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Title: Short Stories in Prose and Verse Author: Henry Lawson * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0607911h.html Language: English Date first posted: July 2020 Most recent update: July 2020 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
But even then he wasn’t satisfied. Nothing would suit him but he must
spin his old yarn, and be sympathised with about seven times a week, always
choosing the most unbusinesslike hours (between one and three in the morning)
for his disclosures.
At last I could stand it no longer. I was getting thin and exhausted from
want of sleep, so I determined on a course of action. I had a dog at home,
a big black dog with unpleasant eyes, and a chewing-up apparatus that an
alligator might have envied. He had a most enterprising appetite, and wasn’t
afraid of anything on the surface of this earth—or under it—as
far as he could burrow. He would gnaw a log to pieces rather than let the ’possum
it contained escape him. He was not the sort of dog to stand any nonsense
even from a ghost. His full name was Alligator-Desolation (we called him “Ally” for
short): and, as I considered that if any person on earth could lay the ghost
that annoyed me, that person was Alligator-Desolation, I decided to bring
him along.
The next time I journeyed home for rations I brought Alligator-Desolation
back with me. On the trip back he killed five kangaroos, sixteen ‘possums,
four native rats, two native bears, three sheep, a cow and a calf, and another
dog that happened by; and before he had been two hours at the hut he had
collected enough carcases of indigenous animals to stink a troop out in a
week, or to feed all the dogs in Constantinople. I had tea and a smoke while
Ally was resting, and about eleven o’clock I lay down in my bunk, dressed
as I was, and waited. At about one I heard the usual unearthly noises which
accompanied the arrival of my friend the ghost, and Ally went out to investigate.
While the dog was gone, the ghost strolled in through the door of the end
room, apparently unconscious of his danger. He glided straight up to the
side of my bunk, took his accustomed seat on a gin-case, and commenced in
a doleful voice to pitch his confounded old yarn again; but he hadn’t
uttered half-a-dozen ghostly words when Alligator-Desolation came in through
the side door.
The ghost caught sight of Ally before the latter saw him, and made for the
window. Ally wasn’t far behind; he made a grab at the ghost’s
nether garments, but they gave way easily, being of a ghostly material. Then
Ally leapt out through the window and chased the ghost three times round
the house, and then the latter came in through an opening in the wall where
a slab had fallen out. Being of an easily compressible constitution he came
through, of course, with the facility peculiar to his kind, but the crack
was narrow and the dog stuck fast. His ghostship made the best of his opportunity,
and, approaching my bed, hurriedly endeavoured to continue his story, as
though his ghostly existence depended on it. But his utterances were drowned
by the language of Alligator, whose canine oaths were simply terrific. At
last, collecting all his energy for one mighty effort, Alligator came through,
bringing down the slabs on each side of him.
He made for the ghost at once, and the ghost made for the window. This time
Alligator made a grab for the spectre’s ankle, and his teeth came together
with a crash that threatened their destruction. Ally must have been greatly
astonished and disgusted, because he so seldom missed anything he reached
for. But he wasn’t the kind of dog to give up. He leapt through the
window, and, after a race round the hut, lasting some minutes, the ghost
gave it up, and made for the scrub. Seeing the retreat through a crack in
the slabs, I immediately rose, went outside and mounted my horse, which I
had kept ready saddled in case of emergency. I followed the chase for about
five miles, and at last reached a mound under some trees, which looked like
an old grave. Down through this mound the ghost dived.
Alligator-Desolation immediately commenced to dig, and made two feet in
no time. It appeared that a wombat had selected the grave as a suitable site
for the opening of his burrow and after having sunk about three feet, was
resting from his labours. There was a short and angry interview between Alligator
and the wombat, during which the latter expired, and then Ally continued
his work of excavation. After sinking two feet deeper he dragged out what
appeared to be the leg-bone of a human being, attached to which was a pair
of heavy leg-irons, such as were used in the old convict days. Ally went
down the hole again, but presently he paused in his digging operations, and
I heard a noise like a row in the infernal regions. Then a thin shadowy form
issued from the grave and made off through the scrub with the dog in pursuit.
My horse was knocked up, so I left the chase to Alligator and returned home
to await developments. Ally came back about three days later with his hair
badly singed and smelling strongly of brimstone. I have no doubt that he
chased the ghost to the infernal regions and perhaps had an interview with
Cerberus at the gate, or the boss himself; but the dog’s tail was well
up and a satisfied grin oozed from the roots of every fang, and by the same
tokens I concluded that the other party, whoever he was, had got fatally
left.
I haven’t seen the ghost since.
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 hut 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.
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