick as a terrier. He shakes the snake as
though he felt the original curse in common with mankind. The eldest boy wakes
up, seizes his stick, and tries to get out of bed, but his mother forces him
back with a grip of iron. Thud, thud—the snake’s back is broken in
several places. Thud, thud—its head is crushed, and Alligator’s
nose skinned again.

She lifts the mangled reptile on the point of her stick, carries it to the
fire, and throws it in; then piles on the wood and watches the snake burn. The
boy and dog watch too. She lays her hand on the dog’s head, and all the
fierce, angry light dies out of his yellow eyes. The younger children are
quieted, and presently go to sleep. The dirty-legged boy stands for a moment in
his shirt, watching the fire. Presently he looks up at her, sees the tears in
her eyes, and, throwing his arms round her neck exclaims:

“Mother, I won’t never go drovin’; blarst me if I do!”
And she hugs him to her worn-out breast and kisses him; and they sit thus
together while the sickly daylight breaks over the bush.

STEELMAN’S PUPIL

Steelman was a hard case, but some said that Smith was harder. Steelman was big
and good-looking, and good-natured in his way; he was a spieler, pure and
simple, but did things in humorous style. Smith was small and weedy, of the
sneak variety; he had a whining tone and a cringing manner. He seemed to be
always so afraid you were going to hit him that he would make you want to hit
him on that account alone.

Steelman “had” you in a fashion that would make your friends laugh.
Smith would “have” you in a way which made you feel mad at the bare
recollection of having been taken in by so contemptible a little sneak.

They battled round together in the North Island of Maoriland for a couple of
years.

One day Steelman said to Smith:

“Look here, Smithy, you don’t know you’re born yet. I’m
going to take you in hand and teach you.”

And he did. If Smith wouldn’t do as Steelman told him, or wasn’t
successful in cadging, or mugged any game they had in hand, Steelman would
threaten to stoush him; and, if the warning proved ineffectual after the second
or third time, he would stoush him.

One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couple kept a
general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, and Smith was just
starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelman cried:

“Here!—hold on. Now where do you think you’re going
to?”

“Why, I’m going to try and chew the old party’s lug, of
course. We’ll be out of tucker in a couple of days,” said Smith.

Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way.

“It’s no use,” he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach
and disgust. “It’s no use. I might as well give it best. I can see
that it’s only waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be
able to knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time and
trouble and pains I’ve took with your education, you hain’t got any
more sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learn sense?
Hey? After all, I—Smith, you’re a born mug!”

He always called Smith a “mug” when he was particularly wild at
him, for it hurt Smith more than anything else. “There’s only two
classes in the world, spielers and mugs—and you’re a mug,
Smith.”

“What have I done, anyway?” asked Smith helplessly.
“That’s all I want to know.”

Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand.

“That will do, Smith,” he said listlessly; “don’t say
another word, old man; it’ll only make my head worse; don’t talk.
You might, at the very least, have a little consideration for my
feelings—even if you haven’t for your own interests.” He
paused and regarded Smith sadly. “Well, I’ll give you another show.
I’ll stage the business for you.”

He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers—and
they were bad enough; they were hopelessly “gone” beyond the
extreme limit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and a
pair of “’lastic-sides” which had fallen off a tramp and lain
baking and rotting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith
with bits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith’s eyes, and
burning spots on his cheek-bones with some greasepaints he used when they
travelled as “The Great Steelman and Smith Combination Star Dramatic
Co.” He damped Smith’s hair to make it dark and lank, and his face
more corpse-like by comparison—in short, he made him up to look like a
man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, and had been
artificially kept alive in the interests of science.

“Now you’re ready,” said Steelman to Smith. “You left
your whare the day before yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at
Palmerston. An old mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and
carried you on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that
Providence had something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that
time and place above all others. Your mate also was hard up; he was going to a
job—the first show for work he’d had in nine months—but he
gave it up to see you through; he’d give up his life rather than desert a
mate in trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker to help
you on to Palmerston. You know you’ve got to die, and you only want to
live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on a bed.

“Remember, they’re Scotch up at that house. You understand the
Scotch barrack pretty well by now—if you don’t it ain’t my
fault. You were born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about
the town. Your father’s dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the
Bobbie Burns to Sydney. Your poor old mother’s in Aberdeen
now—Bruce or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead
now—poor old soul!—any way, you’ll never see her again. You
wish you’d never run away from home. You wish you’d been a better
son to your poor old mother; you wish you’d written to her and answered
her last letter. You only want to live long enough to write home and ask for
forgiveness and a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some
sort to brace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this
delicately.) Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a
wheeze—like this; get up the nearest approach to a deathrattle that you
can. Move as if you were badly hurt in your wind—like this. (If you
don’t do it better’n that, I’ll stoush you.) Make your face a
bit longer and keep your lips dry—don’t lick them, you damned
fool!-breathe on them; make ’em dry as chips. That’s the
only decent pair of breeks you’ve got, and the only shoon. You’re a
Presbyterian—not a U.P., the Auld Kirk. Your mate would have come up to
the house only—well, you’ll have to use the stuffing in your head a
bit; you can’t expect me to do all the brain work. Remember it’s
consumption you’ve got—galloping consumption; you know all the
symptoms—pain on top of your right lung, bad cough, and night sweats.
Something tells you that you won’t see the new year—it’s a
week off Christmas now. And if you come back without anything, I’ll
blessed soon put you out of your misery.”

Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much various tucker
as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-off tweeds; a new
pair of ’lastic-sides from the store stock; two bottles of patent
medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-made consumption-cure; also a
letter to a hospital-committee man, and three shillings to help him on his way
to Palmerston. He also got about half a mile of sympathy, religious
consolation, and medical advice which he didn’t remember.

“Now,” he said, triumphantly, “am I a mug or
not?”

Steelman kindly ignored the question. “I did have a better opinion
of the Scotch,” he said, contemptuously.

Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in six months he
managed that pub. Smith, who’d been away on his own account, turned up in
the town one day clean broke, and in a deplorable state. He heard of
Steelman’s luck, and thought he was “all right,” so went to
his old friend.

Cold type—or any other kind of type—couldn’t do justice to
Steelman’s disgust. To think that this was the reward of all the time and
trouble he’d spent on Smith’s education! However, when he cooled
down, he said:

“Smith, you’re a young man yet, and it’s never too late to
mend. There is still time for reformation. I can’t help you now; it would
only demoralize you altogether. To think, after the way I trained you, you
can’t battle round any better’n this! I always thought you were an
irreclaimable mug, but I expected better things of you towards the end. I
thought I’d make something of you. It’s enough to dishearten
any man and disgust him with the world. Why! you ought to be a rich man now
with the chances and training you had! To think—but I won’t talk of
that; it has made me ill. I suppose I’ll have to give you something, if
it’s only to get rid of the sight of you. Here’s a quid, and
I’m a mug for giving it to you. It’ll do you more harm than good;
and it ain’t a friendly thing nor the right thing for me—who always
had your welfare at heart—to give it to you under the circumstances. Now,
get away out of my sight, and don’t come near me till you’ve
reformed. If you do, I’ll have to stoush you out of regard for my own
health and feelings.”

But Steelman came down in the world again and picked up Smith on the road, and
they battled round together for another year or so; and at last they were in
Wellington—Steelman “flush” and stopping at an hotel, and
Smith stumped, as usual, and staying with a friend. One night they were
drinking together at the hotel, at the expense of some mugs whom Steelman was
“educating.” It was raining hard. When Smith was going home, he
said:

“Look here, Steely, old man. Listen to the rain! I’ll get wringing
wet going home. You might as well lend me your overcoat to-night. You
won’t want it, and I won’t hurt it.”

And, Steelman’s heart being warmed by his successes, he lent the
overcoat.

Smith went and pawned it, got glorious on the proceeds, and took the
pawn-ticket to Steelman next day.

Smith had reformed.

AN UNFINISHED LOVE STORY

Brook let down the heavy, awkward sliprails, and the gaunt cattle stumbled
through, with aggravating deliberation, and scattered slowly among the native
apple-trees along the sidling. First there came an old easygoing red poley cow,
then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy, half-grown calves—who seemed
already to have lost all interest in existence—and after them a couple of
“babies,” sleek, glossy, and cheerful; then three more
tired-looking cows, with ragged udders and hollow sides; then a lanky barren
heifer—red, of course—with half-blind eyes and one crooked
horn—she was noted for her great agility in jumping two-rail fences, and
she was known to the selector as “Queen Elizabeth;” and behind her
came a young cream-coloured milker—a mighty proud and contented young
mother—painfully and patiently dragging her first calf, which was hanging
obstinately to a teat, with its head beneath her hind legs. Last of all there
came the inevitable red steer, who scratched the dust and let a stupid
“bwoo-ur-r-rr” out of him as he snuffed at the rails.

Brook had shifted the rails there often before—fifteen years
ago—perhaps the selfsame rails, for stringy-bark lasts long; and the
action brought the past near to him—nearer than he wished. He did not
like to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt more
contempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to let down the
rails there, and drive the cattle through.

He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and had come here, prompted more by
curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. His father was dead; his
other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant on the old selection.

Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watched the
cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie—the tenant’s
niece—shoved the red steer through and stood gravely regarding him
(Brook, and not the steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at
her. He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen, with
rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles; she had no complexion to
speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and a pair of men’s
’lastic-sides several sizes too large for her. She was “studying
for a school-teacher;” that was the height of the ambition of local
youth. Brook was studying her.

He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its place all
right, but the top one had got jammed, and it stuck as though it was spiked. He
worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it under his arm and tugged
it; but he might as well have pulled at one of the posts. Then he lifted the
loose end as high as he could, and let it fall—jumping back out of the
way at the same time; this loosened it, but when he lifted it again it slid so
easily and far into its socket that the other end came out and fell, barking
Brook’s knee. He swore a little, then tackled the rail again; he had the
same trouble as before with the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he
turned away, rubbing his knee.

Lizzie hadn’t smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while.

“Did you hurt your knee?” she asked, without emotion.

“No. The rail did.”

She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore.

He replied rather briefly in the negative.

“They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up,” she remarked,
after some more reflection.

Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead. Half-way
down the sidling was a clump of saplings, with a big log lying amongst them.
Here Brook paused. “We’ll sit down for a while and have a
rest,” said he. “Sit down, Lizzie.”

She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile. She sat
with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the ridge, which was
growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and so did the rest of the
scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hid the scenery altogether.
Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about. The silence between them did
not seem awkward, somehow; but it didn’t suit him just then, and so
presently he broke it.

“Well, I must go to-morrow.”

“Must you?”

“Yes.”

She thought awhile, and then she asked him if he was glad to go.

“Well, I don’t know. Are you sorry, Lizzie?”

She thought a good long while, and then she said she was.

He moved closer to the girl, and suddenly slipped his arm round her waist. She
did not seem agitated; she still gazed dreamily at the line of ridges, but her
head inclined slightly towards him.

“Lizzie, did you ever love anyone?”—then anticipating the
usual reply—“except, of course, your father and mother, and all
that sort of thing.” Then, abruptly: “I mean did you ever have a
sweetheart?”

She reflected, so as to be sure; then she said she hadn’t. Long pause,
and he, the city man, breathed hard—not the girl. Suddenly he moved
nervously, and said:

“Lizzie—Lizzie! Do you know what love means?”

She pondered over this for some minutes, as a result of which she said she
thought that she did.

“Lizzie! Do you think you can love me?”

She didn’t seem able to find an answer to that. So he caught her to him
in both arms, and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. She was agitated
now—he had some complexion now; she struggled to her feet, trembling.

“We must go now,” she said quickly. “They will be waiting for
tea.”

He stood up before her, and held her there by both hands.

“There is plenty of time. Lizzie—”

“Mis-ter Br-o-o-k-er! Li-i-z-zee-e-e! Come ter yer tea-e-e!” yelled
a boy from the house.

“We must really go now.”

“Oh, they can wait a minute. Lizzie, don’t be
frightened”—bending his head—“Lizzie, put your arms
round my neck and kiss me—now. Do as I tell you, Lizzie—they cannot
see us,” and he drew her behind a bush. “Now, Lizzie.”

She obeyed just as a frightened child might.

“We must go now,” she panted, breathless from such an embrace.

“Lizzie, you will come for a walk with me after tea?”

“I don’t know—I can’t promise. I don’t think it
would be right. Aunt mightn’t like me to.”

“Never mind aunt. I’ll fix her. We’ll go for a walk over to
the school-teacher’s place. It will be bright moonlight.”

“I don’t like to promise. My father and mother might
not—”

“Why, what are you frightened of? What harm is there in it?” Then,
softly, “Promise, Lizzie.”

“Promise, Lizzie.”

She was hesitating.

“Promise, Lizzie. I’m going away to-morrow—might never see
you again. You will come, Lizzie? It will be our last talk together. Promise,
Lizzie…. Oh, then, if you don’t like to, I won’t press you….
Will you come, or no?”

“Ye-es.”

“One more, and I’ll take you home.”

It was nearly dark.

Brook was moved to get up early next morning and give the girl a hand with the
cows. There were two rickety bails in the yard. He had not forgotten how to
milk, but the occupation gave him no pleasure—it brought the past near
again.

Now and then he would turn his face, rest his head against the side of the cow,
and watch Lizzie at her work; and each time she would, as though in obedience
to an influence she could not resist, turn her face to him—having noted
the pause in his milking. There was a wonder in her expression—as if
something had come into her life which she could not realize—curiosity in
his.

When the spare pail was full, he would follow her with it to the little bark
dairy; and she held out the cloth which served as a strainer whilst he poured
the milk in, and, as the last drops went through, their mouths would come
together.

He carried the slop-buckets to the pigsty for her, and helped to poddy (hand
feed) a young calf. He had to grip the calf by the nape of the neck, insert a
forefinger in its mouth, and force its nose down into an oil-drum full of skim
milk. The calf sucked, thinking it had a teat; and so it was taught to drink.
But calves have a habit, born of instinct, of butting the udders with their
noses, by way of reminding their mothers to let down the milk; and so this calf
butted at times, splashing sour milk over Brook, and barking his wrist against
the sharp edge of the drum. Then he would swear a little, and Lizzie would
smile sadly and gravely.

Brook did not go away that day, nor the next, but he took the coach on the
third day thereafter. He and Lizzie found a quiet corner to say good-bye in.
She showed some emotion for the first time, or, perhaps, the second—maybe
the third time—in that week of her life. They had been out together in
the moonlight every evening. (Brook had been fifteen years in cities.) They had
scarcely looked at each other that morning—and scarcely spoken.

He looked back as the coach started and saw her sitting inside the big kitchen
window. She waved her hand—hopelessly it seemed. She had rolled up her
sleeve, and to Brook the arm seemed strangely white and fair above the line of
sunburn round the wrist. He hadn’t noticed it before. Her face seemed
fairer too, but, perhaps, it was only the effect of light and shade round that
window.

He looked back again, as the coach turned the corner of the fence, and was just
in time to see her bury her face in her hands with a passionate gesture which
did not seem natural to her.

Brook reached the city next evening, and, “after hours,” he
staggered in through a side entrance to the lighted parlour of a private bar.

They say that Lizzie broke her heart that year, but, then, the world does not
believe in such things nowadays.

BOARD AND RESIDENCE

One o’clock on Saturday. The unemployed’s one o’clock on
Saturday! Nothing more can be done this week, so you drag yourself wearily and
despairingly “home,” with the cheerful prospect of a penniless
Saturday afternoon and evening and the long horrible Australian-city Sunday to
drag through. One of the landlady’s clutch—and she is an old
hen—opens the door, exclaims:

“Oh, Mr Careless!” and grins. You wait an anxious minute, to
postpone the disappointment which you feel by instinct is coming, and then ask
hopelessly whether there are any letters for you.

“No, there’s nothing for you, Mr Careless.” Then in answer to
the unspoken question, “The postman’s been, but there’s
nothing for you.”

You hang up your hat in the stuffy little passage, and start upstairs, when,
“Oh, Mr Careless, mother wants to know if you’ve had yer
dinner.”

You haven’t, but you say you have. You are empty enough inside, but the
emptiness is filled up, as it were, with the wrong sort of hungry
vacancy—gnawing anxiety. You haven’t any stomach for the warm,
tasteless mess which has been “kep’ ’ot” for you in a
cold stove. You feel just physically tired enough to go to your room, lie down
on the bed, and snatch twenty minutes’ rest from that terrible unemployed
restlessness which, you know, is sure to drag you to your feet to pace the room
or tramp the pavement even before your bodily weariness has nearly left you. So
you start up the narrow, stuffy little flight of steps call the
“stairs.” Three small doors open from the landing—a square
place of about four feet by four. The first door is yours; it is open,
and—

Decided odour of bedroom dust and fluff, damped and kneaded with cold
soap-suds. Rear view of a girl covered with a damp, draggled, dirt-coloured
skirt, which gapes at the waistband from the “body,” disclosing a
good glimpse of soiled stays (ribs burst), and yawns behind over a decidedly
dirty white petticoat, the slit of which last, as she reaches forward and backs
out convulsively, half opens and then comes together in an unsatisfactory,
startling, tantalizing way, and allows a hint of a red flannel under-something.
The frayed ends of the skirt lie across a hopelessly-burst pair of
elastic-sides which rest on their inner edges—toes out—and jerk
about in a seemingly undecided manner. She is damping and working up the
natural layer on the floor with a piece of old flannel petticoat dipped
occasionally in a bucket which stands by her side, containing about a quart of
muddy water. She looks round and exclaims, “Oh, did you want to come in,
Mr Careless?” Then she says she’ll be done in a minute; furthermore
she remarks that if you want to come in you won’t be in her road. You
don’t—you go down to the
dining-room—parlour—sitting-room—-nursery—and stretch
yourself on the sofa in the face of the painfully-evident disapproval of the
landlady.

You have been here, say, three months, and are only about two weeks behind. The
landlady still says, “Good morning, Mr Careless,” or “Good
evening, Mr Careless,” but there is an unpleasant accent on the
“Mr,” and a still more unpleasantly pronounced stress on the
“morning” or “evening.” While your money lasted you
paid up well and regularly—sometimes in advance—and dined out most
of the time; but that doesn’t count now.

Ten minutes pass, and then the landlady’s disapproval becomes manifest
and aggressive. One of the little girls, a sharp-faced little larrikiness, who
always wears a furtive grin of cunning—it seems as though it were born
with her, and is perhaps more a misfortune than a fault—comes in and says
please she wants to tidy up.

So you get up and take your hat and go out again to look for a place to rest
in—to try not to think.

You wish you could get away up-country. You also wish you were dead.

The landlady, Mrs Jones, is a widow, or grass-widow, Welsh, of course, and
clannish; flat face, watery grey eyes, shallow, selfish, ignorant, and a
hypocrite unconsciously—by instinct.

But the worst of it is that Mrs Jones takes advantage of the situation to
corner you in the passage when you want to get out, or when you come in tired,
and talk. It amounts to about this: She has been fourteen years in this street,
taking in boarders; everybody knows her; everybody knows Mrs Jones; her poor
husband died six years ago (God rest his soul); she finds it hard to get a
living these times; work, work, morning, noon, and night (talk, talk, talk,
more likely). “Do you know Mr Duff of the Labour Bureau?” He has
known her family for years; a very nice gentleman—a very nice gentleman
indeed; he often stops at the gate to have a yarn with her on his way to the
office (he must be hard up for a yarn). She doesn’t know hardly nobody in
this street; she never gossips; it takes her all her time to get a living; she
can’t be bothered with neighbours; it’s always best to keep to
yourself and keep neighbours at a distance. Would you believe it, Mr Careless,
she has been two years in this house and hasn’t said above a dozen words
to the woman next door; she’d just know her by sight if she saw her; as
for the other woman she wouldn’t know her from a crow. Mr Blank and Mrs
Blank could tell you the same…. She always had gentlemen staying with her;
she never had no cause to complain of one of them except once; they always
treated her fair and honest. Here follows story about the exception; he, I
gathered, was a journalist, and she could never depend on him. He seemed, from
her statements, to have been decidedly erratic in his movements, mode of life
and choice of climes. He evidently caused her a great deal of trouble and
anxiety, and I felt a kind of sneaking sympathy for his memory. One young
fellow stayed with her five years; he was, etc. She couldn’t be hard on
any young fellow that gets out of work; of course if he can’t get it he
can’t pay; she can’t get blood out of a stone; she couldn’t
turn him out in the street. “I’ve got sons of my own, Mr Careless,
I’ve got sons of my own.”… She is sure she always does her best
to make her boarders comfortable, and if they want anything they’ve only
got to ask for it. The kettle is always on the stove if you want a cup of tea,
and if you come home late at night and want a bit of supper you’ve only
got to go to the safe (which of us would dare?). She never locks it, she never
did…. And then she begins about her wonderful kids, and it goes on hour after
hour. Lord! it’s enough to drive a man mad.

We were recommended to this place on the day of our arrival by a young dealer
in the furniture line, whose name was Moses—and he looked like it, but we
didn’t think of that at the time. He had Mrs Jones’s card in his
window, and he left the shop in charge of his missus and came round with us at
once. He assured us that we couldn’t do better than stay with her. He
said she was a most respectable lady, and all her boarders were decent young
fellows-gentlemen; she kept everything scrupulously clean, and kept the best
table in town, and she’d do for us (washing included) for eighteen
shillings per week; she generally took the first week in advance. We asked him
to have a beer—for the want of somebody else to ask—and after that
he said that Mrs Jones was a kind, motherly body, and understood young fellows;
and that we’d be even more comfortable than in our own home; that
we’d be allowed to do as we liked—she wasn’t particular; she
wouldn’t mind it a bit if we came home late once in a way—she was
used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellows enjoying themselves. We
afterwards found out that he got so much on every boarder he captured. We also
found out—after paying in advance—-that her gentlemen generally
sent out their white things to be done; she only did the coloured things, so we
had to pay a couple of bob extra a week to have our “biled” rags
and collars sent out and done; and after the first week they bore sad evidence
of having been done on the premises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid
all the same. And, good Lord! if she keeps the best table in town, we are
curious to see the worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table
in front of your chair a cold plate, with a black something—God knows
what it looks like—in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped
off the inside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm grey
slush called a “cup of tea.” Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef
or boiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds, of which
the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen’s egg, the smallest that
of a bantam’s, and the middle one in between, and which eat soggy and
have no taste to speak of, save that they are a trifle bitter; a dab of
unhealthy-looking green something, which might be either cabbage leaves or
turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The whole mess is lukewarm, including the
water—it would all be better cold. Tea: A thin slice of the aforesaid
alleged roast or mutton, and the pick of about six thin slices of stale
bread—evidently cut the day before yesterday. This is the way Mrs Jones
“does” for us for eighteen shillings a week. The bread gave out at
tea-time this evening, and a mild financial boarder tapped his plate with his
knife, and sent the bread plate out to be replenished. It came back with
one slice on it.

The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the landlady
that he’ll have to shift next week—it is too far to go to work, he
cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go, he says; he is
very comfortable here, but it can’t be helped; anyway, as soon as he can
get work nearer, he’ll come back at once; also (oh, what cowards men are
when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could shift and take a house
down at the other end of the town. She says (at least here are some fragments
of her gabble which we caught and shorthanded): “Well, I’m very
sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorry indeed; but of course if you must go,
you must. Of course you can’t be expected to walk that distance every
morning, and you mustn’t be getting to work late, and losing your
place… Of course we could get breakfast an hour earlier if… well, as I said
before, I’m sorry to lose you and, indeed… You won’t forget to
come and see us… glad to see you at any time… Well, any way, if you ever
want to come back, you know, your bed will be always ready for you, and
you’ll be treated just the same, and made just as comfortable—you
won’t forget that” (he says he won’t); “and you
won’t forget to come to dinner sometimes” (he says he won’t);
“and, of course… You know I always try… Don’t forget to drop in
sometimes… Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent young
fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you’ll be sure to send
him to me, will you?” (He says he will.) “Well, of course, Mr
Sampson, etc., etc., etc., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,
and-so-on,…” It’s enough to give a man rats.

He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless
convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.

This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to break away
and take to the bush.

HIS COLONIAL OATH

I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was
tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was
working on his father’s farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my
face—and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture “So poor
old Mr B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”

“My oath!” he replied.

“He was a good old sort.”

“My oath!”

“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn’t it?”

His oath (colonial).

“Poor old Mr B. died awfully sudden, didn’t he?”

He looked up the hill, and said: “My oath!”

Then he added: “My blooming oath!”

I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuck my hands
in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: “It’s blanky
hot to-day. I don’t know how you blanky blanks stand such blank weather!
It’s blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock;
ain’t it?” Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter,
and pretended to chew. He replied:

“My oath!”

The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, he came to
the rescue with:

“He finished me, yer know.”

“Finished? How? Who?”

He looked down towards the river, thought (if he did think) and said:
“Finished me edyercation, yer know.”

“Oh! you mean Mr B.?”

“My oath—he finished me first-rate.”

“He turned out a good many scholars, didn’t he?”

“My oath! I’m thinkin’ about going down to the trainin’
school.”’

“You ought to—I would if I were you.”

“My oath!”

“Those were good old times,” I hazarded, “you remember the
old bark school?”

He looked away across the sidling, and was evidently getting uneasy. He shifted
about, and said:

“Well, I must be goin’.”

“I suppose you’re pretty busy now?”

“My oath! So long.”

“Well, good-bye. We must have a yarn some day.”

“My oath!”

He got away as quickly as he could.

I wonder whether he was changed after all—or, was it I? A man does
seem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eight or ten
years.

A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE

“Does Arvie live here, old woman?”

“Why?”

“Strike me dead! carn’t yer answer a civil queschin?”

“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or
I’ll send for a policeman.”

“Blarst the cops! D’yer think I cares for ’em? Fur two pins
I’d fetch a push an’ smash yer ole shanty about yer
ears—y’ole cow! I only arsked if Arvie lived here! Holy
Mosis! carn’t a feller ask a civil queschin?”

“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”

“My oath! Don’t he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my
way to do him a good turn; an’ now I’m sorry I come—damned if
I ain’t—to be barracked like this, an’ shoved down my own
throat. (Pause) I want to tell Arvie that if he don’t come ter
work termorrer, another bloke’ll collar his job. I wouldn’t like to
see a cove collar a cove’s job an’ not tell a bloke about it.
What’s up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”

“Arvie is dead!”

“Christ! (Pause) Garn! What-yer-giv’n-us? Tell Arvie Bill
Anderson wants-ter see him.”

“My God! haven’t I got enough trouble without a young wretch like
you coming to torment me? For God’s sake go away and leave me alone!
I’m telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last
night.”

“My oath!”

The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down
Jones’s Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said “Swelp me
Gord! I’m sorry, mum. I didn’t know. How was I to know you
wasn’t havin’ me?”

He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head,
tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear, and just
then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his attention. He turned
the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole; then he raised the foot to his
left knee, caught the ankle in a very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather
critically, as though calculating how long it would last. After which he spat
desperately at the pavement, and said:

“Kin I see him?”

He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who’s-afraid kind
of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.

He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty—so
familiar to his class—and then directed his gaze to where the body lay on
the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the coffin
with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the
coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would fit.

The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill came and
stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his pocket, and laid
the palm on Arvie’s ice-cold forehead.

“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as
though ashamed of his weakness, he said:

“There wasn’t no post mortem, was there?”

“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day
before—there was no post mortem.”

“I thought there wasn’t none,” said Bill, “because a
man that’s been post mortemed always looks as if he’d been hurt. My
father looked right enough at first—just as if he was
restin’—but after they’d had him opened he looked as if
he’d been hurt. No one else could see it, but I could. How old was
Arvie?”

“Eleven.”’

“I’m twelve—goin’ on for thirteen. Arvie’s
father’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So’s mine. Died at his work, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So’d mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his
heart!”

“Yes.”

“So’d mine; ain’t it rum? You scrub offices an’ wash,
don’t yer?”

“Yes.”

“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin’,
don’t yer, these times?”

“My God, yes! God only knows what I’ll do now my poor boy’s
gone. I generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when
that’s done I’ve got to start my day’s work, washing. And
then I find it hard to make both ends meet.”

“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was
brought home?”

“Ah, my God! Yes. I’ll never forget it till my dying day. My poor
husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days before
he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”

“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: ‘Yer
husband’s dead, mum,’ he says; ‘he dropped off all of a
suddint,’ and mother said, ‘My God! my God!’ just like that,
and went off.”

“Poor soul! poor soul! And—now my Arvie’s gone. Whatever will
me and the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish
I was under the turf.”

“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It’s no use frettin’
over what’s done.”

He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and
regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at Arvie
again.

“You should ha’ tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.

“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”

“He wasn’t very strong.”

“No, he was not, poor boy.”

“I thought he wasn’t. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers:
they didn’t give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work
all the time, and he didn’t have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a
rise, lest he’d be sacked. He couldn’t fight, an’ the boys
used to tease him; they’d wait outside the shop to have a lark with
Arvie. I’d like to see ’em do it to me. He couldn’t fight;
but then, of course, he wasn’t strong. They don’t bother me while
I’m strong enough to heave a rock; but then, of course, it wasn’t
Arvie’s fault. I s’pose he had pluck enough, if he hadn’t the
strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a fatherly and lenient eye.

“My God!” she cried, “if I’d known this, I’d
sooner have starved than have my poor boy’s life tormented out of him in
such a place. He never complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never
complained! Poor little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”

“He never told yer?”

“No—never a word.”

“My oath! You don’t say so! P’raps he didn’t want to
let you know he couldn’t hold his own; but that wasn’t his fault, I
s’pose. Y’see, he wasn’t strong.”

An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he regarded it
with critical interest for awhile:

“We’ve got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones’s
Alley wunst—in that house over there. How d’yer like livin’
in Jones’s Alley?”

“I don’t like it at all. I don’t like having to bring my
children up where there are so many bad houses; but I can’t afford to go
somewhere else and pay higher rent.”

“Well, there is a good many night-shops round here. But
then,” he added, reflectively, “you’ll find them everywheres.
An’, besides, the kids git sharp, an’ pick up a good deal in an
alley like this; ’twon’t do ’em no harm; it’s no use
kids bein’ green if they wanter get on in a city. You ain’t been in
Sydney all yer life, have yer?”

“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband thought
he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”’

“I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I’m thinking about
gittin’ a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where’s he goin’
ter be buried?”

“At Rookwood, to-morrow.”

“I carn’t come. I’ve got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin’
to bury him?”

“Yes.”

Bill looked at the body with increased respect. “Kin I do anythin’
for you? Now, don’t be frightened to arsk!”

“No. Thank you very much, all the same.”

“Well, I must be goin’; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum.”

“No trouble, my boy—mind the step.”

“It is gone. I’ll bring a piece of board round some night
and mend it for you, if you like; I’m learnin’ the
carpenterin’; I kin nearly make a door. Tell yer what, I’ll send
the old woman round to-night to fix up Arvie and lend yer a hand.”

“No, thank you. I suppose your mother’s got work and trouble
enough; I’ll manage.”

“I’ll send her round, anyway; she’s a bit rough, but
she’s got a soft gizzard; an’ there’s nothin’ she
enjoys better than fixin’ up a body. Good-bye, mum.”

“Good-bye, my child.”

He paused at the door, and said:

“I’m sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I’m sorry. S’long,
an’ thank yer.”

An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great brimming
eyes. He patted it on the head and said “Keep yer pecker up, young
’un!”

IN A WET SEASON

It was raining—“general rain.”

The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of scrub and
wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which seemed even more
dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only thing which
might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would be the ghost of a
funeral—a city funeral with plain hearse and string of cabs—going
very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the scrub on the other. Sky
like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas, save for the tufts of coarse
grass sticking up out of the water; scrub indescribably dismal—everything
damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.

Somewhere along here we saw a swagman’s camp—a square of calico
stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick in
front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew by
instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small,
hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his hands behind
him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo warming itself and
shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a while. We saw two or three
similar camps further on, forming a temporary suburb of Byrock.

The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt hats;
one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and patiently
dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some fair enslavers
from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque season, now over. They
got into another carriage. We were glad when the bell rang.

The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling away
from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart enough to
bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a low-spirited
dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seemingly to keep his front
paws in his master’s last footprint. The traveller’s body was bent
well forward from the hips up; his long arms—about six inches through his
coat sleeves—hung by his sides like the arms of a dummy, with a billy at
the end of one and a bag at the end of the other; but his head was thrown back
against the top end of the swag, his hat-brim rolled up in front, and we saw a
ghastly, beardless face which turned neither to the right nor the left as the
train passed him.

After a long while we closed our book, and looking through the window, saw a
hawker’s turn-out which was too sorrowful for description.

We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw a
teamster’s camp: three or four wagons covered with tarpaulins which hung
down in the mud all round and suggested death. A long, narrow man, in a long,
narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quickly along the road
past the camp. A sort of cattle-dog glided silently and swiftly out from under
a wagon, “heeled” the man, and slithered back without explaining.
Here the scene vanished.

We remember stopping—for an age it seemed—at half a dozen
straggling shanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten
weather-board pub, with a low, dripping veranda, and three wretchedly forlorn
horses hanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knew
that there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety bar
inside—or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured water
ran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty froth
whenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in an
overcoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over the
horse’s rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him—hanging
up his weary, hungry little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar; and
we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: “’Ello, Tom!
’Ow are yer poppin’ up?”’

The train stopped (for about a year) within a mile of the next station.
Trucking-yards in the foreground, like any other trucking-yard along the line;
they looked drearier than usual, because the rain had darkened the posts and
rails. Small plain beyond, covered with water and tufts of grass. The
inevitable, God-forgotten “timber,” black in the distance; dull,
grey sky and misty rain over all. A small, dark-looking flock of sheep was
crawling slowly in across the flat from the unknown, with three men on
horse-back zigzagging patiently behind. The horses just moved—that was
all. One man wore an oilskin, one an old tweed overcoat, and the third had a
three-bushel bag over his head and shoulders.

Had we returned an hour later, we should have seen the sheep huddled together
in a corner of the yard, and the three horses hanging up outside the local
shanty.

We stayed at Nyngan—which place we refrain from sketching—for a few
hours, because the five trucks of cattle of which we were in charge were
shunted there, to be taken on by a very subsequent goods train. The Government
allows one man to every five trucks in a cattle-train. We shall pay our fare
next time, even if we have not a shilling left over and above. We had haunted
local influence at Comanavadrink for two long, anxious, heart-breaking weeks
ere we got the pass; and we had put up with all the indignities, the
humiliation—in short, had suffered all that poor devils suffer whilst
besieging Local Influence. We only thought of escaping from the bush.

The pass said that we were John Smith, drover, and that we were available for
return by ordinary passenger-train within two days, we think—or words in
that direction. Which didn’t interest us. We might have given the pass
away to an unemployed in Orange, who wanted to go out back, and who begged for
it with tears in his eyes; but we didn’t like to injure a poor fool who
never injured us—who was an entire stranger to us. He didn’t know
what Out Back meant.

Local Influence had given us a kind of note of introduction to be delivered to
the cattle-agent at the yards that morning; but the agent was not
there—only two of his satellites, a Cockney colonial-experience man, and
a scrub-town clerk, both of whom we kindly ignore. We got on without the note,
and at Orange we amused ourself by reading it. It said:

“Dear Old Man—Please send this beggar on; and I hope he’ll be
landed safely at Orange—or—or wherever the cattle
go—yours,—-”

We had been led to believe that the bullocks were going to Sydney. We took no
further interest in those cattle.

After Nyngan the bush grew darker and drearier; and the plains more like
ghastly oceans; and here and there the “dominant note of Australian
scenery” was accentuated, as it were, by naked, white, ring-barked trees
standing in the water and haunting the ghostly surroundings.

We spent that night in a passenger compartment of a van which had been
originally attached to old No. 1 engine. There was only one damp cushion in the
whole concern. We lent that to a lady who travelled for a few hours in the
other half of the next compartment. The seats were about nine inches wide and
sloped in at a sharp angle to the bare matchboard wall, with a bead on the
outer edge; and as the cracks had become well caulked with the grease and dirt
of generations, they held several gallons of water each. We scuttled one,
rolled ourself in a rug, and tried to sleep; but all night long overcoated and
comfortered bushmen would get in, let down all the windows, and then get out
again at the next station. Then we would wake up frozen and shut the windows.

We dozed off again, and woke at daylight, and recognized the ridgy gum-country
between Dubbo and Orange. It didn’t look any drearier than the country
further west—because it couldn’t. There is scarcely a part of the
country out west which looks less inviting or more horrible than any other
part.

The weather cleared, and we had sunlight for Orange, Bathurst, the Blue
Mountains, and Sydney. They deserve it; also as much rain as they need.

“RATS”

“Why, there’s two of them, and they’re having a fight! Come
on.”’

It seemed a strange place for a fight—that hot, lonely, cotton-bush
plain. And yet not more than half a mile ahead there were apparently two men
struggling together on the track.

The three travellers postponed their smoke-ho and hurried on. They were
shearers—a little man and a big man, known respectively as
“Sunlight” and “Macquarie,” and a tall, thin, young
jackeroo whom they called “Milky.”

“I wonder where the other man sprang from? I didn’t see him
before,” said Sunlight.

“He muster bin layin’ down in the bushes,” said Macquarie.
“They’re goin’ at it proper, too. Come on! Hurry up and see
the fun!”

They hurried on.

“It’s a funny-lookin’ feller, the other feller,” panted
Milky. “He don’t seem to have no head. Look! he’s
down—they’re both down! They must ha’ clinched on the ground.
No! they’re up an’ at it again…. Why, good Lord! I think the
other’s a woman!”

“My oath! so it is!” yelled Sunlight. “Look! the
brute’s got her down again! He’s kickin’ her. Come on, chaps;
come on, or he’ll do for her!”

They dropped swags, water-bags and all, and raced forward; but presently
Sunlight, who had the best eyes, slackened his pace and dropped behind. His
mates glanced back at his face, saw a peculiar expression there, looked ahead
again, and then dropped into a walk.

They reached the scene of the trouble, and there stood a little withered old
man by the track, with his arms folded close up under his chin; he was dressed
mostly in calico patches; and half a dozen corks, suspended on bits of string
from the brim of his hat, dangled before his bleared optics to scare away the
flies. He was scowling malignantly at a stout, dumpy swag which lay in the
middle of the track.

“Well, old Rats, what’s the trouble?” asked Sunlight.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” answered the old man, without looking
round. “I fell out with my swag, that’s all. He knocked me down,
but I’ve settled him.”

“But look here,” said Sunlight, winking at his mates, “we saw
you jump on him when he was down. That ain’t fair, you know.”

“But you didn’t see it all,” cried Rats, getting excited.
“He hit me down first! And look here, I’ll fight him again
for nothing, and you can see fair play.”

They talked awhile; then Sunlight proposed to second the swag, while his mate
supported the old man, and after some persuasion, Milky agreed, for the sake of
the lark, to act as time-keeper and referee.

Rats entered into the spirit of the thing; he stripped to the waist, and while
he was getting ready the travellers pretended to bet on the result.

Macquarie took his place behind the old man, and Sunlight up-ended the swag.
Rats shaped and danced round; then he rushed, feinted, ducked, retreated,
darted in once more, and suddenly went down like a shot on the broad of his
back. No actor could have done it better; he went down from that imaginary blow
as if a cannon-ball had struck him in the forehead.

Milky called time, and the old man came up, looking shaky. However, he got in a
tremendous blow which knocked the swag into the bushes.

Several rounds followed with varying success.

The men pretended to get more and more excited, and betted freely; and Rats did
his best. At last they got tired of the fun, Sunlight let the swag lie after
Milky called time, and the jackaroo awarded the fight to Rats. They pretended
to hand over the stakes, and then went back for their swags, while the old man
put on his shirt.

Then he calmed down, carried his swag to the side of the track, sat down on it
and talked rationally about bush matters for a while; but presently he grew
silent and began to feel his muscles and smile idiotically.

“Can you len’ us a bit o’ meat?” said he suddenly.

They spared him half a pound; but he said he didn’t want it all, and cut
off about an ounce, which he laid on the end of his swag. Then he took the lid
off his billy and produced a fishing-line. He baited the hook, threw the line
across the track, and waited for a bite. Soon he got deeply interested in the
line, jerked it once or twice, and drew it in rapidly. The bait had been rubbed
off in the grass. The old man regarded the hook disgustedly.

“Look at that!” he cried. “I had him, only I was in such a
hurry. I should ha’ played him a little more.”

Next time he was more careful. He drew the line in warily, grabbed an imaginary
fish and laid it down on the grass. Sunlight and Co. were greatly interested by
this time.

“Wot yer think o’ that?” asked Rats. “It weighs thirty
pound if it weighs an ounce! Wot yer think o’ that for a cod? The
hook’s half-way down his blessed gullet!”

He caught several cod and a bream while they were there, and invited them to
camp and have tea with him. But they wished to reach a certain shed next day,
so—after the ancient had borrowed about a pound of meat for
bait—they went on, and left him fishing contentedly.

But first Sunlight went down into his pocket and came up with half a crown,
which he gave to the old man, along with some tucker. “You’d best
push on to the water before dark, old chap,” he said, kindly.

When they turned their heads again, Rats was still fishing but when they looked
back for the last time before entering the timber, he was having another row
with his swag; and Sunlight reckoned that the trouble arose out of some lies
which the swag had been telling about the bigger fish it caught.

MITCHELL: A CHARACTER SKETCH

It was a very mean station, and Mitchell thought he had better go himself and
beard the overseer for tucker. His mates were for waiting till the overseer
went out on the run, and then trying their luck with the cook; but the
self-assertive and diplomatic Mitchell decided to go.

“Good day,” said Mitchell.

“Good day,” said the manager.

“It’s hot,” said Mitchell.

“Yes, it’s hot.”

“I don’t suppose,” said Mitchell; “I don’t
suppose it’s any use asking you for a job?”

“Naw.”

“Well, I won’t ask you,” said Mitchell, “but I
don’t suppose you want any fencing done?”

“Naw.”

“Nor boundary-riding’?”

“Naw.”

“You ain’t likely to want a man to knock round?”

“Naw.”

“I thought not. Things are pretty bad just now.”

“Na—yes—they are.”

“Ah, well; there’s a lot to be said on the squatter’s side as
well as the men’s. I suppose I can get a bit of rations?”

“Ye-yes.” (Shortly)—“Wot d’yer
want?”

“Well, let’s see; we want a bit of meat and flour—I think
that’s all. Got enough tea and sugar to carry us on.”

“All right. Cook! have you got any meat?”

“No!”

To Mitchell: “Can you kill a sheep?”

“Rather!”

To the cook: “Give this man a cloth and knife and steel, and let him go
up to the yard and kill a sheep.” (To Mitchell) “You can take a
fore-quarter and get a bit of flour.”

Half an hour later Mitchell came back with the carcass wrapped in the cloth.

“Here yer are; here’s your sheep,” he said to the cook.
“That’s all right; hang it in there. Did you take a
forequarter?”’

“No.”

“Well, why didn’t you? The boss told you to.”

“I didn’t want a fore-quarter. I don’t like it. I took a
hind-quarter.”

So he had.

The cook scratched his head; he seemed to have nothing to say. He thought about
trying to think, perhaps, but gave it best. It was too hot and he was out of
practice.

“Here, fill these up, will you?” said Mitchell. “That’s
the tea-bag, and that’s the sugar-bag, and that’s the
flour-bag.” He had taken them from the front of his shirt.

“Don’t be frightened to stretch ’em a little, old man.
I’ve got two mates to feed.”

The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knew what he
was doing. Mitchell talked all the time.

“Thank you,” said he—“got a bit of
baking-powder?”

“Ye-yes, here you are.”

“Thank you. Find it dull here, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, pretty dull. There’s a bit of cooked beef and some
bread and cake there, if you want it!”

“Thanks,” said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an old
pillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. “I
s’pose you find it dull round here.”

“Yes, pretty dull.”

“No one to talk to much?” “No, not many.”

“Tongue gets rusty?”

“Ye—es, sometimes.”

“Well, so long, and thank yer.”

“So long,” said the cook (he nearly added “thank yer”).

“Well, good day; I’ll see you again.”

“Good day.”

Mitchell shouldered his spoil and left.

The cook scratched his head; he had a chat with the overseer afterwards, and
they agreed that the traveller was a bit gone.

But Mitchell’s head wasn’t gone—not much: he had been round a
bit—that was all.

THE BUSH UNDERTAKER

“Five Bob!”

The old man shaded his eyes and peered through the dazzling glow of that
broiling Christmas Day. He stood just within the door of a slab-and-bark hut
situated upon the bank of a barren creek; sheep-yards lay to the right, and a
low line of bare, brown ridges formed a suitable background to the scene.

“Five Bob!” shouted he again; and a dusty sheep-dog rose wearily
from the shaded side of the but and looked inquiringly at his master, who
pointed towards some sheep which were straggling from the flock.

“Fetch ’em back,” he said confidently.

The dog went off, and his master returned to the interior of the hut.

“We’ll yard ’em early,” he said to himself; “the
super won’t know. We’ll yard ’em early, and have the
arternoon to ourselves.”

“We’ll get dinner,” he added, glancing at some pots on the
fire. “I cud do a bit of doughboy, an’ that theer boggabri’ll
eat like tater-marrer along of the salt meat.” He moved one of the black
buckets from the blaze. “I likes to keep it jist on the sizzle,” he
said in explanation to himself; “hard bilin’ makes it
tough—I’ll keep it jist a-simmerin’.”

Here his soliloquy was interrupted by the return of the dog.

“All right, Five Bob,” said the hatter, “dinner’ll be
ready dreckly. Jist keep yer eye on the sheep till I calls yer; keep ’em
well rounded up, an’ we’ll yard ’em afterwards and have a
holiday.”

This speech was accompanied by a gesture evidently intelligible, for the dog
retired as though he understood English, and the cooking proceeded.

“I’ll take a pick an’ shovel with me an’ root up that
old blackfellow,” mused the shepherd, evidently following up a recent
train of thought; “I reckon it’ll do now. I’ll put in the
spuds.”

The last sentence referred to the cooking, the first to a blackfellow’s
grave about which he was curious.

“The sheep’s a-campin’,” said the soliloquizer,
glancing through the door. “So me an’ Five Bob’ll be able to
get our dinner in peace. I wish I had just enough fat to make the pan siss;
I’d treat myself to a leather-jacket; but it took three weeks’
skimmin’ to get enough for them theer doughboys.”

In due time the dinner was dished up; and the old man seated himself on a
block, with the lid of a gin-case across his knees for a table. Five Bob
squatted opposite with the liveliest interest and appreciation depicted on his
intelligent countenance.

Dinner proceeded very quietly, except when the carver paused to ask the dog how
some tasty morsel went with him, and Five Bob’s tail declared that it
went very well indeed.

“Here y’are, try this,” cried the old man, tossing him a
large piece of doughboy. A click of Five Bob’s jaws and the dough was
gone.

“Clean into his liver!” said the old man with a faint smile. He
washed up the tinware in the water the duff had been boiled in, and then, with
the assistance of the dog, yarded the sheep.

This accomplished, he took a pick and shovel and an old sack, and started out
over the ridge, followed, of course, by his four-legged mate. After tramping
some three miles he reached a spur, running out from the main ridge. At the
extreme end of this, under some gum-trees, was a little mound of earth, barely
defined in the grass, and indented in the centre as all blackfellows’
graves were.

He set to work to dig it up, and sure enough, in about half an hour he bottomed
on payable dirt.

When he had raked up all the bones, he amused himself by putting them together
on the grass and by speculating as to whether they had belonged to black or
white, male or female. Failing, however, to arrive at any satisfactory
conclusion, he dusted them with great care, put them in the bag, and started
for home.

He took a short cut this time over the ridge and down a gully which was full of
ring-barked trees and long white grass. He had nearly reached its mouth when a
great greasy black goanna clambered up a sapling from under his feet and looked
fightable.

“Dang the jumpt-up thing!” cried the old man. “It ’gin
me a start!”

At the foot of the sapling he espied an object which he at first thought was
the blackened carcass of a sheep, but on closer examination discovered to be
the body of a man; it lay with its forehead resting on its hands, dried to a
mummy by the intense heat of the western summer.

“Me luck’s in for the day and no mistake!” said the shepherd,
scratching the back of his head, while he took stock of the remains. He picked
up a stick and tapped the body on the shoulder; the flesh sounded like leather.
He turned it over on its side; it fell flat on its back like a board, and the
shrivelled eyes seemed to peer up at him from under the blackened wrists.

He stepped back involuntarily, but, recovering himself, leant on his stick and
took in all the ghastly details.

There was nothing in the blackened features to tell aught of name or race, but
the dress proclaimed the remains to be those of a European. The old man caught
sight of a black bottle in the grass, close beside the corpse. This set him
thinking. Presently he knelt down and examined the soles of the dead
man’s blucher boots, and then, rising with an air of conviction,
exclaimed: “Brummy! by gosh!—busted up at last!

“I tole yer so, Brummy,” he said impressively, addressing the
corpse. “I allers told yer as how it ’ud be—an’ here
y’are, you thundering jumpt-up cuss-o’-God fool. Yer cud earn
more’n any man in the colony, but yer’d lush it all away. I allers
sed as how it ’ud end, an’ now yer kin see fur y’self.

“I spect yer was a-comin’ t’ me t’ get fixt up
an’ set straight agin; then yer was a-goin’ to swear off, same as
yer ’allers did; an’ here y’are, an’ now I expect
I’ll have t’ fix yer up for the last time an’ make yer
decent, for ’twon’t do t’ leave yer alyin’ out here
like a dead sheep.”

He picked up the corked bottle and examined it. To his great surprise it was
nearly full of rum.

“Well, this gits me,” exclaimed the old man; “me luck’s
in, this Christmas, an’ no mistake. He must ’a’ got the jams
early in his spree, or he wouldn’t be a-making for me with near a
bottleful left. Howsomenever, here goes.”

Looking round, his eyes lit up with satisfaction as he saw some bits of bark
which had been left by a party of strippers who had been getting bark there for
the stations. He picked up two pieces, one about four and the other six feet
long, and each about two feet wide, and brought them over to the body. He laid
the longest strip by the side of the corpse, which he proceeded to lift on to
it.

“Come on, Brummy,” he said, in a softer tone than usual, “ye
ain’t as bad as yer might be, considerin’ as it must be three good
months since yer slipped yer wind. I spect it was the rum as preserved yer. It
was the death of yer when yer was alive, an’ now yer dead, it preserves
yer like—like a mummy.”

Then he placed the other strip on top, with the hollow side
downwards—thus sandwiching the defunct between the two
pieces—removed the saddle-strap, which he wore for a belt, and buckled it
round one end, while he tried to think of something with which to tie up the
other.

“I can’t take any more strips off my shirt,” he said,
critically examining the skirts of the old blue overshirt he wore. “I
might get a strip or two more off, but it’s short enough already.
Let’s see; how long have I been a-wearin’ of that shirt; oh, I
remember, I bought it jist two days afore Five Bob was pupped. I can’t
afford a new shirt jist yet; howsomenever, seein’ it’s Brummy,
I’ll jist borrow a couple more strips and sew ’em on agen when I
git home.”

He up-ended Brummy, and placing his shoulder against the middle of the lower
sheet of bark, lifted the corpse to a horizontal position; then, taking the bag
of bones in his hand, he started for home.

“I ain’t a-spendin’ sech a dull Christmas arter all,”
he reflected, as he plodded on; but he had not walked above a hundred yards
when he saw a black goanna sidling into the grass.

“That’s another of them theer dang things!” he exclaimed.
“That’s two I’ve seed this mornin’.”

Presently he remarked: “Yer don’t smell none too sweet, Brummy. It
must ’a’ been jist about the middle of shearin’ when yer
pegged out. I wonder who got yer last cheque. Shoo! theer’s another black
goanner—theer must be a flock of ’em.”

He rested Brummy on the ground while he had another pull at the bottle, and,
before going on, packed the bag of bones on his shoulder under the body, and he
soon stopped again.

“The thunderin’ jumpt-up bones is all skew-whift,” he said.
“’Ole on, Brummy, an’ I’ll fix
’em”—and he leaned the dead man against a tree while he
settled the bones on his shoulder, and took another pull at the bottle.

About a mile further on he heard a rustling in the grass to the right, and,
looking round, saw another goanna gliding off sideways, with its long snaky
neck turned towards him.

This puzzled the shepherd considerably, the strangest part of it being that
Five Bob wouldn’t touch the reptile, but slunk off with his tail down
when ordered to “sick ’em.”

“Theer’s sothin’ comic about them theer goanners,” said
the old man at last. “I’ve seed swarms of grasshoppers an’
big mobs of kangaroos, but dang me if ever I seed a flock of black goanners
afore!”

On reaching the hut the old man dumped the corpse against the wall, wrong end
up, and stood scratching his head while he endeavoured to collect his muddled
thoughts; but he had not placed Brummy at the correct angle, and, consequently,
that individual fell forward and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with
the iron toes of his blucher boots.

The shock sobered him. He sprang a good yard, instinctively hitching up his
moleskins in preparation for flight; but a backward glance revealed to him the
true cause of this supposed attack from the rear. Then he lifted the body,
stood it on its feet against the chimney, and ruminated as to where he should
lodge his mate for the night, not noticing that the shorter sheet of bark had
slipped down on the boots and left the face exposed.

“I spect I’ll have ter put yer into the chimney-trough for the
night, Brummy,” said he, turning round to confront the corpse. “Yer
can’t expect me to take yer into the hut, though I did it when yer was in
a worse state than—Lord!”

The shepherd was not prepared for the awful scrutiny that gleamed on him from
those empty sockets; his nerves received a shock, and it was some time before
he recovered himself sufficiently to speak.

“Now, look a-here, Brummy,” said he, shaking his finger severely at
the delinquent, “I don’t want to pick a row with yer; I’d do
as much for yer an’ more than any other man, an’ well yer knows it;
but if yer starts playin’ any of yer jumpt-up pranktical jokes on me, and
a-scarin’ of me after a-humpin’ of yer ’ome, by the
’oly frost I’ll kick yer to jim-rags, so I will.”

This admonition delivered, he hoisted Brummy into the chimney-trough, and with
a last glance towards the sheep-yards, he retired to his bunk to have, as he
said, a snooze.

He had more than a snooze, however, for when he woke, it was dark, and the
bushman’s instinct told him it must be nearly nine o’clock.

He lit a slush-lamp and poured the remainder of the rum into a pannikin; but,
just as he was about to lift the draught to his lips, he heard a peculiar
rustling sound overhead, and put the pot down on the table with a slam that
spilled some of the precious liquor.

Five Bob whimpered, and the old shepherd, though used to the weird and dismal,
as one living alone in the bush must necessarily be, felt the icy breath of
fear at his heart.

He reached hastily for his old shot-gun, and went out to investigate. He walked
round the but several times and examined the roof on all sides, but saw
nothing. Brummy appeared to be in the same position.

At last, persuading himself that the noise was caused by possums or the wind,
the old man went inside, boiled his billy, and, after composing his nerves
somewhat with a light supper and a meditative smoke, retired for the night. He
was aroused several times before midnight by the same mysterious sound
overhead, but, though he rose and examined the roof on each occasion by the
light of the rising moon, he discovered nothing.

At last he determined to sit up and watch until daybreak, and for this purpose
took up a position on a log a short distance from the hut, with his gun laid in
readiness across his knee.

After watching for about an hour, he saw a black object coming over the
ridge-pole. He grabbed his gun and fired. The thing disappeared. He ran round
to the other side of the hut, and there was a great black goanna in violent
convulsions on the ground.

Then the old man saw it all. “The thunderin’ jumpt-up thing has
been a-havin’ o’ me,” he exclaimed. “The same
cuss-o’-God wretch has a-follered me ’ome, an’ has been
a-havin’ its Christmas dinner off of Brummy, an’ a-hauntin’
o’ me into the bargain, the jumpt-up tinker!”

As there was no one by whom he could send a message to the station, and the old
man dared not leave the sheep and go himself, he determined to bury the body
the next afternoon, reflecting that the authorities could disinter it for
inquest if they pleased.

So he brought the sheep home early and made arrangements for the burial by
measuring the outer casing of Brummy and digging a hole according to those
dimensions.

“That ’minds me,” he said. “I never rightly knowed
Brummy’s religion, blest if ever I did. Howsomenever, there’s one
thing sartin—none o’ them theer pianer-fingered parsons is
a-goin’ ter take the trouble ter travel out inter this God-forgotten part
to hold sarvice over him, seein’ as how his last cheque’s blued.
But, as I’ve got the fun’ral arrangements all in me own hands,
I’ll do jestice to it, and see that Brummy has a good comfortable
buryin’—and more’s unpossible.”

“It’s time yer turned in, Brum,” he said, lifting the body
down.

He carried it to the grave and dropped it into one corner like a post. He
arranged the bark so as to cover the face, and, by means of a piece of
clothes-line, lowered the body to a horizontal position. Then he threw in an
armful of gum-leaves, and then, very reluctantly, took the shovel and dropped
in a few shovelfuls of earth.

“An’ this is the last of Brummy,” he said, leaning on his
spade and looking away over the tops of the ragged gums on the distant range.

This reflection seemed to engender a flood of memories, in which the old man
became absorbed. He leaned heavily upon his spade and thought.

“Arter all,” he murmured sadly, “arter all—it were
Brummy.

“Brummy,” he said at last. “It’s all over now;
nothin’ matters now—nothin’ didn’t ever matter,
nor—nor don’t. You uster say as how it ’ud be all right
termorrer” (pause); “termorrer’s come, Brummy—come fur
you—it ain’t come fur me yet, but—it’s
a-comin’.”

He threw in some more earth.

“Yer don’t remember, Brummy, an’ mebbe yer don’t want
to remember—I don’t want to remember—but—well,
but, yer see that’s where yer got the pull on me.”

He shovelled in some more earth and paused again.

The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his master and
then into the grave.

“Theer oughter be somethin’ sed,” muttered the old man;
“’tain’t right to put ’im under like a dog. Theer
oughter be some sort o’ sarmin.” He sighed heavily in the listening
silence that followed this remark and proceeded with his work. He filled the
grave to the brim this time, and fashioned the mound carefully with his spade.
Once or twice he muttered the words, “I am the rassaraction.” As he
laid the tools quietly aside, and stood at the head of the grave, he was
evidently trying to remember the something that ought to be said. He removed
his hat, placed it carefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides
and a little to the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnity
that greatly disturbed Five Bob: “Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus,
Brummy—an’—an’ in hopes of a great an’ gerlorious
rassaraction!”

He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passed his
hand wearily over his forehead—but only as one who was tired and felt the
heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools, and walked back to the hut.

And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush—the nurse and tutor
of eccentric minds, the home of the weird.

OUR PIPES

The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a sort of
tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were camped—Jack
Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, very thick and very dark.
The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on edge on the horizon of the
plain, with the top turned towards us and a lot of old rags and straw burning
inside.

We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day—swagmen
know what that means. We reached the water about two hours “after dark
“—swagmen know what that means. We didn’t sit down at once
and rest—we hadn’t rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if
we sat down we wouldn’t want to get up again in a hurry—that, if we
did, our leg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would “draw”
like red-hot wire’s. You see, we hadn’t been long on the track this
time—it was only our third day out. Swagmen will understand.

We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our beds and the
swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cooked meat and a few
johnny-cakes left, for we didn’t feel equal to cooking. We put the billy
of tea and our tucker-bags between the heads of our beds, and the pipes and
tobacco in the crown of an old hat, where we could reach them without having to
get up. Then we lay down on our stomachs and had a feed. We didn’t eat
much—we were too tired for that—but we drank a lot of tea. We gave
our calves time to tone down a bit; then we lit up and began to answer each
other. It got to be pretty comfortable, so long as we kept those unfortunate
legs of ours straight and didn’t move round much.

We cursed society because we weren’t rich men, and then we felt better
and conversation drifted lazily round various subjects and ended in that of
smoking.

“How came to start smoking?” said Mitchell. “Let’s
see.” He reflected. “I started smoking first when I was about
fourteen or fifteen. I smoked some sort of weed—I forget the name of
it—but it wasn’t tobacco; and then I smoked cigarettes—not
the ones we get now, for those cost a penny each. Then I reckoned that, if I
could smoke those, I could smoke a pipe.”

He reflected.

“We lived in Sydney then—Surry Hills. Those were different times;
the place was nearly all sand. The old folks were alive then, and we were all
at home, except Tom.”

He reflected.

“Ah, well!… Well, one evening I was playing marbles out in front of our
house when a chap we knew gave me his pipe to mind while he went into a
church-meeting. The little church was opposite—a ‘chapel’
they called it.”

He reflected.

“The pipe was alight. It was a clay pipe and niggerhead tobacco. Mother
was at work out in the kitchen at the back, washing up the tea-things, and,
when I went in, she said: ‘You’ve been smoking!’

“Well, I couldn’t deny it—I was too sick to do so, or care
much, anyway.

“‘Give me that pipe!’ she said.

“I said I hadn’t got it.

“‘Give—me—that—pipe!’ she said.

“I said I hadn’t got it.

“‘Where is it?’ she said.

“‘Jim Brown’s got it,’ I said, ‘it’s
his.’

“‘Then I’ll give it to Jim Brown,’ she said; and she
did; though it wasn’t Jim’s fault, for he only gave it to me to
mind. I didn’t smoke the pipe so much because I wanted to smoke a pipe
just then, as because I had such a great admiration for Jim.”

Mitchell reflected, and took a look at the moon. It had risen clear and had got
small and cold and pure-looking, and had floated away back out amongst the
stars.

“I felt better towards morning, but it didn’t cure me—being
sick and nearly dead all night, I mean. I got a clay pipe and tobacco, and the
old lady found it and put it in the stove. Then I got another pipe and tobacco,
and she laid for it, and found it out at last; but she didn’t put the
tobacco in the stove this time—she’d got experience. I don’t
know what she did with it. I tried to find it, but couldn’t. I fancy the
old man got hold of it, for I saw him with a plug that looked very much like
mine.”

He reflected.

“But I wouldn’t be done. I got a cherry pipe. I thought it
wouldn’t be so easy to break if she found it. I used to plant the bowl in
one place and the stem in another because I reckoned that if she found one she
mightn’t find the other. It doesn’t look much of an idea now, but
it seemed like an inspiration then. Kids get rum ideas.”

He reflected.

“Well, one day I was having a smoke out at the back, when I heard her
coming, and I pulled out the stem in a hurry and put the bowl behind the
water-butt and the stem under the house. Mother was coming round for a dipper
of water. I got out of her way quick, for I hadn’t time to look innocent;
but the bowl of the pipe was hot and she got a whiff of it. She went sniffing
round, first on one side of the cask and then on the other, until she got on
the scent and followed it up and found the bowl. Then I had only the stem left.
She looked for that, but she couldn’t scent it. But I couldn’t get
much comfort out of that. Have you got the matches?

“Then I gave it best for a time and smoked cigars. They were the safest
and most satisfactory under the circumstances, but they cost me two shillings a
week, and I couldn’t stand it, so I started a pipe again and then mother
gave in at last. God bless her, and God forgive me, and us all—we deserve
it. She’s been at rest these seventeen long years.”

Mitchell reflected.

“And what did your old man do when he found out that you were
smoking?” I asked.

“The old man?”

He reflected.

“Well, he seemed to brighten up at first. You see, he was sort of
pensioned off by mother and she kept him pretty well inside his income….
Well, he seemed to sort of brighten up—liven up—when he found out
that I was smoking.”

“Did he? So did my old man, and he livened me up, too. But what did your
old man do—what did he say?”

“Well,” said Mitchell, very slowly, “about the first thing he
did was to ask me for a fill.”

He reflected.

“Ah! many a solemn, thoughtful old smoke we had together on the
quiet—the old man and me.”

He reflected.

“Is your old man dead, Mitchell?” I asked softly. “Long
ago—these twelve years,” said Mitchell.

COMING ACROSS

We were delayed for an hour or so inside Sydney Heads, taking passengers from
the Oroya, which had just arrived from England and anchored off
Watson’s Bay. An Adelaide boat went alongside the ocean liner, while we
dropped anchor at a respectable distance. This puzzled some of us until one of
the passengers stopped an ancient mariner and inquired. The sailor jerked his
thumb upwards, and left. The passengers stared aloft till some of them got the
lockjaw in the back of their necks, and then another sailor suggested that we
had yards to our masts, while the Adelaide boat had not.

It seemed a pity that the new chums for New Zealand didn’t have a chance
to see Sydney after coming so far and getting so near. It struck them that way
too. They saw Melbourne, which seemed another injustice to the old city.
However, nothing matters much nowadays, and they might see Sydney in happier
times.

They looked like new chums, especially the “furst clarsters,” and
there were two or three Scotsmen among them who looked like Scots, and talked
like it too; also an Irishman. Great Britain and Ireland do not seem to be
learning anything fresh about Australia. We had a yarn with one of these new
arrivals, and got talking about the banks. It turned out that he was a radical.
He spat over the side and said:

“It’s a something shame the way things is carried on! Now, look
here, a banker can rob hundreds of wimmin and children an’ widders and
orfuns, and nothin’ is done to him; but if a poor man only embezzles a
shilling he gets transported to the colonies for life.” The
italics are ours, but the words were his.

We explained to this new chum that transportation was done away with long ago,
as far as Australia was concerned, that no more convicts were sent out
here—only men who ought to be; and he seemed surprised. He did not call
us a liar, but he looked as if he thought that we were prevaricating. We were
glad that he didn’t say so, for he was a bigger man. New chums are
generally more robust than Australians.

When we got through the Heads someone pointed to the wrong part of the cliff
and said:

“That’s where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

Shortly afterwards another man pointed to another wrong part of the cliffs and
observed incidentally:

“That’s where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

Pretty soon a third man came along and pointed to a third wrong part of the
cliff, and remarked casually:

“That’s where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

We moved aft and met the fourth mate, who jerked his thumb over his shoulder at
the cliffs in general, and muttered condescendingly:

“That’s where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

It was not long before a woman turned round and asked “Was that the place
where the Dunbar was wrecked, please?”

We said “Yes,” and she said “Lor,” and beckoned to a
friend.

We went for’ard and met an old sailor, who glared at us, jerked his thumb
at the coast and growled:

“That’s where the Dunbar went down.”

Then we went below; but we felt a slight relief when he said “went
down” instead of “was wrecked.”

It is doubtful whether a passenger boat ever cleared Sydney Heads since the
wild night of that famous wreck without someone pointing to the wrong part of
the cliffs, and remarking:

“That’s where the Dunbar was wrecked.”

The Dunbar fiend is inseparable from Australian coasting steamers.

We travelled second-class in the interests of journalism. You get more points
for copy in the steerage. It was a sacrifice; but we hope to profit by it some
day.

There were about fifty male passengers, including half a dozen New Zealand
shearers, two of whom came on board drunk—their remarks for the first
night mainly consisted of “gory.” “Gory” is part of the
Australian language now—a big part.

The others were chiefly tradesmen, labourers, clerks and bagmen, driven out of
Australia by the hard times there, and glad, no doubt, to get away. There was a
jeweller on board, of course, and his name was Moses or Cohen. If it
wasn’t it should have been—or Isaacs. His christian name was
probably Benjamin. We called him Jacobs. He passed away most of his time on
board in swopping watch lies with the other passengers and good-naturedly
spoiling their Waterburys.

One commercial traveller shipped with a flower in his buttonhole. His girl gave
it to him on the wharf, and told him to keep it till it faded, and then press
it. She was a barmaid. She thought he was “going saloon,” but he
came forward as soon as the wharf was out of sight. He gave the flower to the
stewardess, and told us about these things one moonlight night during the
voyage.

There was another—a well-known Sydney man—whose friends thought he
was going saloon, and turned up in good force to see him off. He spent his last
shilling “shouting,” and kept up his end of the pathetic little
farce out of consideration for the feelings of certain proud female relatives,
and not because he was “proud”—at least in that way. He stood
on a conspicuous part of the saloon deck and waved his white handkerchief until
Miller’s Point came between. Then he came forward where he belonged. But
he was proud—bitterly so. He had a flower too, but he did not give it to
the stewardess. He had it pressed, we think (for we knew him), and perhaps he
wears it now over the place where his heart used to be.

When Australia was fading from view we shed a tear, which was all we had to
shed; at least, we tried to shed a tear, and could not. It is best to be exact
when you are writing from experience.

Just as Australia was fading from view, someone looked through a glass, and
said in a sad, tired kind of voice that he could just see the place where the
Dunbar was wrecked.

Several passengers were leaning about and saying “Europe!
E-u-rope!” in agonized tones. None of them were going to Europe, and the
new chums said nothing about it. This reminds us that some people say
“Asia! Asia! Ak-kak-Asia!” when somebody spills the pepper. There
was a pepper-box without a stopper on the table in our cabin. The fact soon
attracted attention.

A new chum came along and asked us whether the Maoris were very bad round
Sydney. He’d heard that they were. We told him that we had never had any
trouble with them to speak of, and gave him another show.

“Did you ever hear of the wreck of the Dunbar?” we asked. He
said that he never “heerd tell” of it, but he had heerd of the
wreck of the Victoria.

We gave him best.

The first evening passed off quietly, except for the vinously-excited shearers.
They had sworn eternal friendship with a convivial dude from the saloon, and he
made a fine specimen fool of himself for an hour or so. He never showed his
nose for’ard again.

Now and then a passenger would solemnly seek the steward and have a beer. The
steward drew it out of a small keg which lay on its side on a shelf with a
wooden tap sticking out of the end of it—out of the end of the keg, we
mean. The beer tasted like warm but weak vinegar, and cost sixpence per small
glass. The bagman told the steward that he could not compliment him on the
quality of his liquor, but the steward said nothing. He did not even seem
interested—only bored. He had heard the same remark often before, no
doubt. He was a fat, solemn steward—not formal, but very
reticent—unresponsive. He looked like a man who had conducted a religious
conservative paper once and failed, and had then gone into the wholesale
produce line, and failed again, and finally got his present billet through the
influence of his creditors and two clergymen. He might have been a sociable
fellow, a man about town, even a gay young dog, and a radical writer before he
was driven to accept the editorship of the aforesaid periodical. He probably
came of a “good English family.” He was now, very likely, either a
rigid Presbyterian or an extreme freethinker. He thought a lot, anyway, and
looked as if he knew a lot too—too much for words, in fact.

We took a turn on deck before turning in, and heard two men arguing about the
way in which the Dunbar was wrecked.

The commercial travellers, the jeweller, and one or two new chums who were well
provided with clothing undressed deliberately and retired ostentatiously in
pyjamas, but there were others—men of better days—who turned in
either very early or very late, when the cabin was quiet, and slipped hurriedly
and furtively out of their clothes and between the blankets, as if they were
ashamed of the poverty of their underwear. It is well that the Lord can see
deep down into the hearts of men, for He has to judge them; it is well that the
majority of mankind cannot, because, if they could, the world would be
altogether too sorrowful to live in; and we do not think the angels can either,
else they would not be happy—if they could and were they would not be
angels any longer—they would be devils. Study it out on a slate.

We turned in feeling comfortably dismal, and almost wishing that we had gone
down with the Dunbar.

The intoxicated shearers and the dude kept their concert up till a late hour
that night—or, rather, a very early hour next morning; and at about
midnight they were reinforced by the commercial traveller and Moses, the
jeweller, who had been visiting acquaintances aft. This push was encouraged by
voices from various bunks, and enthusiastically barracked for by a
sandy-complexioned, red-headed comedian with twinkling grey eyes, who occupied
the berth immediately above our own.

They stood with their backs to the bunks, and their feet braced against the
deck, or lurched round, and took friendly pulls from whisky flasks, and
chyacked each other, and laughed, and blowed, and lied like—like
Australian bushmen; and occasionally they broke out into snatches of
song—and as often broke down. Few Englishmen know more than the first
verse, or two lines, of even their most popular song, and, where elevated
enough to think they can sing, they repeat the first verse over and over again,
with the wrong words, and with a sort of “Ta-ra-ra-rum-ti-tooral,
ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rum-ti, ta-ra-ra-rum-tum-ti-rum-rum-tum-ti-dee-e-e,” by
way of variation.

Presently—suddenly, it seemed to our drowsy senses—two of the
shearers and the bagman commenced arguing with drunken gravity and precision
about politics, even while a third bushman was approaching the climax of an
out-back yarn of many adjectives, of which he himself was the hero. The scraps
of conversation that we caught were somewhat as follow. We leave out most of
the adjectives.

First Voice: “Now, look here. The women will vote for men, not
principles. That’s why I’m against women voting. Now, just mark
my—-”

Third Voice (trying to finish yarn): “Hold on. Just wait till I tell yer.
Well, this bloomin’ bloke, he says—-”

Second Voice (evidently in reply to first): “Principles you mean, not
men. You’re getting a bit mixed, old man.” (Smothered chuckle from
comedian over our head.)

Third Voice (seeming to drift round in search of sympathy): “‘You
will!’ sez I. ‘Yes, I will,’ he sez. ‘Oh, you will,
will yer?’ I sez; and with that I—-”

Second Voice (apparently wandering from both subjects) “Blanker has
always stuck up for the workin’ man, an’ he’ll get in,
you’ll see. Why, he’s a bloomin’ workin’ man himself.
Me and Blanker—-”

Disgusted voice from a bunk: “Oh, that’s damn rot! We’ve had
enough of lumpers in parliament! Horny hands are all right enough, but we
don’t want any more blanky horny heads!”

Third Voice (threateningly): “Who’s talkin’ about ’orny
heads? That pitch is meant for us, ain’t it? Do you mean to say that
I’ve got a ’orny head?”

Here two men commenced snarling at each other, and there was some talk of
punching the causes of the dispute; but the bagman interfered, a fresh flask
was passed round, and some more eternal friendship sworn to.

We dozed off again, and the next time we were aware of anything the commercial
and Moses had disappeared, the rest were lying or sitting in their bunks, and
the third shearer was telling a yarn about an alleged fight he had at a shed
up-country; and perhaps he was telling it for the benefit of the dissatisfied
individual who made the injudicious remark concerning horny heads.

“So I said to the boss-over-the-board, ‘you’re a nice sort of
a thing,’ I sez. ‘Who are you talkin’ to?’ he says.
‘You, bless yer,’ I says. ‘Now, look here,’ he says,
‘you get your cheque and clear! ‘All right,’ I says,
‘you can take that!’ and I hauled off and landed him a beauty under
the butt of the listener. Then the boss came along with two blacklegs, but the
boys made a ring, and I laid out the blanks in just five minutes. Then I sez to
the boss, ‘That’s the sort of cove I am,’ I sez,
‘an’ now, if you—-”

But just here there came a deep, growling voice—seemingly from out of the
depths of the forehold—anyway, there came a voice, and it said:

“For the Lord’s sake give her a rest!”

The steward turned off the electricity, but there were two lanterns dimly
burning in our part of the steerage. It was a narrow compartment running across
the width of the boat, and had evidently been partitioned off from the top
floor of the hold to meet the emigration from Australia to New Zealand. There
were three tiers of bunks, two deep, on the far side, three rows of single
bunks on the other, and two at each end of the cabin, the top ones just under
the portholes.

The shearers had turned in “all standing;” two of them were lying
feet to feet in a couple of outside lower berths. One lay on his stomach with
his face turned outwards, his arm thrown over the side of the bunk, and his
knuckles resting on the deck, the other rested on the broad of his back with
his arm also hanging over the side and his knuckles resting on the floor. And
so they slept the sleep of the drunk.

A fair, girl-faced young Swiss emigrant occupied one of the top berths, with
his curly, flaxen head resting close alongside one of the lanterns that were
dimly burning, and an Anglo-foreign dictionary in his hand. His mate, or
brother, who resembled him in everything except that he had dark hair, lay
asleep alongside; and in the next berth a long consumptive-looking new chum sat
in his pyjamas, with his legs hanging over the edge, and his hands grasping the
sideboard, to which, on his right hand, a sort of tin-can arrangement was
hooked. He was staring intently at nothing, and seemed to be thinking very
hard.

We dozed off again, and woke suddenly to find our eyes wide open, and the young
Swiss still studying, and the jackaroo still sitting in the same position, but
with a kind of waiting expression on his face—a sort of expectant light
in his eyes. Suddenly he lurched for the can, and after awhile he lay back
looking like a corpse.

We slept again, and finally awoke to daylight and the clatter of plates. All
the bunks were vacated except two, which contained corpses, apparently.

Wet decks, and a round, stiff, morning breeze, blowing strongly across the
deck, abeam, and gustily through the open portholes. There was a dull grey sky,
and the sea at first sight seemed to be of a dark blue or green, but on closer
inspection it took a dirty slate colour, with splashes as of indigo in the
hollows. There was one of those near, yet far-away horizons.

About two-thirds of the men were on deck, but the women had not shown up
yet—nor did they show up until towards the end of the trip.

Some of the men were smoking in a sheltered corner, some walking up and down,
two or three trying to play quoits, one looking at the poultry, one standing
abaft the purser’s cabin with hands in the pockets of his long ragged
overcoat, watching the engines, and two more—carpenters—were
discussing a big cedar log, about five feet in diameter, which was lashed on
deck alongside the hatch.

While we were waiting for the Oroya some of the ship’s officers
came and had a consultation over this log and called up part of the crew, who
got some more ropes and a chain on to it. It struck us at the time that that
log would make a sensation if it fetched loose in rough weather. But there
wasn’t any rough weather.

The fore-cabin was kept clean; the assistant steward was good-humoured and
obliging; his chief was civil enough to freeze the Never-Never country; but the
bill of fare was monotonous.

During the afternoon a first-salooner made himself obnoxious by swelling round
for’ard. He was a big bull-necked “Britisher” (that word
covers it) with a bloated face, prominent gooseberry eyes, fore ’n’
aft cap, and long tan shoes. He seemed as if he’d come to see a
“zoo,” and was dissatisfied with it—had a fine contempt for
it, in fact, because it did not come up to other zoological gardens that he had
seen in London, and on the aw—continong and in
the—aw-er—aw—the States, dontcherknow. The
fellows reckoned that he ought to be “took down a peg”
(dontcherknow) and the sandy-complexioned comedian said he’d do it. So he
stepped softly up to the swell, tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and pointed
aft—holding his arm out like a pump handle and his forefinger rigid.

The Britisher’s face was a study; it was blank at first and then it went
all colours, and wore, in succession, every possible expression except a
pleasant one. He seemed bursting with indignation, but he did not
speak—could not, perhaps; and, as soon as he could detach his feet from
the spot to which they had been nailed in the first place by astonishment, he
stalked aft. He did not come to see the zoo any more.

The fellows in the fore-cabin that evening were growling about the bad quality
of the grub supplied.

Then the shearer’s volcano showed signs of activity. He shifted round,
spat impatiently, and said:

“You chaps don’t know what yer talkin’ about. You want
something to grumble about. You should have been out with me last year on the
Paroo in Noo South Wales. The meat we got there was so bad that it uster
travel!”

“What?”

“Yes! travel! take the track! go on the wallaby! The cockies over there
used to hang the meat up on the branches of the trees, and just shake it
whenever they wanted to feed the fowls. And the water was so bad that half a
pound of tea in the billy wouldn’t make no impression on the
colour—nor the taste. The further west we went the worse our meat got,
till at last we had to carry a dog-chain to chain it up at night. Then it got
worse and broke the chain, and then we had to train the blessed dogs to
shepherd it and bring it back. But we fell in with another chap with a bad old
dog—a downright knowing, thieving, old hard-case of a dog; and this dog
led our dogs astray—-demoralized them—corrupted their
morals—and so one morning they came home with the blooming meat inside
them, instead of outside—and we had to go hungry for breakfast.”

“You’d better turn in, gentlemen. I’m going to turn off the
light,” said the steward.

The yarn reminded the Sydney man of a dog he had, and he started some dog lies.

“This dog of mine,” he said, “knowed the way into the best
public-houses. If I came to a strange town and wanted a good drink, I’d
only have to say, ‘Jack, I’m dry,’ and he’d lead me all
right. He always knew the side entrances and private doors after hours, and
I—”

But the yarn did not go very well—it fell flat in fact. Then the
commercial traveller was taken bad with an anecdote. “That’s
nothing,” he said, “I had a black bag once that knew the way into
public-houses.”

“A what?”

“Yes. A black bag. A long black bag like that one I’ve got there in
my bunk. I was staying at a boarding-house in Sydney, and one of us used to go
out every night for a couple of bottles of beer, and we carried the bottles in
the bag; and when we got opposite the pub the front end of the bag would begin
to swing round towards the door. It was wonderful. It was just as if there was
a lump of steel in the end of the bag and a magnet in the bar. We tried it with
ever so many people, but it always acted the same. We couldn’t use that
bag for any other purpose, for if we carried it along the street it would make
our wrists ache trying to go into pubs. It twisted my wrist one time, and it
ain’t got right since—I always feel the pain in dull weather. Well,
one night we got yarning and didn’t notice how the time was going, and
forgot to go for the beer till it was nearly too late. We looked for the bag
and couldn’t find it—we generally kept it under a side-table, but
it wasn’t there, and before we were done looking, eleven o’clock
went. We sat down round the fire, feeling pretty thirsty, and were just
thinking about turning in when we heard a thump on the table behind us. We
looked round, and there was that bag with two full bottles of English ale in
it.

“Then I remembered that I’d left a bob in the bottom of the bag,
and—-”

The steward turned off the electric light.

There were some hundreds of cases of oranges stacked on deck, and made fast
with matting and cordage to the bulwarks. That night was very dark, and next
morning there was a row. The captain said he’d “give any man three
months that he caught at those oranges.”

“Wot, yer givin’ us?” said a shearer. “We don’t
know anything about yer bloomin’ oranges…. I seen one of the saloon
passengers moochin’ round for’ard last night. You’d better
search the saloon for your blarsted oranges, an’ don’t come round
tacklin’ the wrong men.”

It was not necessary to search our quarters, for the “offside”
steward was sweeping orange peel out of the steerage for three days thereafter.

And that night, just as we were about to fall asleep, a round, good-humoured
face loomed over the edge of the shelf above and a small, twinkling, grey eye
winked at us. Then a hand came over, gave a jerk, and something fell on our
nose. It was an orange. We sent a “thank you” up through the boards
and commenced hurriedly and furtively to stow away the orange. But the comedian
had an axe to grind—most people have—wanted to drop his peel
alongside our berth; and it made us uneasy because we did not want
circumstantial evidence lying round us if the captain chanced to come down to
inquire. The next man to us had a barney with the man above him about the same
thing. Then the peel was scattered round pretty fairly, or thrown into an empty
bunk, and no man dared growl lest he should come to be regarded as a
blackleg—a would-be informer.

The men opposite the door kept a look out; and two Australian jokers sat in the
top end berth with their legs hanging over and swinging contentedly, and the
porthole open ready for a swift and easy disposal of circumstantial evidence on
the first alarm. They were eating a pineapple which they had sliced and
extracted in sections from a crate up on deck. They looked so chummy, and so
school-boyishly happy and contented, that they reminded us of the days long
ago, when we were so high.

The chaps had talk about those oranges on deck next day. The commercial
traveller said we had a right to the oranges, because the company didn’t
give us enough to eat. He said that we were already suffering from insufficient
proper nourishment, and he’d tell the doctor so if the doctor came on
board at Auckland. Anyway, it was no sin to rob a company.

“But then,” said our comedian, “those oranges, perhaps, were
sent over by a poor, struggling orange grower, with a wife and family to keep,
and he’ll have to bear the loss, and a few bob might make a lot of
difference to him. It ain’t right to rob a poor man.”

This made us feel doubtful and mean, and one or two got uncomfortable and
shifted round uneasily. But presently the traveller came to the rescue. He said
that no doubt the oranges belonged to a middleman, and the middleman was the
curse of the country. We felt better.

Towards the end of the trip the women began to turn up. There were five grass
widows, and every female of them had a baby. The Australian marries young and
poor; and, when he can live no longer in his native land, he sells the
furniture, buys a steerage ticket to New Zealand or Western Australia, and
leaves his wife with her relatives or friends until he earns enough money to
send for her. Four of our women were girl-wives, and mostly pretty. One little
handful of a thing had a fine baby boy, nearly as big as herself, and she
looked so fragile and pale, and pretty and lonely, and had such an appealing
light in her big shadowed brown eyes, and such a pathetic droop at the corners
of her sweet little mouth, that you longed to take her in your manly
arms—baby and all—and comfort her.

The last afternoon on high seas was spent in looking through glasses for the
Pinnacles, off North Cape. And, as we neared the land, the commercial traveller
remarked that he wouldn’t mind if there was a wreck now—provided we
all got saved. “We’d have all our names in the papers,” he
said. “Gallant conduct of the passengers and crew. Heroic rescue by Mr
So-and-so-climbing the cliffs with a girl under his arm, and all that sort of
thing.”

The chaps smiled a doleful smile, and turned away again to look at the Promised
Land. They had had no anxiety to speak of for the last two or three days; but
now they were again face to face with the cursed question, “How to make a
living.” They were wondering whether or no they would get work in New
Zealand, and feeling more doubtful about it than when they embarked.

Pity we couldn’t go to sea and sail away for ever, and never see land any
more—or, at least, not till better and brighter days—if they ever
come.

THE STORY OF MALACHI

Malachi was very tall, very thin, and very round-shouldered, and the sandiness
of his hair also cried aloud for an adjective. All the boys considered Malachi
the greatest ass on the station, and there was no doubt that he was an
awful fool. He had never been out of his native bush in all his life, excepting
once, when he paid a short visit to Sydney, and when he returned it was evident
that his nerves had received a shaking. We failed to draw one word out of
Malachi regarding his views on the city—to describe it was not in his
power, for it had evidently been something far beyond his comprehension. Even
after his visit had become a matter of history, if you were to ask him what he
thought of Sydney the dazed expression would come back into his face, and he
would scratch his head and say in a slow and deliberate manner, “Well,
there’s no mistake, it’s a caution.” And as such the city
remained, so far as Malachi’s opinion of it was concerned.

Malachi was always shabbily dressed, in spite of his pound a week and board,
and “When Malachi gets a new suit of clothes” was the expression
invariably used by the boys to fix a date for some altogether improbable event.
We were always having larks with Malachi, for we looked upon him as our
legitimate butt. He seldom complained, and when he did his remonstrance hardly
ever went beyond repeating the words, “Now, none of your pranktical
jokes!” If this had not the desired effect, and we put up some too
outrageous trick on him, he would content himself by muttering with sorrowful
conviction, “Well, there’s no mistake, it’s a caution.”

We were not content with common jokes, such as sewing up the legs of
Malachi’s trousers while he slept, fixing his bunk, or putting explosives
in his pipe—we aspired to some of the higher branches of the practical
joker’s art. It was well known that Malachi had an undying hatred for
words of four syllables and over, and the use of them was always sufficient to
forfeit any good opinions he might have previously entertained concerning the
user. “I hate them high-flown words,” he would say—“I
got a book at home that I could get them out of if I wanted them; but I
don’t.” The book referred to was a very dilapidated dictionary.
Malachi’s hatred for high-flown words was only equalled by his aversion
to the opposite sex; and, this being known, we used to write letters to him in
a feminine hand, threatening divers breach of promise actions, and composed in
the high-flown language above alluded to. We used to think this very funny, and
by these means we made his life a burden to him. Malachi put the most implicit
faith in everything we told him; he would take in the most improbable yarn
provided we preserved a grave demeanour and used no high-flown expressions. He
would indeed sometimes remark that our yarns were a caution, but that was all.

We played upon him the most gigantic joke of all during the visit of a certain
bricklayer, who came to do some work at the homestead. “Bricky” was
a bit of a phrenologist, and knew enough of physiognomy and human nature to
give a pretty fair delineation of character. He also went in for
spirit-rapping, greatly to the disgust of the two ancient housekeepers, who
declared that they’d have “no dalins wid him and his divil’s
worruk.”’

The bricklayer was from the first an object of awe to Malachi, who carefully
avoided him; but one night we got the butt into a room where the artisan was
entertaining the boys with a seance. After the table-rapping, during which
Malachi sat with uncovered head and awe-struck expression, we proposed that he
should have his bumps read, and before he could make his escape Malachi was
seated in a chair in the middle of the room and the bricklayer was running his
fingers over his head. I really believe that Malachi’s hair bristled
between the phrenologist’s fingers. Whenever he made a hit his staunch
admirer, “Donegal,” would exclaim “Look at that now!”
while the girls tittered and said, “Just fancy!” and from time to
time Malachi would be heard to mutter to himself, in a tone of the most intense
conviction, that, “without the least mistake it was a caution.”
Several times at his work the next day Malachi was observed to rest on his
spade, while he tilted his hat forward with one hand and felt the back of his
head as though he had not been previously aware of its existence.

We “ran” Malachi to believe that the bricklayer was mad on the
subject of phrenology, and was suspected of having killed several persons in
order to obtain their skulls for experimental purposes. We further said that he
had been heard to say that Malachi’s skull was a most extraordinary one,
and so we advised him to be careful.

Malachi occupied a hut some distance from the station, and one night, the last
night of the bricklayer’s stay, as Malachi sat smoking over the fire the
door opened quietly and the phrenologist entered. He carried a bag with a
pumpkin in the bottom of it, and, sitting down on a stool, he let the bag down
with a bump on the floor between his feet. Malachi was badly scared, but he
managed to stammer out—

“’Ello!” “’Ello!” said the phrenologist.

There was an embarrassing silence, which was at last broken by
“Bricky” saying “How are you gettin’ on,
Malachi?”

“Oh, jist right,” replied Malachi.

Nothing was said for a while, until Malachi, after fidgeting a good deal on his
stool, asked the bricklayer when he was leaving the station.

“Oh, I’m going away in the morning, early,” said he.
“I’ve jist been over to Jimmy Nowlett’s camp, and as I was
passing I thought I’d call and get your head.”

“What?”

“I come for your skull.

“Yes,” the phrenologist continued, while Malachi sat
horror-stricken; “I’ve got Jimmy Nowlett’s skull here,”
and he lifted the bag and lovingly felt the pumpkin—it must have weighed
forty pounds. “I spoilt one of his best bumps with the tomahawk. I had to
hit him twice, but it’s no use crying over spilt milk.” Here he
drew a heavy shingling-hammer out of the bag and wiped off with his sleeve
something that looked like blood. Malachi had been edging round for the door,
and now he made a rush for it. But the skull-fancier was there before him.

“Gor-sake you don’t want to murder me!” gasped Malachi.

“Not if I can get your skull any other way,” said Bricky.

“Oh!” gasped Malachi—and then, with a vague idea that it was
best to humour a lunatic, he continued, in a tone meant to be off-hand and
careless—“Now, look here, if yer only waits till I die you can have
my whole skelington and welcome.”

“Now Malachi,” said the phrenologist sternly, “d’ye
think I’m a fool? I ain’t going to stand any humbug. If yer acts
sensible you’ll be quiet, and it’ll soon be over, but if
yer—-”

Malachi did not wait to hear the rest. He made a spring for the back of the hut
and through it, taking down a large new sheet of stringy-bark in his flight.
Then he could be heard loudly ejaculating “It’s a caution!”
as he went through the bush like a startled kangaroo, and he didn’t stop
till he reached the station.

Jimmy Nowlett and I had been peeping through a crack in the same sheet of bark
that Malachi dislodged; it fell on us and bruised us somewhat, but it
wasn’t enough to knock the fun out of the thing.

When Jimmy Nowlett crawled out from under the bark he had to lie down on
Malachi’s bunk to laugh, and even for some time afterwards it was not
unusual for Jimmy to wake up in the’ night and laugh till we wished him
dead.

I should like to finish here, but there remains something more to be said about
Malachi.

One of the best cows at the homestead had a calf, about which she made a great
deal of fuss. She was ordinarily a quiet, docile creature, and, though somewhat
fussy after calving no one ever dreamed that she would injure anyone. It
happened one day that the squatter’s daughter and her intended husband, a
Sydney exquisite, were strolling in a paddock where the cow was. Whether the
cow objected to the masher or his lady love’s red parasol, or whether she
suspected designs upon her progeny, is not certain; anyhow, she went for them.
The young man saw the cow coming first, and he gallantly struck a bee-line for
the fence, leaving the girl to manage for herself. She wouldn’t have
managed very well if Malachi hadn’t been passing just then. He saw the
girl’s danger and ran to intercept the cow with no weapon but his hands.

It didn’t last long. There was a roar, a rush, and a cloud of dust, out
of which the cow presently emerged, and went scampering back to the bush in
which her calf was hidden.

We carried Malachi home and laid him on a bed. He had a terrible wound in the
groin, and the blood soaked through the bandages like water. We did all that
was possible for him, the boys killed the squatter’s best horse and
spoilt two others riding for a doctor, but it was of no use. In the last
half-hour of his life we all gathered round Malachi’s bed; he was only
twenty-two. Once he said:

“I wonder how mother’ll manage now?”

“Why, where’s your mother?” someone asked gently; we had
never dreamt that Malachi might have someone to love him and be proud of him.

“In Bathurst,” he answered wearily—“she’ll take
on awful, I ’spect, she was awful fond of me—we’ve been
pulling together this last ten years—mother and me—we wanted to
make it all right for my little brother Jim—poor Jim!”

“What’s wrong with Jim?” someone asked.

“Oh, he’s blind,” said Malachi “always was—we
wanted to make it all right for him agin time he grows up—I—I
managed to send home about—about forty pounds a year—we bought a
bit of ground, and—and—I think—I’m going now. Tell
’em, Harry—tell ’em how it was—”

I had to go outside then. I couldn’t stand it any more. There was a lump
in my throat and I’d have given anything to wipe out my share in the
practical jokes, but it was too late now.

Malachi was dead when I went in again, and that night the hat went round with
the squatter’s cheque in the bottom of it and we made it “all
right” for Malachi’s blind brother Jim.

TWO DOGS AND A FENCE

“Nothing makes a dog madder,” said Mitchell, “than to have
another dog come outside his fence and sniff and bark at him through the cracks
when he can’t get out. The other dog might be an entire stranger; he
might be an old chum, and he mightn’t bark—only sniff—but it
makes no difference to the inside dog. The inside dog generally starts it, and
the outside dog only loses his temper and gets wild because the inside dog has
lost his and got mad and made such a stinking fuss about nothing at all; and
then the outside dog barks back and makes matters a thousand times worse, and
the inside dog foams at the mouth and dashes the foam about, and goes at it
like a million steel traps.

“I can’t tell why the inside dog gets so wild about it in the first
place, except, perhaps, because he thinks the outside dog has taken him at a
disadvantage and is ‘poking it at him;’ anyway, he gets madder the
longer it lasts, and at last he gets savage enough to snap off his own tail and
tear it to bits, because he can’t get out and chew up that other dog;
and, if he did get out, he’d kill the other dog, or try to, even if it
was his own brother.

“Sometimes the outside dog only smiles and trots off; sometimes he barks
back good-humouredly; sometimes he only just gives a couple of disinterested
barks as if he isn’t particular, but is expected, because of his dignity
and doghood, to say something under the circumstances; and sometimes, if the
outside dog is a little dog, he’ll get away from that fence in a hurry on
the first surprise, or, if he’s a cheeky little dog, he’ll first
make sure that the inside dog can’t get out, and then he’ll have
some fun.

“It’s amusing to see a big dog, of the Newfoundland kind, sniffing
along outside a fence with a broad, good-natured grin on his face all the time
the inside dog is whooping away at the rate of thirty whoops a second, and
choking himself, and covering himself with foam, and dashing the spray through
the cracks, and jolting and jerking every joint in his body up to the last
joint in his tail.

“Sometimes the inside dog is a little dog, and the smaller he is the more
row he makes—but then he knows he’s safe. And, sometimes, as I said
before, the outside dog is a short-tempered dog who hates a row, and never
wants to have a disagreement with anybody—like a good many peaceful men,
who hate rows, and are always nice and civil and pleasant, in a nasty,
unpleasant, surly, sneering sort of civil way that makes you want to knock
their heads off; men who never start a row, but keep it going, and make it a
thousand times worse when it’s once started, just because they
didn’t start it—and keep on saying so, and that the other party
did. The short-tempered outside dog gets wild at the other dog for losing his
temper, and says:

“‘What are you making such a fuss about? What’s the matter
with you, anyway? Hey?’

“And the inside dog says:

“‘Who do you think you’re talking to? You—-!
I’ll——’ etc., etc., etc.

“Then the outside dog says:

“‘Why, you’re worse than a flaming old slut!’

“Then they go at it, and you can hear them miles off, like a Chinese
war—like a hundred great guns firing eighty blank cartridges a minute,
till the outside dog is just as wild to get inside and eat the inside dog as
the inside dog is to get out and disembowel him. Yet if those same two dogs
were to meet casually outside they might get chummy at once, and be the best of
friends, and swear everlasting mateship, and take each other home.”

JONES’S ALLEY

She lived in Jones’s Alley. She cleaned offices, washed, and nursed from
daylight until any time after dark, and filled in her spare time cleaning her
own place (which she always found dirty—in a “beastly filthy
state,” she called it—on account of the children being left in
possession all day), cooking, and nursing her own sick—for her family,
though small, was so in the two senses of the word, and sickly; one or another
of the children was always sick, but not through her fault. She did her own, or
rather the family washing, at home too, when she couldn’t do it by kind
permission, or surreptitiously in connection with that of her employers. She
was a haggard woman. Her second husband was supposed to be dead, and she, lived
in dread of his daily resurrection. Her eldest son was at large, but, not being
yet sufficiently hardened in misery, she dreaded his getting into trouble even
more than his frequent and interested appearances at home. She could buy off
the son for a shilling or two and a clean shirt and collar, but she
couldn’t purchase the absence of the father at any price—he
claimed what he called his “conzugal rights” as well as his board,
lodging, washing and beer. She slaved for her children, and nag-nag-nagged them
everlastingly, whether they were in the right or in the wrong, but they were
hardened to it and took small notice. She had the spirit of a bullock. Her
whole nature was soured. She had those “worse troubles” which she
couldn’t tell to anybody, but had to suffer in silence.

She also, in what she called her “spare time,” put new cuffs and
collar-bands on gentlemen’s shirts. The gentlemen didn’t live in
Jones’s Alley—they boarded with a patroness of the haggard woman;
they didn’t know their shirts were done there—had they known it,
and known Jones’s Alley, one or two of them, who were medical students,
might probably have objected. The landlady charged them just twice as much for
repairing their shirts as she paid the haggard woman, who, therefore, being
unable to buy the cuffs and collar-bands ready-made for sewing on, had no lack
of employment with which to fill in her spare time.

Therefore, she was a “respectable woman,” and was known in
Jones’s Alley as “Misses” Aspinall, and called so generally,
and even by Mother Brock, who kept “that place” opposite. There is
implied a world of difference between the “Mother” and the
“Misses,” as applied to matrons in Jones’s Alley; and this
distinction was about the only thing—always excepting the everlasting
“children”—that the haggard woman had left to care about, to
take a selfish, narrow-minded sort of pleasure in—if, indeed, she could
yet take pleasure, grim or otherwise, in anything except, perhaps, a good cup
of tea and time to drink it in.

Times were hard with Mrs Aspinall. Two coppers and two half-pence in her purse
were threepence to her now, and the absence of one of the half-pence made a
difference to her, especially in Paddy’s market—that eloquent
advertisement of a young city’s sin and poverty and rotten
wealth—on Saturday night. She counted the coppers as anxiously and
nervously as a thirsty dead-beat does. And her house was “falling down on
her” and her troubles, and she couldn’t get the landlord to do a
“han’stern” to it.

At last, after persistent agitation on her part (but not before a portion of
the plastered ceiling had fallen and severely injured one of her children) the
landlord caused two men to be sent to “effect necessary repairs” to
the three square, dingy, plastered holes—called “three rooms and a
kitchen”—for the privilege of living in which, and calling it
“my place,” she paid ten shillings a week.

Previously the agent, as soon as he had received the rent and signed the
receipt, would cut short her reiterated complaints—which he privately
called her “clack”—by saying that he’d see to it,
he’d speak to the landlord; and, later on, that he had spoken to
him, or could do nothing more in the matter—that it wasn’t his
business. Neither it was, to do the agent justice. It was his business to
collect the rent, and thereby earn the means of paying his own. He had to keep
a family on his own account, by assisting the Fat Man to keep his at the
expense of people—especially widows with large families, or women, in the
case of Jones’s Alley—who couldn’t afford it without being
half-starved, or running greater and unspeakable risks which
“society” is not supposed to know anything about.

So the agent was right, according to his lights. The landlord had recently
turned out a family who had occupied one of his houses for fifteen years,
because they were six weeks in arrears. He let them take their furniture, and
explained: “I wouldn’t have been so lenient with them only they
were such old tenants of mine.” So the landlord was always in the right
according to his lights.

But the agent naturally wished to earn his living as peacefully and as
comfortably as possible, so, when the accident occurred, he put the matter so
persistently and strongly before the landlord that he said at last:
“Well, tell her to go to White, the contractor, and he’ll send a
man to do what’s to be done; and don’t bother me any more.”

White had a look at the place, and sent a plasterer, a carpenter, and a
plumber. The plasterer knocked a bigger hole in the ceiling and filled it with
mud; the carpenter nailed a board over the hole in the floor; the plumber
stopped the leak in the kitchen, and made three new ones in worse places; and
their boss sent the bill to Mrs Aspinall.

She went to the contractor’s yard, and explained that the landlord was
responsible for the debt, not she. The contractor explained that he had seen
the landlord, who referred him to her. She called at the landlord’s
private house, and was referred through a servant to the agent. The agent was
sympathetic, but could do nothing in the matter—it wasn’t his
business; he also asked her to put herself in his place, which she
couldn’t, not being any more reasonable than such women are in such
cases. She let things drift, being powerless to prevent them from doing so; and
the contractor sent another bill, then a debt collector and then another bill,
then the collector again, and threatened to take proceedings, and finally took
them. To make matters worse, she was two weeks in arrears with the rent, and
the wood-and-coalman’s man (she had dealt with them for ten years) was
pushing her, as also were her grocers, with whom she had dealt for fifteen
years and never owed a penny before.

She waylaid the landlord, and he told her shortly that he couldn’t build
houses and give them away, and keep them in repair afterwards.

She sought for sympathy and found it, but mostly in the wrong places. It was
comforting, but unprofitable. Mrs Next-door sympathized warmly, and offered to
go up as a witness—she had another landlord. The agent sympathized
wearily, but not in the presence of witnesses—he wanted her to put
herself in his place. Mother Brock, indeed, offered practical assistance, which
offer was received in breathlessly indignant silence. It was Mother Brock who
first came to the assistance of Mrs Aspinall’s child when the plaster
accident took place (the mother being absent at the time), and when Mrs
Aspinall heard of it, her indignation cured her of her fright, and she declared
to Mrs Next-door that she would give “that woman”—meaning
Mother Brock—“in char-rge the instant she ever dared to put
her foot inside her (Mrs A.’s) respectable door-step again. She was a
respectable, honest, hard-working woman, and—-” etc.

Whereat Mother Brock laughed good-naturedly. She was a broad-minded bad woman,
and was right according to her lights. Poor Mrs A. was a respectable,
haggard woman, and was right according to her lights, and to Mrs
Next-door’s, perfectly so—they being friends—and vice
versa. None of them knew, or would have taken into consideration, the fact
that the landlord had lost all his money in a burst financial institution, and
half his houses in the general depression, and depended for food for his family
on the somewhat doubtful rents of the remainder. So they were all right
according to their different lights.

Mrs Aspinall even sought sympathy of “John,” the Chinaman (with
whom she had dealt for four months only), and got it. He also, in all
simplicity, took a hint that wasn’t intended. He said: “Al
li’. Pay bimeby. Nexy time Flyday. Me tlust.” Then he departed with
his immortalized smile. It would almost appear that he was
wrong—according to our idea of Chinese lights.

Mrs Aspinall went to the court—it was a small local court. Mrs Next-door
was awfully sorry, but she couldn’t possibly get out that morning. The
contractor had the landlord up as a witness. The landlord and the P.M. nodded
pleasantly to each other, and wished each other good morning…. Verdict for
plaintiff with costs… Next case!… “You mustn’t take up the time
of the court, my good woman.”.. “Now, constable!”…
“Arder in the court!”… “Now, my good woman,” said the
policeman in an undertone, “you must go out; there’s another case
on-come now.” And he steered her—but not unkindly—through the
door.

“My good woman” stood in the crowd outside, and looked wildly round
for a sympathetic face that advertised sympathetic ears. But others had their
own troubles, and avoided her. She wanted someone to relieve her bursting heart
to; she couldn’t wait till she got home.

Even “John’s” attentive ear and mildly idiotic expression
would have been welcome, but he was gone. He had been in court that
morning, and had won a small debt case, and had departed cheerfully, under the
impression that he lost it.

“Y’aw Mrs Aspinall, ain’t you?”

She started, and looked round. He was one of those sharp, blue or grey-eyed,
sandy or freckled complexioned boys-of-the-world whom we meet everywhere and at
all times, who are always going on towards twenty, yet never seem to get clear
out of their teens, who know more than most of us have forgotten, who
understand human nature instinctively—perhaps unconsciously—and are
instinctively sympathetic and diplomatic; whose satire is quick, keen, and
dangerous, and whose tact is often superior to that of many educated
men-of-the-world. Trained from childhood in the great school of poverty, they
are full of the pathos and humour of it.

“Don’t you remember me?”

“No; can’t say I do. I fancy I’ve seen your face before
somewhere.”

“I was at your place when little Arvie died. I used to work with him at
Grinder Brothers’, you know.”

“Oh, of course I remember you! What was I thinking about? I’ve had
such a lot of worry lately that I don’t know whether I’m on my head
or my heels. Besides, you’ve grown since then, and changed a lot.
You’re Billy—Billy—-”

“Billy Anderson’s my name.”

“Of course! To be sure! I remember you quite well.”

“How’ve you been gettin’ on, Mrs Aspinall?”

“Ah! Don’t mention it—nothing but worry and
trouble—nothing but worry and trouble. This grinding poverty! I’ll
never have anything else but worry and trouble and misery so long as I
live.”

“Do you live in Jones’s Alley yet?”

“Yes.”

“Not bin there ever since, have you?”

“No; I shifted away once, but I went back again. I was away nearly two
years.”

“I thought so, because I called to see you there once. Well, I’m
goin’ that way now. You goin’ home, Mrs Aspinall?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll go along with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Thanks. I’d be only too glad of company.”

“Goin’ to walk, Mrs Aspinall?” asked Bill, as the tram
stopped in their way.

“Yes. I can’t afford trams now—times are too hard.”

“Sorry I don’t happen to have no tickets on me!”

“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m well used to walking. I’d
rather walk than ride.”

They waited till the tram passed.

“Some people”—said Bill, reflectively, but with a tinge of
indignation in his tone, as they crossed the street—“some people
can afford to ride in trams.

“What’s your trouble, Mrs Aspinall—if it’s a fair thing
to ask?” said Bill, as they turned the corner.

This was all she wanted, and more; and when, about a mile later, she paused for
breath, he drew a long one, gave a short whistle, and said:

“Well, it’s red-hot!”

Thus encouraged, she told her story again, and some parts of it for the third
and fourth and even fifth time—and it grew longer, as our stories have a
painful tendency to do when we re-write them with a view to condensation.

But Bill heroically repeated that it was “red-hot.”

“And I dealt off the grocer for fifteen years, and the wood-and-coal man
for ten, and I lived in that house nine years last Easter Monday and never owed
a penny before,” she repeated for the tenth time.

“Well, that’s a mistake,” reflected Bill. “I never
dealt off nobody more’n twice in my life…. I heerd you was married
again, Mrs Aspinall—if it’s a right thing to ask?”

“Wherever did you hear that? I did get married again—to my
sorrow.”

“Then you ain’t Mrs Aspinall—if it’s a fair thing to
ask?”

“Oh, yes! I’m known as Mrs Aspinall. They all call me Mrs
Aspinall.”

“I understand. He cleared, didn’t he? Run away?”

“Well, yes—no—-he—-”

“I understand. He’s s’posed to be dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s red-hot! So’s my old man, and I hope he
don’t resurrect again.”

“You see, I married my second for the sake of my children.”

“That’s a great mistake,” reflected Bill. “My mother
married my step-father for the sake of me, and she’s never been done
telling me about it.”

“Indeed! Did your mother get married again?”

“Yes. And he left me with a batch of step-sisters and step-brothers to
look after, as well as mother; as if things wasn’t bad enough before. We
didn’t want no help to be pinched, and poor, and half-starved. I
don’t see where my sake comes in at all.”

“And how’s your mother now?”

“Oh, she’s all right, thank you. She’s got a hard time of it,
but she’s pretty well used to it.”

“And are you still working at Grinder Brothers’?”

“No. I got tired of slavin’ there for next to nothing. I got sick
of my step-father waitin’ outside for me on pay-day, with a dirty,
drunken, spieler pal of his waitin’ round the corner for him. There
wasn’t nothin’ in it. It got to be too rough altogether…. Blast
Grinders!”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Sellin’ papers. I’m always tryin’ to get a start in
somethin’ else, but I ain’t got no luck. I always come back to,
sellin’ papers.”

Then, after a thought, he added reflectively: “Blast papers!”

His present ambition was to drive a cart.

“I drove a cart twice, and once I rode a butcher’s horse. A bloke
worked me out of one billet, and I worked myself out of the other. I
didn’t know when I was well off. Then the banks went bust, and my last
boss went insolvent, and one of his partners went into Darlinghurst for
suicide, and the other went into Gladesville for being mad; and one day the
bailiff seized the cart and horse with me in it and a load of timber. So I went
home and helped mother and the kids to live on one meal a day for six months,
and keep the bum-bailiff out. Another cove had my news-stand.”

Then, after a thought “Blast reconstriction!”

“But you surely can’t make a living selling newspapers?”

“No, there’s nothin’ in it. There’s too many at it. The
blessed women spoil it. There’s one got a good stand down in George
Street, and she’s got a dozen kids sellin’—they can’t
be all hers-and then she’s got the hide to come up to my stand and sell
in front of me…. What are you thinkin’ about doin’, Mrs
Aspinall?”

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I really don’t know
what to do.”

And there still being some distance to go, she plunged into her tale of misery
once more, not forgetting the length of time she had dealt with her creditors.

Bill pushed his hat forward and walked along on the edge of the kerb.

“Can’t you shift? Ain’t you got no people or friends that you
can go to for a while?”

“Oh, yes; there’s my sister-in-law; she’s asked me times
without number to come and stay with her till things got better, and
she’s got a hard enough struggle herself, Lord knows. She asked me again
only yesterday.”

“Well, that ain’t too bad,” reflected Bill. “Why
don’t you go?”

“Well, you see, if I did they wouldn’t let me take my furniture,
and she’s got next to none.”

“Won’t the landlord let you take your furniture?”

“No, not him! He’s one of the hardest landlords in Sydney—the
worst I ever had.”

“That’s red-hot!… I’d take it in spite of him. He
can’t do nothin’.”

“But I daren’t; and even if I did I haven’t got a penny to
pay for a van.”

They neared the alley. Bill counted the flagstones, stepping from one to
another over the joints. “Eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one!” he
counted mentally, and came to the corner kerbing. Then he turned suddenly and
faced her.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” he said decidedly. “Can you
get your things ready by to-night? I know a cove that’s got a
cart.”

“But I daren’t. I’m afraid of the landlord.”

“The more fool you,” said Bill. “Well, I’m not afraid
of him. He can’t do nothin’. I’m not afraid of a landlady,
and that’s worse. I know the law. He can’t do nothin’. You
just do as I tell you.”

“I’d want to think over it first, and see my sister-in-law.”

“Where does your sister-’n-law live?”

“Not far.”

“Well, see her, and think over it—you’ve got plenty of time
to do it in—and get your things ready by dark. Don’t be frightened.
I’ve shifted mother and an aunt and two married sisters out of worse
fixes than yours. I’ll be round after dark, and bring a push to lend a
hand. They’re decent coves.”

“But I can’t expect your friend to shift me for nothing. I told you
I haven’t got a—-”

“Mrs Aspinall, I ain’t that sort of a bloke, neither is my chum,
and neither is the other fellows—’relse they wouldn’t be
friends of mine. Will you promise, Mrs Aspinall?”

“I’m afraid—I—I’d like to keep my few things now.
I’ve kept them so long. It’s hard to lose my few bits of
things—I wouldn’t care so much if I could keep the ironin’
table.”

“So you could, by law—it’s necessary to your living, but it
would cost more’n the table. Now, don’t be soft, Mrs Aspinall.
You’ll have the bailiff in any day, and be turned out in the end without
a rag. The law knows no ‘necessary.’ You want your furniture
more’n the landlord does. He can’t do nothin’. You can trust
it all to me…. I knowed Arvie…. Will you do it?”

“Yes, I will.”

At about eight o’clock that evening there came a mysterious knock at Mrs
Aspinall’s door. She opened, and there stood Bill. His attitude was
business-like, and his manner very impressive. Three other boys stood along by
the window, with their backs to the wall, deeply interested in the emptying of
burnt cigarette-ends into a piece of newspaper laid in the crown of one of
their hats, and a fourth stood a little way along the kerb casually rolling a
cigarette, and keeping a quiet eye out for suspicious appearances. They were of
different makes and sizes, but there seemed an undefined similarity between
them.

“This is my push, Mrs Aspinall,” said Bill; “at least,”
he added apologetically, “it’s part of ’em. Here, you chaps,
this is Mrs Aspinall, what I told you about.”

They elbowed the wall back, rubbed their heads with their hats, shuffled round,
and seemed to take a vacant sort of interest in abstract objects, such as the
pavement, the gas-lamp, and neighbouring doors and windows.

“Got the things ready?” asked Bill.

“Oh, yes.”

“Got ’em downstairs?”

“There’s no upstairs. The rooms above belong to the next
house.”

“And a nice house it is,” said Bill, “for rooms to belong to.
I wonder,” he reflected, cocking his eye at the windows above; “I
wonder how the police manage to keep an eye on the next house without
keepin’ an eye on yours—but they know.”

He turned towards the street end of the alley and gave a low whistle. Out under
the lamp from behind the corner came a long, thin, shambling, hump-backed
youth, with his hat down over his head like an extinguisher, dragging a small
bony horse, which, in its turn, dragged a rickety cart of the tray variety,
such as is used in the dead marine trade. Behind the cart was tied a mangy
retriever. This affair was drawn up opposite the door.

“The cove with a cart” was introduced as ‘Chinny’. He
had no chin whatever, not even a receding chin. It seemed as though his chin
had been cut clean off horizontally. When he took off his hat he showed to the
mild surprise of strangers a pair of shrewd grey eyes and a broad high
forehead. Chinny was in the empty bottle line.

“Now, then, hold up that horse of yours for a minute, Chinny,” said
Bill briskly, “’relse he’ll fall down and break the shaft
again.” (It had already been broken in several places and spliced with
strips of deal, clothes-line, and wire.) “Now, you chaps, fling
yourselves about and get the furniture out.”

This was a great relief to the push. They ran against each other and the
door-post in their eagerness to be at work. The furniture—what Mrs A.
called her “few bits of things”—was carried out with
elaborate care. The ironing table was the main item. It was placed top down in
the cart, and the rest of the things went between the legs without bulging
sufficiently to cause Chinny any anxiety.

Just then the picket gave a low, earnest whistle, and they were aware of a
policeman standing statue-like under the lamp on the opposite corner, and
apparently unaware of their existence. He was looking, sphinx-like, past them
towards the city.

“It can’t be helped; we must put on front an’ go on with it
now,” said Bill.

“He’s all right, I think,” said Chinny. “He knows
me.”

“He can’t do nothin’,” said Bill; “don’t
mind him, Mrs Aspinall. Now, then (to the push), tie up. Don’t be
frightened of the dorg-what are you frightened of? Why! he’d only
apologize if you trod on his tail.”

The dog went under the cart, and kept his tail carefully behind him.

The policeman—he was an elderly man—stood still, looking towards
the city, and over it, perhaps, and over the sea, to long years agone in
Ireland when he and the boys ducked bailiffs, and resisted evictions with
“shticks,” and “riz” sometimes, and gathered together
at the rising of the moon, and did many things contrary to the peace of
Gracious Majesty, its laws and constitutions, crown and dignity; as a reward
for which he had helped to preserve the said peace for the best years of his
life, without promotion; for he had a great aversion to running in “the
boys”—which included nearly all mankind—and preferred to
keep, and was most successful in keeping, the peace with no other assistance
than that of his own rich fatherly brogue.

Bill took charge of two of the children; Mrs Aspinall carried the youngest.

“Go ahead, Chinny,” said Bill.

Chinny shambled forward, sideways, dragging the horse, with one long, bony,
short-sleeved arm stretched out behind holding the rope reins; the horse
stumbled out of the gutter, and the cart seemed to pause a moment, as if
undecided whether to follow or not, and then, with many rickety complaints,
moved slowly and painfully up on to the level out of the gutter. The dog rose
with a long, weary, mangy sigh, but with a lazy sort of calculation, before his
rope (which was short) grew taut—which was good judgment on his part, for
his neck was sore; and his feet being tender, he felt his way carefully and
painfully over the metal, as if he feared that at any step he might spring some
treacherous, air-trigger trap-door which would drop and hang him.

“Nit, you chaps,” said Bill, “and wait for me.” The
push rubbed its head with its hat, said “Good night, Mrs
Ashpennel,” and was absent, spook-like.

When the funeral reached the street, the lonely “trap” was,
somehow, two blocks away in the opposite direction, moving very slowly, and
very upright, and very straight, like an automaton.

BOGG OF GEEBUNG

At the local police court, where the subject of this sketch turned up
periodically amongst the drunks, he had “James” prefixed to his
name for the sake of convenience and as a matter of form previous to his being
fined forty shillings (which he never paid) and sentenced to “a month
hard” (which he contrived to make as soft as possible). The local
larrikins called him “Grog,” a very appropriate name, all things
considered; but to the Geebung Times he was known until the day of his death as
“a well-known character named Bogg.” The antipathy of the local
paper might have been accounted for by the fact that Bogg strayed into the
office one day in a muddled condition during the absence of the staff at lunch
and corrected a revise proof of the next week’s leader, placing bracketed
“query” and “see proof” marks opposite the
editor’s most flowery periods and quotations, and leaving on the margin
some general advice to the printers to “space better.” He also
corrected a Latin quotation or two, and added a few ideas of his own in good
French.

But no one, with the exception of the editor of the Times, ever dreamed that
there was anything out of the common in the shaggy, unkempt head upon which
poor Bogg used to “do his little time,” until a young English
doctor came to practise at Geebung. One night the doctor and the manager of the
local bank and one or two others wandered into the bar of the Diggers’
Arms, where Bogg sat in a dark corner mumbling to himself as usual and spilling
half his beer on the table and floor. Presently some drunken utterances reached
the doctor’s ear, and he turned round in a surprised manner and looked at
Bogg. The drunkard continued to mutter for some time, and then broke out into
something like the fag-end of a song. The doctor walked over to the table at
which Bogg was sitting, and, seating himself on the far corner, regarded the
drunkard attentively for some minutes; but the latter’s voice ceased, his
head fell slowly on his folded arms, and all became silent except the drip,
drip of the overturned beer falling from the table to the form and from the
form to the floor.

The doctor rose and walked back to his friends with a graver face.

“You seem interested in Bogg,” said the bank manager.

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“What was he mumbling about?”

“Oh, that was a passage from Homer.”

“What?”

The doctor repeated his answer.

“Then do you mean to say he understands Greek?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, sadly; “he is, or must have been, a
classical scholar.”

The manager took time to digest this, and then asked:

“What was the song?”

“Oh, that was an old song we used to sing at the Dublin
University,” said the doctor.

During his sober days Bogg used to fossick about among the old mullock heaps,
or split palings in the bush, and just managed to keep out of debt. Strange to
say, in spite of his drunken habits, his credit was as good as that of any man
in the town. He was very unsociable, seldom speaking, whether drunk or sober;
but a weary, hard-up sundowner was always pretty certain to get a meal and a
shake-down at Bogg’s lonely hut among the waste heaps. It happened one
dark night that a little push of local larrikins, having nothing better to
amuse them, wended their way through the old mullock heaps in the direction of
the lonely little bark hut, with the object of playing off an elaborately
planned ghost joke on Bogg. Prior to commencing operations, the leader of the
jokers put his eye to a crack in the bark to reconnoitre. He didn’t see
much, but what he did see seemed to interest him, for he kept his eye there
till his mates grew impatient. Bogg sat in front of his rough little table with
his elbows on the same, and his hands supporting his forehead. Before him on
the table lay a few articles such as lady novelists and poets use in their
work, and such as bitter cynics often wear secretly next their bitter, cynical
hearts.

There was the usual faded letter, a portrait of a girl, something that looked
like a pressed flower, and, of course, a lock of hair. Presently Bogg folded
his arms over these things, and his face sank lower and lower, till nothing was
visible to the unsuspected watcher except the drunkard’s rough, shaggy
hair; rougher and wilder looking in the uncertain light of the slush-lamp.

The larrikin turned away, and beckoned his comrades to follow him.

“Wot is it?” asked one, when they had gone some distance. The
leader said, “We’re a-goin’ ter let ’im alone;
that’s wot it is.”

There was some demur at this, and an explanation was demanded; but the boss
bully unbuttoned his coat, and spat on his hands, and said:

“We’re a-goin’ ter let Bogg alone; that’s wot it
is.”

So they went away and let Bogg alone.

A few days later the following paragraph appeared in the Geebung Times:
“A well-known character named Bogg was found drowned in the river on
Sunday last, his hat and coat being found on the bank. At a late hour on
Saturday night a member of our staff saw a man walking slowly along the river
bank, but it was too dark to identify the person.”

We suppose it was Bogg whom the Times reported, but of course we cannot
be sure. The chances are that it was Bogg. It was pretty evident that he had
committed suicide, and being “a well-known character,” no doubt he
had reasons for his rash act. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the dark
along the river bank, and thinking of those reasons when the Times man
saw him. Strange to say, the world knows least about the lives and sorrows of
“well-known characters” of this kind, no matter what their names
might be, and—well, there is no reason why we should bore a reader, or
waste any more space over a well-known character named Bogg.

SHE WOULDN’T SPEAK

Well, we reached the pub about dinner-time, dropped our swags outside, had a
drink, and then went into the dinin’-room. There was a lot of jackaroo
swells, that had been on a visit to the squatter, or something, and they were
sittin’ down at dinner; and they seemed to think by their looks that we
ought to have stayed outside and waited till they were done—we was only
two rough shearers, you know. There was a very good-looking servant girl
waitin’ on ’em, and she was all smiles—laughin’, and
jokin’, and chyackin’, and barrickin’ with ’em like
anything.

I thought a damp expression seemed to pass across her face when me and my mate
sat down, but she served us and said nothing—we was only two dusty
swaggies, you see. Dave said “Good day” to her when we came in, but
she didn’t answer; and I could see from the first that she’d made
up her mind not to speak to us.

The swells finished, and got up and went out, leaving me and Dave and the
servant girl alone in the room; but she didn’t open her mouth—not
once. Dave winked at her once or twice as she handed his cup, but it
wasn’t no go. Dave was a good-lookin’ chap, too; but we
couldn’t get her to say a word—not one.

We finished the first blanky course, and, while she was gettin’ our
puddin’ from the side-table, Dave says to me in a loud whisper,
so’s she could hear: “Ain’t she a stunner, Joe! I never
thought there was sich fine girls on the Darlin’!”

But no; she wouldn’t speak.

Then Dave says: “They pitch a blanky lot about them New Englan’
gals; but I’ll back the Darlin’ girls to lick ’em holler as
far’s looks is concerned,” says Dave.

But no; she wouldn’t speak. She wouldn’t even smile. Dave
didn’t say nothing for awhile, and then he said: “Did you hear
about that red-headed barmaid at Stiffner’s goin’ to be married to
the bank manager at Bourke next month, Joe?” says Dave.

But no, not a single word out of her; she didn’t even look up, or look as
if she wanted to speak.

Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin’ for awhile. Then he
said: “Joe, did you hear that yarn about young Scotty and old
whatchisname’s missus?”

“Yes,” I says; “but I think it was the daughter, not the
wife, and young Scotty,” I says.

But it wasn’t no go; that girl wouldn’t speak.

Dave shut up for a good while, but presently I says to Dave “I see that
them hoops is comin’ in again, Dave. The paper says that this here Lady
Duff had one on when she landed.”

“Yes, I heard about it,” says Dave. “I’d like to see my
wife in one, but I s’pose a woman must wear what all the rest
does.”

And do you think that girl would speak? Not a blanky word.

We finished our second puddin’ and fourth cup of tea, and I was just
gettin’ up when Dave catches holt on my arm, like that, and pulls me down
into my chair again.

“’Old on,” whispers Dave; “I’m goin’ to
make that blanky gal speak.”

“You won’t,” I says.

“Bet you a five-pound note,” says Dave.

“All right,” I says.

So I sits down again, and Dave whistles to the girl, and he passes along his
cup and mine. She filled ’em at once, without a word, and we got outside
our fifth cup of tea each. Then Dave jingled his spoon, and passed both cups
along again. She put some hot water in the pot this time, and, after we’d
drunk another couple of cups, Dave muttered somethin’ about
drownin’ the miller.

“We want tea, not warm water,” he growled, lookin’ sulky and
passin’ along both cups again.

But she never opened her mouth; she wouldn’t speak. She didn’t
even, look cross. She made a fresh pot of tea, and filled our cups again. She
didn’t even slam the cups down, or swamp the tea over into the
saucers—which would have been quite natural, considerin’.

“I’m about done,” I said to Dave in a low whisper.
“We’ll have to give it up, I’m afraid, Dave,” I says.

“I’ll make her speak, or bust myself,” says Dave.

And I’m blest if he didn’t go on till I was so blanky full of tea
that it brimmed over and run out the corners of my mouth; and Dave was near as
bad. At last I couldn’t drink another teaspoonful without holding back my
head, and then I couldn’t keep it down, but had to let it run back into
the blanky cup again. The girl began to clear away at the other end of the
table, and now and then she’d lay her hand on the teapot and squint round
to see if we wanted any more tea. But she never spoke. She might have thought a
lot—but she never opened her lips.

I tell you, without a word of a lie, that we must have drunk about a dozen cups
each. We made her fill the teapot twice, and kept her waitin’ nearly an
hour, but we couldn’t make her say a word. She never said a single word
to us from the time we came in till the time we went out, nor before nor after.
She’d made up her mind from the first not to speak to us.

We had to get up and leave our cups half full at last. We went out and sat down
on our swags in the shade against the wall, and smoked and gave that tea time
to settle, and then we got on to the track again.

THE GEOLOGICAL SPIELER

There’s nothing so interesting as Geology, even to common and ignorant
people, especially when you have a bank or the side of a cutting, studded with
fossil fish and things and oysters that were stale when Adam was fresh to
illustrate by. (Remark made by Steelman, professional wanderer, to his pal
and pupil, Smith.)

The first man that Steelman and Smith came up to on the last embankment, where
they struck the new railway line, was a heavy, gloomy, labouring man with
bowyangs on and straps round his wrists. Steelman bade him the time of day and
had a few words with him over the weather. The man of mullock gave it as his
opinion that the fine weather wouldn’t last, and seemed to take a gloomy
kind of pleasure in that reflection; he said there was more rain down yonder,
pointing to the southeast, than the moon could swallow up—the moon was in
its first quarter, during which time it is popularly believed in some parts of
Maoriland that the south-easter is most likely to be out on the wallaby and the
weather bad. Steelman regarded that quarter of the sky with an expression of
gentle remonstrance mingled as it were with a sort of fatherly indulgence,
agreed mildly with the labouring man, and seemed lost for a moment in a reverie
from which he roused himself to inquire cautiously after the boss. There was no
boss, it was a co-operative party. That chap standing over there by the dray in
the end of the cutting was their spokesman—their representative: they
called him boss, but that was only his nickname in camp. Steelman expressed his
thanks and moved on towards the cutting, followed respectfully by Smith.

Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair of
professional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there was a
clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened, however, by an air as of
unconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge. He
carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in his profession in
more senses than one. Smith was decently dressed in sober tweed and looked like
a man of no account, who was mechanically devoted to his employer’s
interests, pleasures, or whims.

The boss was a decent-looking young fellow, with a good face—rather
solemn—and a quiet manner.

“Good day, sir,” said Steelman.

“Good day, sir,” said the boss.

“Nice weather this.”

“Yes, it is, but I’m afraid it won’t last.”

“I am afraid it will not by the look of the sky down there,”
ventured Steelman.

“No, I go mostly by the look of our weather prophet,” said the boss
with a quiet smile, indicating the gloomy man.

“I suppose bad weather would put you back in your work?”

“Yes, it will; we didn’t want any bad weather just now.”

Steelman got the weather question satisfactorily settled; then he said:

“You seem to be getting on with the railway.”

“Oh yes, we are about over the worst of it.”

“The worst of it?” echoed Steelman, with mild surprise: “I
should have thought you were just coming into it,” and he pointed to the
ridge ahead.

“Oh, our section doesn’t go any further than that pole you see
sticking up yonder. We had the worst of it back there across the
swamps—working up to our waists in water most of the time, in midwinter
too—and at eighteenpence a yard.”

“That was bad.”

“Yes, rather rough. Did you come from the terminus?”

“Yes, I sent my baggage on in the brake.”

“Commercial traveller, I suppose?” asked the boss, glancing at
Smith, who stood a little to the rear of Steelman, seeming interested in the
work.

“Oh no,” said Steelman, smiling—“I
am—well—I’m a geologist; this is my man here,”
indicating Smith. “(You may put down the bag, James, and have a smoke.)
My name is Stoneleigh—you might have heard of it.”

The boss said, “Oh,” and then presently he added
“indeed,” in an undecided tone.

There was a pause—embarrassed on the part of the boss—he was silent
not knowing what to say. Meanwhile Steelman studied his man and concluded that
he would do.

“Having a look at the country, I suppose?” asked the boss
presently.

“Yes,” said Steelman; then after a moment’s reflection:
“I am travelling for my own amusement and improvement, and also in the
interest of science, which amounts to the same thing. I am a member of the
Royal Geological Society—vice-president in fact of a leading Australian
branch;” and then, as if conscious that he had appeared guilty of
egotism, he shifted the subject a bit. “Yes. Very interesting country
this—very interesting indeed. I should like to make a stay here for a day
or so. Your work opens right into my hands. I cannot remember seeing a
geological formation which interested me so much. Look at the face of that
cutting, for instance. Why! you can almost read the history of the geological
world from yesterday—this morning as it were—beginning with the
super-surface on top and going right down through the different layers and
stratas—through the vanished ages—right down and back to the
pre-historical—to the very primeval or fundamental geological
formations!” And Steelman studied the face of the cutting as if he could
read it like a book, with every layer or stratum a chapter, and every streak a
note of explanation. The boss seemed to be getting interested, and Steelman
gained confidence and proceeded to identify and classify the different
“stratas and layers,” and fix their ages, and describe the
conditions and politics of man in their different times, for the boss’s
benefit.

“Now,” continued Steelman, turning slowly from the cutting,
removing his glasses, and letting his thoughtful eyes wander casually over the
general scenery—“now the first impression that this country would
leave on an ordinary intelligent mind—though maybe unconsciously, would
be as of a new country—new in a geological sense; with patches of an
older geological and vegetable formation cropping out here and there; as for
instance that clump of dead trees on that clear alluvial slope there, that
outcrop of limestone, or that timber yonder,” and he indicated a dead
forest which seemed alive and green because of the parasites. “But the
country is old—old; perhaps the oldest geological formation in the world
is to be seen here, the oldest vegetable formation in Australasia. I am not
using the words old and new in an ordinary sense, you understand, but in a
geological sense.”

The boss said, “I understand,” and that geology must be a very
interesting study.

Steelman ran his eye meditatively over the cutting again, and turning to Smith
said:

“Go up there, James, and fetch me a specimen of that slaty outcrop you
see there—just above the coeval strata.”

It was a stiff climb and slippery, but Smith had to do it, and he did it.

“This,” said Steelman, breaking the rotten piece between his
fingers, “belongs probably to an older geological period than its
position would indicate—a primitive sandstone level perhaps. Its position
on that layer is no doubt due to volcanic upheavals—such disturbances, or
rather the results of such disturbances, have been and are the cause of the
greatest trouble to geologists—endless errors and controversy. You see we
must study the country, not as it appears now, but as it would appear had the
natural geological growth been left to mature undisturbed; we must restore and
reconstruct such disorganized portions of the mineral kingdom, if you
understand me.”

The boss said he understood.

Steelman found an opportunity to wink sharply and severely at Smith, who had
been careless enough to allow his features to relapse into a vacant grin.

“It is generally known even amongst the ignorant that rock
grows—grows from the outside—but the rock here, a specimen of which
I hold in my hand, is now in the process of decomposition; to be plain it is
rotting—in an advanced stage of decomposition—so much so that you
are not able to identify it with any geological period or formation, even as
you may not be able to identify any other extremely decomposed body.”

The boss blinked and knitted his brow, but had the presence of mind to say:
“Just so.”

“Had the rock on that cutting been healthy—been alive, as it
were—you would have had your work cut out; but it is dead and has been
dead for ages perhaps. You find less trouble in working it than you would
ordinary clay or sand, or even gravel, which formations together are really
rock in embryo—before birth as it were.”

The boss’s brow cleared.

“The country round here is simply rotting down—simply rotting
down.”

He removed his spectacles, wiped them, and wiped his face; then his attention
seemed to be attracted by some stones at his feet. He picked one up and
examined it.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he mused, absently, “I
shouldn’t wonder if there is alluvial gold in some of these creeks and
gullies, perhaps tin or even silver, quite probably antimony.”

The boss seemed interested.

“Can you tell me if there is any place in this neighbourhood where I
could get accommodation for myself and my servant for a day or two?”
asked Steelman presently. “I should very much like to break my journey
here.”

“Well, no,” said the boss. “I can’t say I do—I
don’t know of any place nearer than Pahiatua, and that’s seven
miles from here.”’

“I know that,” said Steelman reflectively, “but I fully
expected to have found a house of accommodation of some sort on the way, else I
would have gone on in the van.’

“Well,” said the boss. “If you like to camp with us for to
night, at least, and don’t mind roughing it, you’ll be welcome,
I’m sure.”

“If I was sure that I would not be putting you to any trouble, or
interfering in any way with your domestic economy—-”

“No trouble at all,” interrupted the boss. “The boys will be
only too glad, and there’s an empty whare where you can sleep. Better
stay. It’s going to be a rough night.”

After tea Steelman entertained the boss and a few of the more thoughtful
members of the party with short chatty lectures on geology and other subjects.

In the meantime Smith, in another part of the camp, gave selections on a tin
whistle, sang a song or two, contributed, in his turn, to the sailor yarns, and
ensured his popularity for several nights at least. After several draughts of
something that was poured out of a demijohn into a pint-pot, his tongue became
loosened, and he expressed an opinion that geology was all bosh, and said if he
had half his employer’s money he’d be dashed if he would go rooting
round in the mud like a blessed old ant-eater; he also irreverently referred to
his learned boss as “Old Rocks” over there. He had a pretty easy
billet of it though, he said, taking it all round, when the weather was fine;
he got a couple of notes a week and all expenses paid, and the money was sure;
he was only required to look after the luggage and arrange for accommodation,
grub out a chunk of rock now and then, and (what perhaps was the most irksome
of his duties) he had to appear interested in old rocks and clay.

Towards midnight Steelman and Smith retired to the unoccupied whare which had
been shown them, Smith carrying a bundle of bags, blankets, and rugs, which had
been placed at their disposal by their good-natured hosts. Smith lit a candle
and proceeded to make the beds. Steelman sat down, removed his specs and
scientific expression, placed the glasses carefully on a ledge close at hand,
took a book from his bag, and commenced to read. The volume was a cheap copy of
Jules Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth. A little later
there was a knock at the door. Steelman hastily resumed the spectacles,
together with the scientific expression, took a note-book from his pocket,
opened it on the table, and said, “Come in.” One of the chaps
appeared with a billy of hot coffee, two pint-pots, and some cake. He said he
thought you chaps might like a drop of coffee before you turned in, and the
boys had forgot to ask you to wait for it down in the camp. He also wanted to
know whether Mr Stoneleigh and his man would be all right and quite comfortable
for the night, and whether they had blankets enough. There was some wood at the
back of the whare and they could light a fire if they liked.

Mr Stoneleigh expressed his thanks and his appreciation of the kindness shown
him and his servant. He was extremely sorry to give them any trouble.

The navvy, a serious man, who respected genius or intellect in any shape or
form, said that it was no trouble at all, the camp was very dull and the boys
were always glad to have someone come round. Then, after a brief comparison of
opinions concerning the probable duration of the weather which had arrived,
they bade each other good night, and the darkness swallowed the serious man.

Steelman turned into the top bunk on one side and Smith took the lower on the
other. Steelman had the candle by his bunk, as usual; he lit his pipe for a
final puff before going to sleep, and held the light up for a moment so as to
give Smith the full benefit of a solemn, uncompromising wink. The wink was
silently applauded and dutifully returned by Smith. Then Steelman blew out the
light, lay back, and puffed at his pipe for a while. Presently he chuckled, and
the chuckle was echoed by Smith; by and by Steelman chuckled once more, and
then Smith chuckled again. There was silence in the darkness, and after a bit
Smith chuckled twice. Then Steelman said:

“For God’s sake give her a rest, Smith, and give a man a show to
get some sleep.”

Then the silence in the darkness remained unbroken.

The invitation was extended next day, and Steelman sent Smith on to see that
his baggage was safe. Smith stayed out of sight for two or three hours, and
then returned and reported all well.

They stayed on for several days. After breakfast and when the men were going to
work Steelman and Smith would go out along the line with the black bag and poke
round amongst the “layers and stratas” in sight of the works for a
while, as an evidence of good faith; then they’d drift off casually into
the bush, camp in a retired and sheltered spot, and light a fire when the
weather was cold, and Steelman would lie on the grass and read and smoke and
lay plans for the future and improve Smith’s mind until they reckoned it
was about dinner-time. And in the evening they would come home with the black
bag full of stones and bits of rock, and Steelman would lecture on those
minerals after tea.

On about the fourth morning Steelman had a yarn with one of the men going to
work. He was a lanky young fellow with a sandy complexion, and seemingly
harmless grin. In Australia he might have been regarded as a “cove”
rather than a “chap,” but there was nothing of the
“bloke” about him. Presently the cove said:

“What do you think of the boss, Mr Stoneleigh? He seems to have taken a
great fancy for you, and he’s fair gone on geology.”

“I think he is a very decent fellow indeed, a very intelligent young man.
He seems very well read and well informed.”

“You wouldn’t think he was a University man,” said the cove.

“No, indeed! Is he?”

“Yes. I thought you knew!”

Steelman knitted his brows. He seemed slightly disturbed for the moment. He
walked on a few paces in silence and thought hard.

“What might have been his special line?” he asked the cove.

“Why, something the same as yours. I thought you knew. He was reckoned
the best—what do you call it?—the best minrologist in the country.
He had a first-class billet in the Mines Department, but he lost it—you
know—the booze.”

“I think we will be making a move, Smith,” said Steelman, later on,
when they were private. “There’s a little too much intellect in
this camp to suit me. But we haven’t done so bad, anyway. We’ve had
three days’ good board and lodging with entertainments and refreshments
thrown in.” Then he said to himself: “We’ll stay for another
day anyway. If those beggars are having a lark with us, we’re getting the
worth of it anyway, and I’m not thin-skinned. They’re the mugs and
not us, anyhow it goes, and I can take them down before I leave.”

But on the way home he had a talk with another man whom we might set down as a
“chap.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the boss was a college man,” said
Steelman to the chap.

“A what?”

“A University man—University education.”

“Why! Who’s been telling you that?”

“One of your mates.”

“Oh, he’s been getting at you. Why, it’s all the boss can do
to write his own name. Now that lanky sandy cove with the birth-mark
grin—it’s him that’s had the college education.”

“I think we’ll make a start to-morrow,” said Steelman to
Smith in the privacy of their where. “There’s too much humour and
levity in this camp to suit a serious scientific gentleman like myself.”

MACQUARIE’S MATE

The chaps in the bar of Stiffner’s shanty were talking about Macquarie,
an absent shearer—who seemed, from their conversation, to be better known
than liked by them.

“I ain’t seen Macquarie for ever so long,” remarked
Box-o’-Tricks, after a pause. “Wonder where he could
’a’ got to?”

“Jail, p’r’aps—or hell,” growled Barcoo.
“He ain’t much loss, any road.”

“My oath, yer right, Barcoo!” interposed “Sally”
Thompson. “But, now I come to think of it, Old Awful Example there was a
mate of his one time. Bless’d if the old soaker ain’t comin’
to life again!”

A shaky, rag-and-dirt-covered framework of a big man rose uncertainly from a
corner of the room, and, staggering forward, brushed the staring thatch back
from his forehead with one hand, reached blindly for the edge of the bar with
the other, and drooped heavily.

“Well, Awful Example,” demanded the shanty-keeper.
“What’s up with you now?”

The drunkard lifted his head and glared wildly round with bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t you—don’t you talk about him! Drop it, I
say! DROP it!”

“What the devil’s the matter with you now, anyway?” growled
the barman. “Got ’em again? Hey?”

“Don’t you—don’t you talk about Macquarie! He’s a
mate of mine! Here! Gimme a drink!”

“Well, what if he is a mate of yours?” sneered Barcoo. “It
don’t reflec’ much credit on you—nor him neither.”

The logic contained in the last three words was unanswerable, and Awful Example
was still fairly reasonable, even when rum oozed out of him at every pore. He
gripped the edge of the bar with both hands, let his ruined head fall forward
until it was on a level with his temporarily rigid arms, and stared blindly at
the dirty floor; then he straightened himself up, still keeping his hold on the
bar.

“Some of you chaps,” he said huskily; “one of you chaps, in
this bar to-day, called Macquarie a scoundrel, and a loafer, and a blackguard,
and—and a sneak and a liar.”

“Well, what if we did?” said Barcoo, defiantly. “He’s
all that, and a cheat into the bargain. And now, what are you going to do about
it?”

The old man swung sideways to the bar, rested his elbow on it, and his head on
his hand.

“Macquarie wasn’t a sneak and he wasn’t a liar,” he
said, in a quiet, tired tone; “and Macquarie wasn’t a cheat!”

“Well, old man, you needn’t get your rag out about it,” said
Sally Thompson, soothingly. “P’r’aps we was a bit too hard on
him; and it isn’t altogether right, chaps, considerin’ he’s
not here. But, then, you know, Awful, he might have acted straight to you that
was his mate. The meanest blank—if he is a man at all—will do
that.”

“Oh, to blazes with the old sot!” shouted Barcoo. “I gave my
opinion about Macquarie, and, what’s more, I’ll stand to it.”

“I’ve got—I’ve got a point for the defence,” the
old man went on, without heeding the interruptions. “I’ve got a
point or two for the defence.”

“Well, let’s have it,” said Stiffner.

“In the first place—in the first place, Macquarie never talked
about no man behind his back.”

There was an uneasy movement, and a painful silence. Barcoo reached for his
drink and drank slowly; he needed time to think—Box-o’-Tricks
studied his boots—Sally Thompson looked out at the weather—the
shanty-keeper wiped the top of the bar very hard—and the rest shifted
round and “s’posed they’d try a game er cards.”

Barcoo set his glass down very softly, pocketed his hands deeply and defiantly,
and said:

“Well, what of that? Macquarie was as strong as a bull, and the greatest
bully on the river into the bargain. He could call a man a liar to his
face—and smash his face afterwards. And he did it often, too, and with
smaller men than himself.”

There was a breath of relief in the bar.

“Do you want to make out that I’m talking about a man behind his
back?” continued Barcoo, threateningly, to Awful Example.
“You’d best take care, old man.”

“Macquarie wasn’t a coward,” remonstrated the drunkard,
softly, but in an injured tone.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” yelled the publican.
“What yer growling at? D’ye want a row? Get out if yer can’t
be agreeable!”

The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows, and
looked vacantly out of the door.

“I’ve got—another point for the defence,” he muttered.
“It’s always best—it’s always best to keep the last
point to—the last.”

“Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! Out with it!”

“Macquarie’s dead! That—that’s what it
is!”

Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to the bar,
crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip at the sole and
heel of his elastic-side—the barman rinsed the glasses
vigorously—Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and some of
the others gathered round him and got interested—Barcoo thought he heard
his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed by
Box-o’-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one of
their horses.

Someone—a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square features
and haggard grey eyes—had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to the
back of the shanty and dismounted by the window.

When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evident that Sally
Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to the general rescue as
follows:

“There’s a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this
world—a lot of damned old-woman nonsense. There’s more sympathy
wasted over dead and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight,
honest-livin’ chaps. I don’t b’lieve in this gory sentiment
about the dead at the expense of the living. I b’lieve in justice for the
livin’—and the dead too, for that matter—but justice for the
livin’. Macquarie was a bad egg, and it don’t alter the case if he
was dead a thousand times.”

There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebody said:
“Yer tight, Sally!”

“Good for you, Sally, old man!” cried Box-o’-Tricks, taking
it up. “An’, besides, I don’t b’lieve Macquarie is dead
at all. He’s always dyin’, or being reported dead, and then
turnin’ up again. Where did you hear about it, Awful?”

The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of his hand.

“There’s—there’s a lot in what you say, Sally
Thompson,” he admitted slowly, totally ignoring Box-o’-Tricks.
“But—but—-’

“Oh, we’ve had enough of the old fool,” yelled Barcoo.
“Macquarie was a spieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain’t
much better.”

“Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole hass!” said the man behind
the bar, pushing a bottle and glass towards the drunkard. “D’ye
want a row?”

The old man took the bottle and glass in his shaking bands and painfully poured
out a drink.

“There’s a lot in what Sally Thompson says,” he went on,
obstinately, “but—but,” he added in a strained tone,
“there’s another point that I near forgot, and none of you seemed
to think of it—not even Sally Thompson nor—nor Box-o’-Tricks
there.”

Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently.

“Yes,” drivelled the drunkard, “I’ve got another point
for—for the defence—of my mate, Macquarie—”

“Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for God’s sake, or you’ll
bust!” roared Stiffner. “What the blazes is it?”

“HIS MATE’S ALIVE!” yelled the old man.
“Macquarie’s mate’s alive! That’s what it is!”

He reeled back from the bar, dashed his glass and hat to the boards, gave his
pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off his feet, and tore
at his shirt-sleeves.

“Make a ring, boys,” he shouted. “His mate’s alive! Put
up your hands, Barcoo! By God, his mate’s alive!”

Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing by the
back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in.

“Keep the old fool off, or he’ll get hurt,” snarled Barcoo.

Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words of remonstrance,
then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequent upon an attempt to
chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner and Box-o’-Tricks were
down, two others were holding Barcoo back, and someone had pinned Awful Example
by the shoulders from behind.

“Let me go!” he yelled, too blind with passion to notice the
movements of surprise among the men before him. “Let me go! I’ll
smash—any man—that—that says a word again’ a mate of
mine behind his back. Barcoo, I’ll have your blood! Let me go!
I’ll, I’ll, I’ll— Who’s holdin’ me?
You—you—-”

“It’s Macquarie, old mate!” said a quiet voice.

Barcoo thought he heard his horse again, and went out in a hurry. Perhaps he
thought that the horse would get impatient and break loose if he left it any
longer, for he jumped into the saddle and rode off.

BALDY THOMPSON

Rough, squarish face, curly auburn wig, bushy grey eyebrows and moustache, and
grizzly stubble—eyes that reminded one of Dampier the actor. He was a
squatter of the old order—new chum, swagman, drover, shearer, super,
pioneer, cocky, squatter, and finally bank victim. He had been through it all,
and knew all about it.

He had been in parliament, and wanted too again; but the men mistrusted him as
Thompson, M.P., though they swore by him as old Baldy Thompson the squatter.
His hobby was politics, and his politics were badly boxed. When he wasn’t
cursing the banks and government he cursed the country. He cursed the Labour
leaders at intervals, and seemed to think that he could run the unions better
than they could. Also, he seemed to think that he could run parliament better
than any premier. He was generally voted a hard case, which term is mostly used
in a kindly sense out back.

He was always grumbling about the country. If a shearer or rouseabout was good
at argument, and a bit of a politician, he hadn’t to slave much at
Thompson’s shed, for Baldy would argue with him all day and pay for it.

“I can’t put on any more men,” he’d say to travellers.
“I can’t put on a lot of men to make big cheques when there’s
no money in the bank to pay ’em—and I’ve got all I can do to
get tucker for the family. I shore nothing but burrs and grass-seed last
season, and it didn’t pay carriage. I’m just sending away a flock
of sheep now, and I won’t make threepence a head on ’em. I had
twenty thousand in the bank season before last, and now I can’t count on
one. I’ll have to roll up my swag and go on the track myself next.”

“All right, Baldy,” they’d say, “git out your blooming
swag and come along with us, old man; we’ll stick to you and see you
through.”

“I swear I’d show you round first,” he’d reply.
“Go up to the store and get what rations you want. You can camp in the
huts to-night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

But most likely he’d find his way over after tea, and sit on his heels in
the cool outside the hut, and argue with the swagmen about unionism and
politics. And he’d argue all night if he met his match.

The track by Baldy Thompson’s was reckoned as a good tucker track,
especially when a dissolution of parliament was threatened. Then the guileless
traveller would casually let Baldy know that he’d got his name on the
electoral list, and show some interest in Baldy’s political opinions, and
oppose them at first, and finally agree with them and see a lot in
them—be led round to Baldy’s way of thinking, in fact; and
ultimately depart, rejoicing, with a full nose-bag, and a quiet grin for his
mate.

There are many camp-fire yarns about old Baldy Thompson.

One New Year the shearers—shearing stragglers—roused him in the
dead of night and told him that the shed was on fire. He came out in his shirt
and without his wig. He sacked them all there and then, but of course they went
to work as usual next morning. There is something sad and pathetic about that
old practical joke—as indeed there is with all bush jokes. There seems a
quiet sort of sadness always running through outback humour—whether
alleged or otherwise.

There’s the usual yarn about a jackaroo mistaking Thompson for a brother
rouser, and asking him whether old Baldy was about anywhere, and Baldy said:

“Why, are you looking for a job?”

“Yes, do you think I stand any show? What sort of a boss is Baldy?”

“You’d tramp from here to Adelaide,” said Baldy, “and
north to the Gulf country, and wouldn’t find a worse. He’s the
meanest squatter in Australia. The damned old crawler! I grafted like a nigger
for him for over fifty years”—Baldy was over sixty—“and
now the old skunk won’t even pay me the last two cheques he owes
me—says the bank has got everything he had—that’s an old cry
of his, the damned old sneak; seems to expect me to go short to keep his wife
and family and relations in comfort, and by God I’ve done it for the last
thirty or forty years, and I might go on the track to-morrow worse off than the
meanest old whaler that ever humped bluey. Don’t you have anything to do
with Scabby Thompson, or you’ll be sorry for it. Better tramp to hell
than take a job from him.”

“Well, I think I’ll move on. Would I stand any show for some
tucker?”

“Him! He wouldn’t give a dog a crust, and like as not he’d
get you run in for trespass if he caught you camping on the run. But come along
to the store and I’ll give you enough tucker to carry you on.”

He patronized literature and arts, too, though in an awkward, furtive way. We
remember how we once turned up at the station hard up and short of tucker, and
how we entertained Baldy with some of his own ideas as ours—having been
posted beforehand by our mate—and how he told us to get some rations and
camp in the hut and see him in the morning.

And we saw him in the morning, had another yarn with him, agreed and
sympathized with him some more, were convinced on one or two questions which we
had failed to see at first, cursed things in chorus with him, and casually
mentioned that we expected soon to get some work on a political paper.

And at last he went inside and brought out a sovereign. “Wrap this in a
piece of paper and put it in your pocket, and don’t lose it,” he
said.

But we learnt afterwards that the best way to get along with Baldy, and secure
his good will, was to disagree with him on every possible point.

FOR AULD LANG SYNE

These were ten of us there on the wharf when our first mate left for Maoriland,
he having been forced to leave Sydney because he could not get anything like
regular work, nor anything like wages for the work he could get. He was a
carpenter and joiner, a good tradesman and a rough diamond. He had got married
and had made a hard fight for it during the last two years or so, but the
result only petrified his conviction that “a lovely man could get no
blessed show in this condemned country,” as he expressed it; so he gave
it best at last—“chucked it up,” as he said—left his
wife with her people and four pounds ten, until such time as he could send for
her—and left himself with his box of tools, a pair of hands that could
use them, a steerage ticket, and thirty shillings.

We turned up to see him off. There were ten of us all told and about twice as
many shillings all counted. He was the first of the old push to go—we use
the word push in its general sense, and we called ourselves the mountain push
because we had worked in the tourist towns a good deal—he was the first
of the mountain push to go; and we felt somehow, and with a vague kind of
sadness or uneasiness, that this was the beginning of the end of old times and
old things. We were plasterers, bricklayers, painters, a carpenter, a labourer,
and a plumber, and were all suffering more or less—mostly more—and
pretty equally, because of the dearth of regular graft, and the consequent
frequency of the occasions on which we didn’t hold it—the
“it” being the price of one or more long beers. We had worked
together on jobs in the city and up-country, especially in the country, and had
had good times together when things were locomotive, as Jack put it; and we
always managed to worry along cheerfully when things were
“stationary.” On more than one big job up the country our
fortnightly spree was a local institution while it lasted, a thing that was
looked forward to by all parties, whether immediately concerned or otherwise
(and all were concerned more or less), a thing to be looked back to and talked
over until next pay-day came. It was a matter for anxiety and regret to the
local business people and publicans, and loafers and spielers, when our jobs
were finished and we left.

There were between us the bonds of graft, of old times, of poverty, of
vagabondage and sin, and in spite of all the right-thinking person may think,
say or write, there was between us that sympathy which in our times and
conditions is the strongest and perhaps the truest of all human qualities, the
sympathy of drink. We were drinking mates together. We were wrong-thinking
persons too, and that was another bond of sympathy between us.

There were cakes of tobacco, and books, and papers, and several flasks of
“rye-buck”—our push being distantly related to a publican who
wasn’t half a bad sort—to cheer and comfort our departing mate on
his uncertain way; and these tokens of mateship and the sake of auld lang syne
were placed casually in his bunk or slipped unostentatiously into his hand or
pockets, and received by him in short eloquent silence (sort of an aside
silence), and partly as a matter of course. Every now and then there would be a
surreptitious consultation between two of us and a hurried review of finances,
and then one would slip quietly ashore and presently return supremely
unconscious of a book, magazine, or parcel of fruit bulging out of his pocket.

You may battle round with mates for many years, and share and share alike, good
times or hard, and find the said mates true and straight through it all; but it
is their little thoughtful attentions when you are going away, that go right
down to the bottom of your heart, and lift it up and make you feel
inclined—as you stand alone by the rail when the sun goes down on the
sea—to write or recite poetry and otherwise make a fool of yourself.

We helped our mate on board with his box, and inspected his bunk, and held a
consultation over the merits or otherwise of its position, and got in his way
and that of the under-steward and the rest of the crew right down to the
captain, and superintended our old chum’s general arrangements, and upset
most of them, and interviewed various members of the crew as to when the boat
would start for sure, and regarded their statements with suspicion, and
calculated on our own account how long it would take to get the rest of the
cargo aboard, and dragged our mate ashore for a final drink, and found that we
had “plenty of time to slip ashore for a parting wet” so often that
his immediate relations grew anxious and officious, and the universe began to
look good, and kind, and happy, and bully, and jolly, and grand, and glorious
to us, and we forgave the world everything wherein it had not acted straight
towards us, and were filled full of love for our kind of both genders—for
the human race at large—and with an almost irresistible longing to go
aboard, and stay at all hazards, and sail along with our mate. We had just time
“to slip ashore and have another” when the gangway was withdrawn
and the steamer began to cast off. Then a rush down the wharf, a hurried and
confused shaking of hands, and our mate was snatched aboard. The boat had been
delayed, and we had waited for three hours, and had seen our chum nearly every
day for years, and now we found we hadn’t begun to say half what we
wanted to say to him. We gripped his hand in turn over the rail, as the green
tide came between, till there was a danger of one mate being pulled
aboard—which he wouldn’t have minded much—or the other mate
pulled ashore, or one or both yanked overboard. We cheered the captain and
cheered the crew and the passengers—there was a big crowd of them going
and a bigger crowd of enthusiastic friends on the wharf—and our mate on
the forward hatch; we cheered the land they were going to and the land they had
left behind, and sang “Auld Lang Syne” and “He’s a
Jolly Good Fellow” (and so yelled all of us) and “Home Rule for
Ireland Evermore”—which was, I don’t know why, an old song of
ours. And we shouted parting injunctions and exchanged old war cries, the
meanings of which were only known to us, and we were guilty of such riotous
conduct that, it being now Sunday morning, one or two of the quieter members
suggested we had better drop down to about half-a-gale, as there was a
severe-looking old sergeant of police with an eye on us; but once, in the
middle of a heart-stirring chorus of “Auld Lang Sync,” Jack, my
especial chum, paused for breath and said to me:

“It’s all right, Joe, the trap’s joining in.”

And so he was—and leading.

But I well remember the hush that fell on that, and several other occasions,
when the steamer had passed the point.

And so our first mate sailed away out under the rising moon and under the
morning stars. He is settled down in Maoriland now, in a house of his own, and
has a family and a farm; but somehow, in the bottom of our hearts, we
don’t like to think of things like this, for they don’t fit in at
all with “Auld Lang Syne.”’

There were six or seven of us on the wharf to see our next mate go. His
ultimate destination was known to himself and us only. We had pickets at the
shore end of the wharf, and we kept him quiet and out of sight; the send-off
was not noisy, but the hand-grips were very tight and the sympathy deep. He was
running away from debt, and wrong, and dishonour, a drunken wife, and other
sorrows, and we knew it all.

Two went next—to try their luck in Western Australia; they were
plasterers. Ten of us turned up again, the push having been reinforced by one
or two new members and an old one who had been absent on the first occasion. It
was a glorious send-off, and only two found beds that night—the
government supplied the beds.

And one by one and two by two they have gone from the wharf since then. Jack
went to-day; he was perhaps the most irreclaimable of us all—a hard case
where all cases were hard; and I loved him best—anyway I know that,
wherever Jack goes, there will be someone who will barrack for me to the best
of his ability (which is by no means to be despised as far as barracking is
concerned), and resent, with enthusiasm and force if he deems it necessary, the
barest insinuation which might be made to the effect that I could write a bad
line if I tried, or be guilty of an action which would not be straight
according to the rules of mateship.

Ah well! I am beginning to think it is time I emigrated too; I’ll pull
myself together and battle round and raise the price of a steerage ticket, and
maybe a pound or two over. There may not be anybody to see me off, but some of
the boys are sure to be on the wharf or platform “over there,” when
I arrive. Lord! I almost hear them hailing now! and won’t I yell back!
and perhaps there won’t be a wake over old times in some cosy bar
parlour, or camp, in Western Australia or Maoriland some night in a year to
come.

NOTES ON AUSTRALIANISMS.

Based on my own speech over the years, with some checking in the dictionaries.
Not all of these are peculiar to Australian slang, but are important in
Lawson’s stories, and carry overtones.

bagman: commercial traveller

Bananaland: Queensland

billabong: Based on an aboriginal word. Sometimes used for an anabranch (a bend
in a river cut off by a new channel, but more often used for one that, in dry
season or droughts especially, is cut off at either or both ends from the main
stream. It is often just a muddy pool, and may indeed dry up completely.

billy: quintessentially Australian. It is like (or may even be made out of) a
medium-sized can, with wire handles and a lid. Used to boil water. If for tea,
the leaves are added into the billy itself. The billy may be swung (‘to
make the leaves settle’) or a eucalyptus twig place across the top, more
ritual than pragmatic. These stories are supposedly told while the billy is
suspended over the fire at night, at the end of a tramp. (Also used in want of
other things, for cooking)

blackfellow (also, blackman): condescending for Australian Aboriginal

blackleg: also scab. Someone who is employed to cross a union picket line to
break a workers’ strike. As Molly Ivins said, she was brought up on the
three great commandments: do not lie; do not steal; never cross a picket line.

blanky or —-: Fill in your own favourite word. Usually however used for
“bloody”

blucher: a kind of half-boot (named after the Austrian general) Leberecht von
Blücher

blued: of a wages cheque: all spent extravagantly—and rapidly.

bluey: swag. Supposedly because blankets were mostly blue (so Lawson)

boggabri: Probably Aboriginal for several low herbs, esp. Amaranthus mitchelli,
Chenopodium pumilio, C. carinatum and Commelina cyanea (scurvy grass); also a
town in NSW. [Australian National Dictionary, OUP 1988] What then is a
‘tater-marrer’ (potato-marrow?). Any help?

bowyangs: ties (cord, rope, cloth) put around trouser legs below knee

bullocky: Bullock driver. A man who drove teams of bullocks yoked to wagons
carrying, e.g., wool bales or provisions. Proverbially rough and foul mouthed.

bush: originally referred to the low tangled scrubs of the semi-desert regions
(‘mulga’ and ‘mallee’), and hence equivalent to
“outback”. Now used generally for remote rural areas (“the
bush”) and scrubby forest.

bushfire: wild fires: whether forest fires or grass fires.

bushman/bushwoman: someone who lives an isolated existence, far from cities,
“in the bush”. (today: a “bushy”)

bushranger: an Australian “highwayman”, who lived in the
‘bush’— scrub—and attacked especially gold carrying
coaches and banks. Romanticised as anti-authoritarian Robin Hood
figures—cf. Ned Kelly—but usually very violent.

cheque: wages for a full season of sheep-shearing; meant to last until the next
year, including a family, but often ‘blued’ in a
‘spree’

chyack: (chy-ike) like chaffing; to tease, mildly abuse

cocky: a farmer, esp. dairy farmers (= ‘cow-cockies’)

cubby-house, or cubby: Children’s playhouse (“Wendy house” is
commercial form))

Darlinghurst: Sydney suburb, where the gaol was in those days

dead marine: empty beer bottle

dossing: sleeping rough or poorly (as in a “doss-house”)

doughboy: kind of dumpling

drover: one who “droves” cattle or sheep.

droving: driving on horseback cattle or sheep from where they were fattened to
a a city, or later, a rail-head.

drown the miller: to add too much water to flour when cooking. Used
metaphorically in story.

fossick: pick over areas for gold. Not mining as such.

half-caser: Two shillings and sixpence. As a coin, a half-crown.

half-sov.: a coin worth half a pound (sovereign)

Gladesville: Sydney suburb, where the mental hospital used to be

goanna: various kinds of monitor lizards. Can be quite a size.

Homebush: Saleyard, market area in Sydney

humpy: originally an aboriginal shelter (=gunyah); extended to a
settler’s hut

jackaroo: (Jack + kangaroo; sometimes jackeroo)—someone, in early days a
new immigrant from England, learning to work on a sheep/cattle station (U.S.
“ranch”)

jumbuck: a sheep (best known from Waltzing Matilda: “where’s that
jolly jumbuck, you’ve got in your tucker bag”.

larrikin: anything from a disrespectful young man to a violent member of a gang
(“push”). Was considered a major social problem in Sydney of the
1880’s to 1900. The Bulletin, a magazine in which much of Lawson was
published, spoke of the “aggressive, soft-hatted “stoush
brigade”. Anyone today who is disrespectful of authority or convention is
said to show the larrikin element in the Australian character.

larrikiness: jocular feminine form

leather-jacket: kind of pancake (more often a fish, these days)

lucerne: cattle feed-a leguminous plant, alfalfa in US

lumper: labourer; esp. on wharves?

mallee: dwarfed eucalyptus trees growing in very poor soil and under harsh
rainfall conditions. Usually many stems emerging from the ground, creating a
low thicket.

Maoriland: Lawson’s name for New Zealand

marine, dead: see ‘dead marine’

mooching: wandering idly, not going anywhere in particular

mug: gullible person, a con-man’s ‘mark’ (potential victim)

mulga: Acacia sp. (“wattle” in Australian) especially Acacia
aneura; growing in semi-desert conditions. Used as a description of such a
harsh region.

mullock: the tailings left after gold has been removed. In Lawson generally mud
(alluvial) rather than rock

myall: aboriginal living in a traditional pre-conquest manner

narked: annoyed

navvies: labourers (especially making roads, railways; originally canals, thus
from ‘navigators’)

nobbler: a drink

nuggety: compact but strong physique; small but well-muscled

pannikin: metal mug

peckish: hungry—usually only mildly so. Use here is thus ironic.

poley: a dehorned cow

poddy-(calf): a calf separated from its mother but still needing milk

rouseabout: labourer in a (sheep) shearing shed. Considered to be, as far as
any work is, unskilled labour.

sawney: silly, gormless

selector: small farmer who under the “Selection Act (Alienation of Land
Act”, Sydney 1862 could settle on a few acres of land and farm it, with
hope of buying it. As the land had been leased by “squatters” to
run sheep, they were NOT popular. The land was usually pretty poor, and there
was little transport to get food to market, many, many failed. (The same
mistake was made after WWI when returned soldiers were given land to starve
on.)

shanty: besides common meaning of shack it refers to an unofficial (and
illegal) grog-shop; in contrast to the legal ‘pub’.

spieler: con artist

sliprails: in lieu of a gate, the rails of a fence may be loosely socketed into
posts, so that they may ‘let down’ (i.e. one end pushed in socket,
the other end resting on the ground). See ‘A Day on a Selection’

spree: prolonged drinking bout—days, weeks.

stoush: a fight

strike: perhaps the Shearers’ strike in Barcaldine, Queensland, 1891
[gjc]

sundowner: a swagman (see) who is NOT looking for work, but a
“handout”. Lawson explains the term as referring to someone who
turns up at a station at sundown, just in time for “tea” i.e. the
evening meal. In view of the Great Depression of the time, these expressions of
attitude are probably unfair, but the attitudes are common enough even today.

Surry Hills: Sydney inner suburb (home for this transcriber)

swagman (swaggy): Generally, anyone who is walking in the “outback”
with a swag. (See “The Romance of the Swag” in Children of the
Bush, also a PG Etext) Lawson also restricts it at times to those whom he
considers to be tramps, not looking for work but for “handouts”.
See ‘travellers’.

’swelp: mild oath of affirmation = “so help me [God]”

travellers: “shearers and rouseabouts travelling for work”
(Lawson).

whare: small Maori house—is it used here for European equivalent? Help
anyone?

whipping the cat: drunk