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Title: Murty Brown
Author: Edward S. Sorenson
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 1500131h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: February 2015
Most recent update: February 2015
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Murty Brown
by
Edward S. Sorenson
THE STATES PUBLISHING COMPANY
SYDNEY
1925
CONTENTS
I. The Girl on the Raft
II. Murty Brown and the Kernel
III. In Sleepy Hollow
IV. The Check Suit
V. Whiffs from the Pipe
VI. The Sheet of Bark
VII. With Professor de Quinlan
VIII. Sam's Caravan
IX. "The Queensland Marsupial Company"
X. The Kidnapping of Brody
XI. Koponey's Island
XII. Riding Slinger
XIII. The Housekeeper at Dulla
XIV. "Island Lake"
XV. Making a Rise
XVI. Murty Brown: Detective
XVII. The Cruise of the Log Hut
XVIII. Cranky Pranks
XIX. Murty Brown and Humphrey Hodge
XX. A Bag of Bones
Illustration
1. When Murty turned,
Pugnacity was
making demonstrations on the bank.
CHAPTER I. THE GIRL ON THE
RAFT.
The cedar trade was brisk on the Richmond, and Mostyn Carrab
practically lived on the river, drifting slowly down with a raft of
cedar logs, and speeding back in one of the little steamers to
start again from a busy skidway with another consignment. His wife
and his daughter Priscilla travelled with him. Mrs. Carrab cooked
and washed, and sewed, and knitted; while Priscilla helped her
father to navigate the long procession of timber.
Mostyn had been a sailor in his younger days. His yarns implied
that he was a retired sea captain. He had flags of all nations
stowed in his sea chest as evidence, and whenever occasion
warranted he aired the bunting on a line stretched from stem to
stern. He was certainly captain of a raft, which he called the
Cedric. They were all Cedrics.
She travelled only on the ebb tides, drifting with the stream,
and took a deal of manoeuvring round the sharp bends. Priscilla,
carrying a long pole, looked after the stern; the captain,
similarly armed, operated in the forepart. In the evenings, when
she was drifting straight, he liked to lie back in a canvas
deck-chair, smoking a huge, pipe, with a gun on the logs beside him
for ducks.
Half-way down the river was Muddle's farm, situated in a bight
known as Big Bend, which took Carrab's craft several hours to get
round. He and Tom Muddle were old shipmates, so he mostly went
ashore when he got near the farm, and spent a good time with the
Muddle's till Priscilla and her mother had brought the raft round
to the opposite point. When the tide turned in the vicinity, and
they had to tie up till the ebb, he took Mrs. Carrab and Priscilla
with him to the farm house.
There was often jovial company there that sped those waiting
hours, for Big Bend was looked upon as home quarters by
half-a-dozen old mates who knocked about the bush. Chief among the
nomads was Murty Brown, whose home was usually where he hung his
hat. He had become almost a member of the family. Sometimes for
brief periods he worked there; sometimes he made a short excursion
on the raft; but of late he had been making long journeys in the
country on some wild, romantic venture that was a tantalising
mystery to his friends.
Muddle was a widower with two children, Octavius and Sarah.
Octavius was a simple farmer's son, a sapling who had spent his 22
years in that bight. Sarah was two years younger—the same age
as Priscilla. In the matter of looks the latter was nothing to rave
about; she was a homely sort of girl. To simple Octavius she seemed
an angel, and the farm began to be lonely when she wasn't there. He
was soon desperately in love with Priscilla. She, appeared to
regard him favourably, and Octavius determined to get her all to
himself for once, so that the momentous question could be answered
definitely one way or the other. He liked plenty of time when
anything like that was in the wind. He had no chance on the raft or
anywhere, else while her father was about. The captain was a
fierce, aggressive person, who shooed off any intrepid swain who
was likely to tamper with Priscilla's affections. He had his own
opinions regarding courtship, and was strictly opposed to Priscilla
doing anything in that line for the next three years at least. She
was as good as a man on the raft.
Octavius was quite sure he would never meet with the approval of
the old sea dog. The captain treated him with dull disdain, as
something too insignificant to be regarded as a danger. He was
certainly not a ladies' man; but Priscilla was inexperienced, and
if he could gain her promise he would find a way to outwit the old
man all right.
One evening he met the raft with a basket of eggs. The captain
drew in just close enough to reach them. Mrs. Carrab came along to
add her thanks to the old chap's grunt. They had known many little
considerations of the kind from the Muddles.
"How's your father an' sister?" she asked.
"Sarah's sick," Octavius answered. "She's in bed."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Dunno," he said. "Took bad yesterday. She—she'd like to
see Miss Carrab, if you ken spare her."
Mrs. Carrab had a private conversation with the captain, during
which Octavius felt uneasy. He feared Mrs. Carrab would go up to
see Sarah, and there would be no points in having a sick sister in
that case. She took the eggs to the cabin, had a talk with
Priscilla, and returned to him with the basket.
"Priscilla will be up d'rectly, tell Sarah," she in formed him.
"She can stop to-night, as the tide will run out 'fore we get past
the bight, an' she can walk across an' catch us up in the
mornin'."
Octavius was delighted. He tore up to the house excited and
panting. Sarah was standing at the kitchen table peeling cucumbers
and humming "Molly Riley."
"Sarah, get to bed quick—she's coming'!" he gasped. Sarah
dropped her knife without a word and ran into her room. Octavius
hissed through the keyhole: "Be mortal bad, Sarah!" Then he picked
up the knife, and was making a fine fist of slicing cucumbers when
Miss Carrab came in.
"Ah!" she said, eyeing the uneven slices with an amused smile;
"you're the cook, I see."
"Tryin' to do a little," Octavius replied modestly.﹃I hope
you've got something nice for tea?﹄the smile more winsome, her
eyes sparkling.
"Of course, I have," he returned; "something you like."
"What is it?"
"Wild duck an' green peas—an' a gooseberry puddin'."
"Oh, that's grand! Did you cook them?"
"Never mind who cooked 'em; you'll find 'em A1."
"But what do you want the cucumber for if you've got a hot
dinner?"
"Only the puddin's hot," Octavius returned. "You must expect to
find things a bit mixed when Sarah ain't about."
"How is she doin'?" Priscilla inquired.
"Think she's improvin' a bit," Octavius answered. "In here," he
added, turning the knob.
Sarah was a good sister to Octavius. She had formed this little
plan, she fondly hoped, to make him happy. He was slow and bashful;
and she considered a name like. Octavius was in itself detrimental
to a successful love career. She would tell Priscilla how good he
was, and, feeling her way carefully, would ultimately confess that
he was madly in love with her. Octavius accepted this proposal as
his due. It was further agreed that if Priscilla didn't care for
him Sarah would continue to be ill, so the Carrabs wouldn't know
the truth; but if she showed that she was "shook on him" and would
like him to tell her—
On a sudden Octavius gave a violent start and upset the dish. He
heard a commotion in the bedroom, and a lot of giggling. Then the
door opened, and Priscilla was shoved out.
"Here you are, Octo.!" cried Sarah, and immediately banged the
door again. Priscilla stood before him, abashed and blushing. It
was sudden.
Octavius advanced awkwardly—grinning, he caught her
hand—after some fumbling. "Priscilla!" he said. She glanced
at him shyly, and started to laugh. Then he flung two arms round
her—and kissed her. That was all Octavius did to win his
girl; but they loved each other well.
After tea they were playing cards—the happiest trio in
Christendom—when in walked Captain Carrab. The momentary
silence was painful. Both girls reddened, and Octavius looked ill.
He had not expected the tide to turn so soon. He wasn't very well
up in tides.
"You are, better, Miss Muddle?" said the captain, stiffly. He
usually called her Sarah.
"Yes—much better, thank you," Sarah replied, unable to
conceal her discomfiture.
"You look it," the captain rejoined, glancing round with an
audible sniff.
"How far did you get?" Octavius inquired with a desperate desire
to give the girls breathing time. The captain ignored him
absolutely.
"Where's your father?" he asked Sarah.
"In town."
"Gone for medical aid, I presume?"
"No; it's bags for the threshin', I think."
"When did he go?"
"This—this morning."
The captain's glance flashed round the apartment again, dwelling
an instant on the row of polished tins on the shelf over the wide
fireplace.
"Sit in an' make a four-hand, Captain," Octavius invited. "'S
early yet."
The captain didn't appear to hear him.
"When will he be back?" continued the mariner, his glance
returning to Sarah.
"To-morrer."
"Umph!" grunted the captain. "Priscilla, get your hat!"
Priscilla's expression was pitiable. She got her hat.
"Come on!" said the captain. "Good night, Miss Muddle."
When they had gone Octavius and Sarah stared blankly at each
other.
"It was a terrible knock," Octavius said.
He did not get a chance to speak with Priscilla again for six
months. The captain called at the farm occasionally to see his old
shipmate, but he never brought his family. He brought excuses
instead. He never addressed Octavius either—wouldn't look in
his direction.
For a while the lovers corresponded. Priscilla would watch her
opportunity and throw a note, wrapped round a stone, on the bank
where Octavius dipped water. He in turn would crawl along through
the weeds and brush, feasting his eyes on the bluff old raftsman's
daughter, and when chance permitted he threw her a similar message.
That, however, was not always possible, for the raft mostly passed
in daylight hours when Octo. was at work. It was to bridge a long
silence that Murty Brown, while holidaying at the farm, took a
little trip on the drifting logs. He carried love letters to and
fro, while pretending that his only concern was to catch fish. The
secret missives for a time transported Octavius into the realms of
Elysium. But the yearning to speak to her and hold her to him grew
in his heart till he could stand it no longer. Courting is a pretty
tame affair when the principals, by compulsion, are mute and
there's half a river between them and a pugnacious person on the
look-out at the masthead, and the girl's residence is always
drifting away. So one cold winter's evening, after crawling a mile,
along the bank he called softly across the water:
"I'll swim over to-night!"
Octavius donned an old suit of clothes expressly, and an
extra-disreputable pair of boots. Having no hat befitting the
occasion, he went bareheaded. It was bright starlight, and so cold
that he breathed clouds of fog as he went along. He had some
difficulty in finding the raft, and nearly broke his neck in the
search. But once he located it he was soon in the water. The first
dip nearly paralysed him, and he gasped for breath. The raft was
hugging the opposite bank, though the stern was towards him. This
made the swim doubly long; he thought he would have died with
cramps before he got over.
Priscilla was waiting for him at her accustomed post. Her mother
was watching in front, as the captain had taken a bad turn just
after tea and was lying down in the cabin.
"C—c—couldn't be ber-ber-better," Octavius mumbled
as he dragged his shivering form on to the logs.
"My poor dear Octavius," whispered Priscilla, patting his head
feelingly. "You're a real brick."
He clasped her impetuously, but she shrank back with a
shudder.
"Oh, you're so wet an' cold, dear! I'll kiss you instead, an' we
can sit an' talk."
"I've been longin' for this mo-moment for months," Octavius said
through chattering teeth.
"I hope you won't catch cold," said Priscilla, sympathetically.
"It's such a raw night to be swimmin'."
"O—o—oh, I'm as right as p—p—pie," he
replied, shivering with great violence. "It's heavenly to be
sis—sis—sittin' here."
"What's the matter with your hands, dear?" Octavius was
caressing his hands tenderly.
"Fell into a bed o' stingin' nettles," he explained. "Makes 'em
smart."
"And your poor, dear face?"
"Oh, it'll soon be orlright," Octavius declared breathlessly.
"Wish I could sis—sis—sit with you
ev—ver—ver—every night."
Priscilla put her arm round his neck in pity—and snatched
it back again. He reminded her of a water-rat.
Just then a portly form sprang out of the cabin, and came
trotting briskly across the logs. Octavius hadn't time, to say
good-bye, he had only time to drop off into the water and remain
clinging by his fingertips with his face pressed against the end of
a log. He almost howled with pain as the captain stepped by, and
the swinging of the logs jambed his ear. Do what he, would he could
not keep his teeth from chattering. They rattled like
castanets.
"Thought I heard fish jumpin' here," said the captain, shaking
out a scoop net and searching the ends of the logs with an owl-like
eye. "Ought to be a good night for mullet," he added, and dropped
the net directly behind the half-frozen agriculturist. He shoved it
far down and under the logs, and soon he began to haul up again.
There was something in it—something big and heavy. It kicked
and splashed prodigiously, at the same, time making the rummiest
noise Carrab had ever head from a fish. When he drew it on to the
logs, it spluttered and gasped, and reared up, and threw out fins a
yard long.
"Bring a light, girl!" cried the captain. "Got a devil fish, or
octopus, or something! Keep clear—might bite!"
"For Gorsake!" gasped the fish, clawing at the meshes.
"Thunder!" cried Carrab. "It talks."
"Oh, father," pleaded Priscilla, tearfully, "It's poor
Octavius."
"Octavius, eh? Hang me if I didn't think 'twas some kind of an
octopus! Belay there, or I'll flatten you out with a marlin-spike.
You "—turning to Priscilla—"you get to bunk."
"Th' tide's runnin' strong," Priscilla reminded him in a
mutinous tone.
"Get to bunk," the captain repeated. "This chap understands
tides. 'E's agoin' on duty right now. Out you come, you
lubber."
He hauled the net fiercely towards him, and Octavius was emptied
out in a sprawling heap on the logs. He couldn't speak, and his
teeth were bumping now like a milk-shake machine.
"Purty cold Courtin' t'night," the captain remarked, helping him
to his feet. The attitude of Octavius was eloquent. "Don't mind a
decent, straight-out land-lubber, or a fo'es'le dosser doin' a bit
o' spoony-winkin' aboard this craft, but can't stand fish. Jes'
step along 'ere, Octovarious. Only one way as I ken hit on jest now
o' dealin' with amphibian critters like you. Come along."
He led him to the cabin, and threw down a suit of warm clothes
and a pair of sea boots. "Peel off an' get into them," he commanded
gruffly. "Ken take this cap, too—an' this comforter. Look
alive now."
Octavius hurried as fast as his numbed fingers would permit,
wondering in a vague way what could be in store for him. He was in
such a wretched condition just then that nothing really
mattered.
When he emerged from the cabin, still shivering, he saw the
captain standing with a lantern in one hand and a dog-chain and two
padlocks in the other.
"This way, October," said Carrab, and led him back to the end of
the raft. Here he secured one end of the chain to the cable, and
proceeded to fasten the other end round the farmer's leg.﹃Useter
have a dog one time,﹄he remarked during the operation. "But he
swum ashore an' never come back. 'Fraid you might do the same.
Think so much of you, Octobius, I wouldn't like to lose you. Good
thing to have a mate wot won't drown when he falls overboard. Lost
two mates by drownin' when I was tradin' in the Islands."
The chain was padlocked, and Octavius Muddle was a prisoner.
"Now," said Carrab, "the tide'll run for four hours yet. You
take that pole, an' keep the craft clear o' the bank, an' all
obstructions till further orders. Y' 'ave chain enough, I reckon,
to take a dip now'n again when yer scales get too dry."
Before Octavius could utter a word in reply, Carrab was half-way
back to the cabin. Shortly he went to the front, and thence till
the tide ran out he never came nearer to him than the cabin. The
women had gone, to bed, enjoying a glorious "watch off" at his
expense. He worked well. It helped to keep his blood in
circulation. Once or twice he tried to get rid of his fetters. It
galled him to be, put on a chain like a dog. But it was no use; and
the captain wouldn't come near enough to open a discussion on the
stability of dog-chains or the condition of the weather.
When the tide turned the captain's voice rang out loud and
clear: "Belay there! Shove in an' make fast. Look alive now, you
lubber!"
The tying-up completed, the captain ambled down and released
him. "Come an' 'ave some coffee, Octopus," he said. "S 'pose yer
cold?"
"R—r—rather!" Octavius answered, still doubtful. He
was also simmering with resentment, and had a notion of getting
even with the captain before he quitted the Cedric. Just now
Priscilla, looking sweet in a red wrapper, was serving out the
coffee, and he didn't want her to know he had been tethered by the
leg and compelled to work his passage.
"Needn't be afraid of it now, Priscilla," the captain remarked
as he sat down. "Quite tame now. Played up turrible, though, when
it was caught."
Priscilla smiled sympathetically on her disconsolate lover.
"A man ketches queer fish in these rivers at times," he went on,
his eyes twinkling.
"How did you know I was there?" Octavius asked. The query had
troubled him all night. The captain's only response was a
laugh.
He walked out immediately he had finished his coffee, and
Octavius and Priscilla had a deliriously happy five minutes
together before he came back. He saw Octavius to the shore,
Octavius still nursing a grudge against him; but Carrab disarmed
him.
"See here, young man," he said. "There's a good pint or two in
you—an' there's some precious bad ones. When you want to see
Miss Carrab, or Mrs. Carrab, or Captain Carrab, or any of the crew
of the Cedric, come aboard like a white man, not like a turtle; an'
if your sister wants to see Miss Carrab, or Mrs. Carrab, or Captain
Carrab, or any of the crew of the Cedric, there's no occasion for
her to get bilious to do it. Good night. Mind the gangway."
And Octavious, buried in thought, straightway fell into the
water.
CHAPTER II. MURTY BROWN AND THE
KERNEL.
The Muddles were sitting down to tea when Murty Brown and Jim
Webb, whose appearances were eloquent of a smash-up of some kind,
presented themselves in the doorway.
"Sit in, lads. You're just in time," said Muddle. When they had
seated themselves he asked: "Where's your horses?"
"Over the river; we're stopping at Woram tonight," Jim replied,
speaking with apparent effort.﹃Been down to Ramornie with cattle
from the Logan Valley,﹄he added in explanation.
"You've just missed Bill Tarkalson," said Muddle. "He started up
that way on Monday. I think, by what he said, he's got something in
view at Brody's place."
"We'll circulate in that neighbourhood," said Jim, "and if I can
keep Mr. Brown properly regulated, I dare say we shall amalgamate
eventually. He's a little bit disorganised just now, and obsessed
with Quixotic problems."
"What sort of disease is that?" asked Octo. "He's interested in
a certain islet, of weird and wonderful potentialities, in
mid-bush."
"That's a funny place for an islet," Octo remarked.
"Quite the opposite," said Jim. "The problem is to locate it.
But Murty expects to connect with it eventually, and thereby
transmogrify his fortunes."
"He seems to be very much transmogrified now—an' so do
you," said Sarah.
Jim was a heavy-boned but supple-jointed young man of 26, as
fresh-looking as a frosty morning. In deference to an extravagant
style of language he affected, he bore the nickname of Webster.
Murty was middle-aged—a light-limbed, tough-looking warrior,
with a frill beard and a humorous smile that was contagious. That
smile was a feature. It illuminated his remarks, it filled a void
when he had nothing to say, it beamed on his friends and strangers
alike. Sometimes it became ascetic, as when Murty found himself in
a tight corner, or when Jim's unflattering perorations embarrassed
him; but still it beamed.
"What's happened?" asked Octavius, his eyes shifting wonderfully
from one to the other. "You look as if you've been in the
wars."
"We have," Jim confirmed. "Murty will tell you all about it.
Being disabled at the commencement of hostilities, I didn't see as
much active service as he did."
"Fact is," Murty interposed, "the disablement was mostly on the
jaw. Consequently it's no end o' stiff yet, an' hurts."
"What bumped it?" asked Sarah, impatiently.﹃Please to
elucidate, Mr. Brown,﹄Jim requested, with a peculiar pained twist
of the mouth.
"It was this way," said Murty. "We'd come within a mile o'
Tatham Bridge when we meets a procession o' forty men, all under
arms, marchin' four deep. Being peaceable times an' a quiet bush
track, it sort a' took us back a bit. They were mostly farmers an'
selectors, with a few chaps among them from Sleepy Hollow, an' they
had the queerest collection of arms you ever clapped eyes
on—breech-loaders an' muzzle-loaders, pistols, revolvers,
pea-rifles, carbines, muskets, blunderbusses, tomahawks, spears an'
boomerangs, an' other implements of warfare. Tommy Saucepan, the
black fellow, was in front, proud as a starched shirt; an' Dick
Daghorn, who was the only cavalry they had, rode on the left flank,
in supreme command. He was general. The rearguard was a wagonette,
loaded with ammunition an' the canteen. There was no doubt they had
something of powerful importance on. You could see it stickin' out
of the whole regiment, from Corporal Saucepan to the bugle boy. I
was forgettin' him; he was behind, barefooted, with a catapult, an'
a cow's horn polished an' mounted.
"'Mr. Brown,' says Jim—he'd been starin' at the military
pageant for a quarter of a mile—' what do you surmise? 'I'm
fair flummoxed,' I says, pullin' wide to review the march past.
'Looks as if the population's mobilising,' says Jim. 'Good-day,
Kernel!'—to Saucepan. The old darky grinned an' saluted, an'
his pride got to be so tremendous he could scarcely bend. He 'ad a
frock coat on, no boots, an' a tall silk hat. He didn't stop to
talk; he was too important for that.
"Then we comes up with General Daghorn. His old, wrinkled phiz
was fresh-shaved, an' that everlastin' smile of his seemed brighter
than ever. He stood back in his stirrups an' yelled out, 'Ha-alt!'
Th' contingent halted. Some stopped short an' straight as regulars.
Others bumped into them, then staggered back, an' bumped the
musketeers behind 'em, and there was some mutinous remarks in the
ranks. Seemed a few of the rank and file 'ad been doin' canteen
duty before they started for the front. 'What's the disturbance?'
asks Jim. The general saluted, an' he says in the tone an' voice of
authority, 'Join us! The river's declared war against the universal
enemy, an' we're wantin' recruits!'
"'Where's the enemy?'
"'Only a couple o' miles farther.'
"'Is he numerous?'
"'Thousands strong.'
"'Gee-whiz!' says Jim. 'What's his definition?'
"'Come an' see; you're just the volunteers we're looking for,'
says Daghorn. 'Right about now.' Then he sings out, 'March!' an'
the battalion proceeded. They were all as jolly as could be, all
blow-in' about what they were goin' to do, an' what they had
done—especially what they had done, which was wonders. We
enlisted, an' moved with them for the theatre of war.
"'Say, General,' I says, after listenin' awhile to the measured
beat o' the trampin' feet, have you a spare howitzer about
you?'
"'Not a howitzer!' he answers.
"'Well,' I says, 'what's the use of a man goin' warrin' without
a weapon?'
"'Plenty o' use,' says the general. 'The reserved corps don't
want weapons; as the attacking force gets thinned out, the reserves
fill the gaps. In the meantime, you'll follow with waddies and
despatch the wounded.'
"'Is this the openin' engagement?' I asks him.
"'No,' he says. 'We started the campaign on Monday night. We had
an army of a hundred then.'
"'Where's the others?'
"'Some deserted, some in hospital.'
"'None dead?'
"'Not yet.'
"Kernel Saucepan was now signallin' from the front,
"'Berrer make a row with less noise now,' he says. 'Close up
camp, mine think it. Yo' smell 'em?'
"The brigade lifted its head an' sniffed. 'Strong!' says twenty
of 'em. 'Poo-o-o!' says the other twenty. The general was likewise
samplin' the atmosphere. So were we—smellin' an' thinkin'
hard; but we couldn't see daylight yet.
"We came to a fence just afterwards, an' while the infantry was
gettin' through we ties our horses up to posts an' leaves them
there with the canteen.
"From this out the whole regiment was lookin' up trees, an'
pretty soon we understood. We saw the enemy, in fact. If there was
one of him, there was forty thousand, all dead asleep, an' hangin'
head down from the branches.'
"Hah!" laughed Sarah. "Flying foxes!"
"That's the varmints. We were honorary members of the Flyin' Fox
Extermination Society. I can't say as we were proud of the
distinction; 'taint everybody cares to have personal dealings with
them critters. They're so out-an-out obnoxious that if they brush a
peach with the tip of a wing that peach is ruined. It would float
to London an' back without spillin' the effluvia; an' when you set
about dispersin' a colony of 'em the smell is that mighty powerful
you can almost see it. Seems they were gettin' so pestiferous there
was no livin' on the river with them. So this society was formed, a
secretary appointed, proclamations issued, an' a petition sent to
the Gover'ment for ammunition. Whether the Gover'ment shelled out
or not I didn't hear.
"'T any rate, we were on the battlefield. The artillery spread
round the trees, the detachment with clubs got underneath, an'
hostilities began. While they kept in that position the casualties
were nothing to speak of; but when the dense masses were dislodged
from their barracks, an' hundreds o' wounded were flappin' low an'
flappin' along the ground, the excitement got so tremendous that
you couldn't turn anywhere without meetin' a flyin' waddy or
clubbed gun. An' there were collisions round bushes, sprawlin' over
logs and sticks, an' tumblin' into holes or over one another. Some
o' the chaps seemed to think there was no necessity for a lot o'
the knocks an' busters, an' only for the tact of the General they'd
'ave become undisciplined. In less than an hour there wasn't half a
dozen o' the squadron fit for service. The others were in the
hospital, or makin' for it. Didn't take much of an injury to send
any of them there towards the end; the hospital was in the same
place as the canteen. But the enemy was routed with great
slaughter.
"When we'd refreshed ourselves liberally, Mr. Bill Waggles comes
up to me, an' he says: 'Murty, I've got a couple of parcels here
for Mrs. Grabben. Her place is just the other side o' that bit o'
brush—about a mile an' a half from here. I can't go down
myself in this state.' He had some of his complexion missin', an
one leg of his trousers ripped up to the knee. 'Will you an'
Saucepan take them down for me'?' 'Certainly,' I says; an' the
kernel bein' willing, we sets off. The kernel knew the way, so it
wasn't very long before we were at the door. I hands over the
despatches to Mrs. Grabben, an' waits for a reply, as instructed.
She took them inside, an' I hears a great rustlin' o' paper for a
minute or two: then a lot o' talkin' in two languages; an'
presently she comes out again lookin' quite different.
"'What is your name, my man?' she asks me.
"'Brown,' I says. 'Murty Brown.'
"'Where do you come from?'
"'Saddler's Paddock—at present.'
"'What are you doin' there, may I ask?'
"'Havin' a bit o' fun with the enemy—the flyin'
foxes.'
"'Oh! Is that so?' She swung round to the kernel. 'An' who are
you, pray?' The kernel grinned pleasantly.
"'Me? Baal you know it me?'
"'Indeed, I don't!'—coldly.
"'Me Tommy Tsaucepan, belonga Tsandy Crick.'
"She turned to me again. 'Come inside, Mr. Brown,' she says,
quite affable. 'Come in, Saucepan.' Tommy grinned again, an' we
exchanged winks. It looked as if we were right for afternoon
tea.
"As soon as we're in she locks the door, an' puts the key in her
pocket.
"'You're havin' a bit o' fun with the enemy, are you?' she says,
quite nasty. 'You actually have the impudence to own up to it. The
brazen cheek to stand at me door to hear what I'd say! It would be
your deserts if I throwed scaldin' water over the pair of you!'
"By cripes, I was knocked all of a heap. 'Excuse me,' I says; 'I
don't quite get the hang of this—.'
"She eyed me with the blackest scowl I ever saw on a human face,
then turned from me in silent, witherin' scorn. I felt all shrunk
up.
"'Where are you Cliff?' she screeches; an' a wild-lookin' person
comes out of the next room with an old shotgun in his hands. 'Move
a finger, and I'll blow the black scalp off yer!' he says,
presenting it at the kernel. 'Lash him up, Janet.'
"The kernel's eyes bulged, an' before he hardly knew what was
happenin' Janet had strapped his hands behind him, an' slipped a
pair of greenhide hobbles, shortened to one link, round his ankles.
Then she turn to me with a similar set o' fixings. I reckoned 'twas
about time to start an argument.
"'Mrs. Grabben—'
"'Shut up, you dog!'
"'What's the meanin' o' this outrage?'
"'Outrage? Ugh! You ought to talk of outrages, the pair o' you,
after what you did on Monday night. You scamps! As if it wasn't bad
enough to hang dead flyin' foxes on my peach trees, an' pile them
at my door, an' steal the best clutch of eggs I 'ad for sittin',
but you must come insultin' me agin to-day with more of your filthy
varmin. Actually presentin' 'em to me, parcelled up, and with 'Mr.
Waggles' compliments! Loafin' Bill Waggles that never did an honest
day's work in his life. I'll make you pay dear for it, you take it
from me. It'll be one for the enemy.'
"No mistake, my hair bristled at that. I wanted to say so much
that I darned near choked. If Bill Waggles 'ad been there I'd 'ave
choked him—cheerfully. A man who'd put up a job like that on
another, an' think it a joke, wants spifflicatin'. I don't say it
was him decorated the premises with the foxes Mother Grabben, I
heard tell, 'ad a neighbour or two who wouldn't think twice o'
doin' her a bad turn, without expectin' any reward for it—but
he was one o' the troop in the first raid, an' knew all about it.
The mean swine had sent us to stir up bull ants with our eyes
shut.
"'Madam,' I says, 'we've been had—"
"'That's true,' she says, fixin' a scintillatin' eye on me; 'we
have you, an' don't you rastle with me, or I'll forget what's due
to me, an' knock you stiff.'
"'I'll stiffen him for you if there's any shinanikin,' says
Grabben. 'Lash him up, Janet.' He put the gun away (that was only
to frighten the kernel with), and was makin' a great show of
rollin' up his sleeves. He was a man of about 14 stone—an'
Janet was no midget, either. There was no p'ints in one man settin'
up a rebellion there. So pretty soon I was handcuffed an'
short-hobbled like the kernel. 'Now, go for the constable,' says
Janet to her husband. 'I'll look after them till you come back.
"Grabben was gone in a minute, full gallop. Janet stood watchin'
him for a bit, then bustled through the back way to hunt a fowl
out, leavin' the front door open. The kernel signalled with his
head an' eyes, an' we shuffled through as quiet as we could. But
there was a heap of spare hobble rings, attached to us, which we
couldn't muffle nohow. The clatter o' Janet an' the fowl served us
at the start, but she was after us before we were off the verandah.
'Come on!' says the kernel, an' off he goes across the paddock,
jumpin' like a kangaroo. I was shufflin' fit to disjoint myself,
but it was no use. I couldn't go a mile in a week. To 'ave any hope
at all, I saw I must do the kangaroo act, too. So I makes a
leap—an' pretty near topples over. The loss o' my
arms—or the use of 'em—was too recent yet. Old Janet
closed up a lot before I could take off again, an' I made three
desperate bounds without stoppin'. The first was Al, the second put
a bit of a bend on me, an' the third nearly put me on my
head—the consequence o' not havin' a tail to balance with. I
lost precious seconds gettin' regulated again, an' had to put in
some fancy work next. I'd leap sideways just as Janet would go to
grab me, then make three more hops, an' after gettin' my balance
spring the other way an' bound on again. Talk about hard work! It
beat all the kill-ingest bullockin' I can think of. 'Twasn't the
athletics only those greenhide hobble-straps hadn't seen a bit of
grease since they were alive, an' they gave me sore fetlocks before
I'd gone 20 yards. An' hot! You could see smoke comin' out of me.
An' the old girl all the while was bustlin' here an' rushin' there,
an' abusin' me something awful.
"About 50 yards from the house was a dog-leg fence. The kernel
cleared it at a bound. No mistake he was a champion in hobbles.
He'd take a dozen jumps right off—quick an' high like a
startled wallaby, an' cover more ground in one go than I could in
two.
"When I got to that dog-leg my knees were buck-lin' under me.
Hadn't a jump left in me. I made a desperate dive at it—took
a pile of it with me, in fact, an' lost my good looks pullin' up on
the other side. I was fair blown out, an' you could scarce see me
for blood an' sweat.
"Janet was surroundin' me in a jiff, but she wasn't
speechifyin'. Just puffin'. After a bit she hoisted me on to my
knees, an' right then I grasped the great solution. If I wasn't the
two ends an' the middle of the stupidest blamed ass goin', don't
tell me. By just sittin' back on my heels I could undo the hobble
straps with my fingers as simple as getting into trouble. I felt
refreshed at once. But I wasn't done with her ladyship yet.
"'Mrs. Grabben," I says, 'I'm gettin' sunstruck—which I'm
subject to.' I wanted my hat, you know.
"'Good enough for you,' she snaps.
"'I feel like dyin'.
"'Small loss if you did.'
"'I was thinkin' of you.' I says. 'You'd be had up for
manslaughter. See what you've done...Will you get me a drink, an'
wash this blood off?'
"She considered for a minute. Th' sight o' the hurts I'd
collected in my travels had a softening effect on her. An' I wasn't
puttin' it on a little either. As she saw me, I was a jolted up,
broken-down, haggard an' melancholy-lookin' wreck.
"'If I lengthen th' hobbles,' she says 'will you walk back to
th' house?'
"'Certainly,' I says. 'I'd sooner die in a house than in a
paddock.'
"'Twould be just like th' pestilence you are,' she says, 'to go
an' die on th' place an' make more mess an' trouble for me. It's a
great pity you didn't die a week ago.'
"She steered me for a cask that stood at th' back of th'
skillion, an' as soon as we gets there I flops down on my knees.
She shortened' th' hobbles again before she give me a drink. Then
she spruced me up like a mother, put ointment on my nose, an'
straightened my hat. I was rested by that time. 'Thank you, Mrs.
Grabbers,' I says, an' springin' up I cut for me natural. 'Oh, you
dog, you!' she gasps. That was all I heard from her. She was too
flabbergasted to say any more.
"When I got back to th' garrison, Bill Waggles was just comin'
to his senses, an' the General was pourin' brandy an' water down
his neck. Kernel Saucepan had laid him out with a nulla.
"Cliff Grabben? He was sittin' with his back against a wheel,
tryin' to pick up a box of matches he'd spilt. Th' flyin' column
had blocked him, an' he was court-martialled at the canteen."
CHAPTER III. IN SLEEPY HOLLOW.
Some additions were being made to the Boomerang Hotel, which
occupied the main corner of the little town of Sleepy Hollow, and
on the roadway in front Bill Waggles was leisurely mixing up a heap
of mortar with a hoe. It was unusual to see Bill Waggles so
usefully employed, which was partly the reason that his best
friends, Josh Taylor and old Abner Boker, were specially interested
in the operations. Captain Carrab, the raftsman, who was waiting in
town for cedar, was also a spectator; and Jacob Mole, the road
contractor, on his way from the Town Hall, had stopped at the same
spot to fill his pipe. Bill Tarkalson, with swag ready for the
northern road, had simultaneously deposited himself on the form
outside the bar for the same, purpose.
It was then that Murty Brown came jogging up the street. He had
left Jim at Woram, and was on his way round to Muddle's to pick up
a horse that was spelling there, the only crossing for horses being
the bridge at Sleepy Hollow. Attention was promptly diverted from
the worker to the newcomer, who was riding a fresh-looking filly
and leading a packhorse. His amiable grin, framed in a wispy ribbon
of gingery hair, gave his wrinkly face, a peculiar
attractiveness.
As he approached the group of idlers a scraggy, half-fed dog
which had been industriously scratching itself in the gutter,
slipped up behind the filly and nipped her on the heel.
Murty wasn't a bad rider, but he was taken unawares. A frantic
leap unbalanced him, and two vigorous bucks following quickly, sent
him sprawling into the heap of mortar. In his descent he
unintentionally carried Bill Waggles with him, while the splash he
made on landing raised the ire of Captain Carrab, who stopped the
thick of the upheaval.
Bill Waggles scrambled up first and shook himself sulkily.
"Why th' blazes don't you mind where you're fallin'!" he
growled.
"What the devil d'yer mean by obstructin' the traffic with your
mullock heaps?" Murty demanded irascibly. A scowl had taken the
place of the pleasant grin he had ridden up with. He was a
deplorable-looking object, with wet lime and mortar all over him.
That was bad enough; the humiliation of the circumstance was worse.
It was the sort of thing that made sport for idling people in dull
moments.
Jacob Mole stood aside, coughing behind his hand, while Abner
Boker, who was sharking with an inward convulsion, pretended to be
watching where the horses went to. Josh Taylor was sympathetic.
"Didn't hurt yerself, did yer?" he inquired.
Murty glared at him. "What would I want to hurt myself for?" He
shook some of the loose mortar off himself and picked up his hat.
Then he asked, addressing nobody in particular: "Whose mangy
mongrel is that?"
Josh Taylor silently retired into the background as though the
question didn't concern him. Jacob Mole supplied the
information.
"Josh Taylor ought to have better sense, than to be followin' a
dog like that about the town."
"The beast ought to be anchored at the bottom of the river,"
grunted the captain.
"So I say," Tarkalson put in. "That's the mongrel that pinched a
lump o' meat from my camp last night."
"If that animal's pilotin' Josh Taylor about, then Josh Taylor
ought to have himself seen to," added the captain.
These caustic comments soothed Murty's ruffled feelings a
little; a visit to the bar restored the amiable grin, and led to a
friendly agreement between him and Waggles and Tarkalson. They had
a common grievance, the basis of which was Josh Taylor's dog.
"'Taint the first time I've been annoyed by that animal," said
Mr. Waggles. "Only a week ago I caught him chewin' the head off a
hen o' mine. One o' me best layers. I spoke to Josh Taylor about
it, an' he says I ought to look after my hens better'n I do. An'
the other night he nipped me on the heel as I was passin', an' Josh
Taylor says he must 'ave mistook me for a burglar. Which was a
dirty insult. An' a man don't like bein' heeled in public, an' have
people laughin' at him because he jumps when he ain't intendin' to.
Josh Taylor thinks it a joke, which shows th' perverted mind th'
fellow has; an' its my belief he's taught that beast to nip people
an' other animals for hie own amusement."
"'Tain't only Josh Taylor," said Murty. "I've seen that silly
joke before to-day. A knot of yahoos standin' at a corner, maybe;
an' when a stranger comes along, or one they want to take a rise
out of, as a counterjumper Iearnin' to ride, one of 'em signs to
the mongrel, an' then the hoodlums of the town have something new
to laugh over. I go through a lot of towns in my travels, an'
pretty near every one of 'em's got a set of mongrels that have
nothing else to do but make a noise when somebody comes, an'
frighten the grass out of his horse. There's nothing enlivens the
street corner push more 'n a dog fight. They watch for a strange
dog, an' their mangy beasts are so used to bushrangin' that no one
can call 'em off. This town is well supplied with the breed."
"They're goin' to be, got rid of," Mr. Waggles declared. "An'
the easiest way o' goin' about it is to get the owners to bring 'em
to us. Look here. This man wants a job"—indicating
Tarkalson—"He's bound for the Logan Valley, an' got no money
for the road. If you put in a quid—which will be his wages,
if he's willin' to assist me for a week, say, at Lankeyy's hut,
where he'll be well housed, rent free—I'll guarantee to rid
this town of a lot o' the mongrels that's infestin' it. I don't
suppose I'll get a testimonial from the citizens for th' good work;
but I ain't lookin' for limelight...Does that suit?"
"Well," said Murty, dubiously, "the case calls for some
satisfaction, but without knowin' the specifications—"
"Oh, you needn't worry," Mr. Waggles assured him. "There'll be
no unpleasantness. All you're, asked to do is to subscribe
Tarkalson's pay for th' little assistance he'll be givin' me. As
he's down on his luck, it will be helpin' a caber as well. If the
scheme, works all right, there may be some profit in it. I'm sure
there will. Just you leave it to me. I've been chewin' over this
idea o' mine for a month or more."
After discussing the matter further they decided upon a plan of
action. Waggles directed Tarkalson to a place known as Lankey's
Hut, which stood in the middle of a small paddock about two miles
up the river. It had once been the home of a selector named Lankey,
who had disappeared after obtaining his deeds. He was a bachelor,
who had always been something of a mystery, and no one knew what
had become of him. As time revealed, his affairs closely concerned
Murty Brown; but Murty had no suspicion of it then. Waggles,
however, informed Tarkalson that he'd received a letter from
Lankey, who was engaged in a big scalping industry, and wanted
dogs; and Tarkalson might be commissioned to take a pack out, as it
was on his road, if Lankey sent some money along in time.
As for Murty, he left town again that evening for Dick Daghorn's
place, a few miles down the river, where his mate, Jim Webb, was
having a week's spell.
Next morning a notice was posted up on the blackboard at the
main corner:—
WANTED TO PURCHASE.
"Dogs of all descriptions. Good prices paid for mongrels. Apply
at Lankey's Hut, 7 to 9 p.m."
One of the first interested persons to see, that notice was
Abner Boker. He stood in front of it like a man who saw hope
shining between the lines, and scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"That gravy-eyed poodle of the old woman's is the right sort if
they're takin' mongrels," he muttered at last, walking away. "He
ought to fetch five bob—an' that's more use to me than he is
to her."
He pondered over it as he walked slowly home. Mrs. Boker thought
a lot of that poodle, which was the reason Abner pondered so much.
It monopolised his thoughts till after dark. Then he stole, into
the yard, picked Towser up with a show of unwonted affection, and
hurried away with him.
When he reached Lankey's Hut, half a dozen other men were there,
haggling over terms. Money appeared to be no object with Tarkalson,
who did the buying; but he stipulated that the dogs must be left
there a week before the purchase, would be completed.
"If they stop then an' follow me when I want 'em to, they'll be
paid for; but if they clear home again as soon as I let them go, it
will be no use buyin' them."
There was some grumbling at this, but finally the unassorted
dogs were handed over. Tarkalson passed them through to the back,
where Bill Waggles, who kept out of view, locked them up in an old
fowl house.
The same process was repeated the next and the following nights,
after which time there didn't appear to be any more dogs for sale.
Waggles, who was at the hut only in the evening, led up a couple
with the remark that they were strays he had found wandering about
the street.
The week was only half up when Mrs. Boker called at Lankey's
Hut. Some thief had stolen her poodle, and she came to see if he
had stolen it to sell, as she was told a couple of her neighbours'
dogs had been taken within the last day or two. Tarkalson had just
finished breakfast. With some scraps and bones on a plate, he led
the way to the kennel, so that she might see for herself if the
missing poodle was there. To his consternation he found the door
open, and every dog gone. Even some that had been tied up outside
had disappeared. Tarkalson was greatly concerned; it seemed to him
that somebody else was in the dog business as well as themselves,
and was not so particular how he obtained his animals.
Other people called to inquire about lost dogs. One of them was
Josh Taylor. He had a good sort of dog he would have sold at a
price, but it had disappeared before he saw the notice. Josh Taylor
was rudely inquisitive; he meandered around—and he went away
puzzled. He knew of several dogs being absent from home, and yet
the dog merchants hadn't a solitary specimen to show.
At the end of the week Abner Boker called for his money.
Tarkalson looked surprised.
"Didn't your poodle go back?" he asked. "No, he didn't," said
Abner in dismay.
"Well," said Tarkalson, "he, escaped th' night before your
missus came here lookin' for him, an I haven't seen him since."
"If that dog escaped he'd come home," said Abner. "Come home
from anywhere—unless he was kept."
"Perhaps he is," Tarkalson rejoined. "We lost a pack
mysteriously; an' I hear some one's goin' round thievin' dogs
lately."
"H'm!" said Abner thoughtfully. "Th' old woman's been giving me
no peace, unless I was lookin' for that poodle continuous; an' now
I'll 'ave to look in earnest. I suppose you couldn't let me have
half th' money now an' the other half when I find him?"
Tarkalson handed him the money without hesitation, and Abner
departed with the satisfaction of having made a good bargain.
The others turned up punctually, and the result was pretty well
the same in all cases. Each request was met by a blank look of
inquiry; and as he learnt that no dog had gone home Tarkalson's
surprise grew into profound astonishment. Every brute that had been
brought to him was gone; there wasn't one left on the place.
Some of the sellers accepted the position good-humouredly; some
said it was a darned fool of a way of buying dogs; others mumbled
suspicions and inspected the hen-house. Jacob Mole said if he found
out there was any crooked business going on he'd make somebody sit
up. They went away in a body, discussing the matter warmly. They
felt that they had been had somehow, and were annoyed at not being
paid.
"Look here," said Tarkalson, turning suddenly on his mate when
they had gone. "What's the game?"
Waggles thrust a pound note into his hand. "You make tracks an'
leave th' rest to me—if there should be any trouble, which I
don't anticipate—"
Tarkalson protested. He didn't want his name connected with
anything crooked, and was entitled to an explanation.
"You're not known here," said Waggles, "an' you haven't done
anything crooked. Everybody knows me, but they don't know I've been
in this concern. You get out at once, an' that will be the end of
the whole thing. I've got to get away from this hut now."
He got away at once, and Tarkalson, being in the peculiar
position of a man who didn't know what he had been doing, and not
liking the look of things, rolled up his swag and stepped out for
the Logan.
A little later Murty Brown rode up to the hut, and finding it
empty, he took possession, as the little grassy paddock was
convenient for his horses.
In the meantime Waggles had strolled down to the Boomerang. On
entering the bar he found a dozen disappointed dog-sellers there,
still talking dubiously over the transaction. One asked him to have
a drink, and while he was having it Captain Carrab and Tom Muddle
stepped in.
"What's happenin' to all the dogs up this way?" asked the
captain, pleasantly.
"That's what we're tryin' to find out," Jacob Mole returned.
"If I've had one bloated canine carcase stranded against my raft
this week I've had a score," said the captain.
At this everybody stared at him with thunderstruck expressions.
Bill Waggles gulped his whisky down, then propped himself against
the bar in a deeply attentive attitude.
"All sorts an' conditions of dogs," continued the captain.
"Black, white an' brindle. What's the epidemic?"
"Where are they now asked Jacob Mole, after a tense silence.
"Cruisin' towards the Heads somewhere," said the captain.
"Pollutin' the river. Whoever heaved them in ought to be
prosecuted. One of 'em was the dead spit of that mongrel of Josh
Taylor's that upset Murty Brown. But I couldn't swear to it, as the
scalp an' brush were missin'."
"Scalped!" cried two or three in a breath.
"All scalped—an' tailed too," the captain informed
them.
Jacob Mole banged his fist on the bar. "Look here!" he cried.
"That scoundrel's killed our dogs an' sold th' scalps—20/-
apiece; an' he'll take the tails away to another district where
they pay for th' brush."
"Let's after him!" cried Josh Taylor. "Pitch him in the
river!"
They left in a mob, Josh Taylor making the pace. Bill Waggles
followed to the corner of the street, then clewed for home. Only
the captain and Tom Muddle remained.
After awhile Muddle inquired: "Where are they bound for?"
"Lankey's Hut," the captain replied with a chuckle.
"Why," said Muddle, suddenly serious, "Murty Brown has just gone
up there...I'd better go and see what they're up to."
He got his horse after some delay, and followed in the tracks of
the man-hunters. When he reached the hut he saw Murty standing in
the doorway, keeping the besiegers off with a shovel, and loudly
and indignantly protesting his innocence. Muddle rode between the
mob and the door, and in a couple of minutes he had proved an alibi
for Mr. Brown.
The avengers were chagrined and nonplussed. They looked through
the hut and the shed, while Murty complimented them in exuberant
language for a lot of fatheads; and when they were satisfied that
the dog merchants had fled, they went back to town in a humour that
nearly provoked fights among themselves.
"I'm goin' to get the hang of this jumped-up business if I
bust," Murty declared when Tom Muddle had left him. He went
straight to Bill Waggles' house, which was situated in a neglected
and unfrequented street. Going quietly down the side, he discovered
Bill in a small shed at the back, and in an instant he was master
of the whole scheme.
Bill was sitting on an empty case, with a dish of reddish dye in
front of him, in which he, was carefully immersing some dog scalps.
There were more scalps, and some brushes, on a line above him, all
of them a fair imitation of the colour of the typical dingo.
Waggles started guiltily as Murty stepped in on him
unawares.
"So this is the idea, is it? By Gripes, Waggles, you ought to be
pole-axed!"
"S'h!" said Waggles, jumping up and plunging his hand into his
pocket. "Is any o' them fellers about?"
"No—but they were nearly havin' my scalp just now. What do
you mean by it?"
"Here's your quid," said Waggles, thrusting it into Murty's
hand. "Don't say a word—an' keep away from here, an' there'll
be no unpleasantness."
"What about the profits?" asked Murty. "You seem to have, had a
good harvest."
"They ain't ripe yet," said Waggles, with an impatient gesture
towards the scans. "Want 'em to stink first."
"What's that for?"
"Well, you see, this lot won't stand a very close inspection. If
they smell high, the scalp-receiver won 't examine them, or even
count them. He'll just say, 'How many? Chuck 'em in the corner
there.' I know him. But you'd better not be seen here."
"I think I'd better not," Murty agreed.
It was said afterwards in Sleepy Hollow that the job at the
Boomerang infused new energy into Bill Waggles, for when the job
was completed he went dingo trapping on the adjacent cattle run,
and was eminently successful. He made a big haul of dingoes the
first week.
CHAPTER IV. THE CHECK SUIT.
Big black clouds were rolling up from the south, with
intermittent clashes of thunder, sharp streaks of lightning and
other accompaniments, as Murty Brown rode towards Muddle's farm. He
was enjoying the atmospheric change, and watching the black
cockatoos flying from tree to tree along the bank of a reedy
lagoon, when, at the tail of the crying cohort, his eyes suddenly
lit on a bearded person whose appearance gave him a momentary
shock. The stranger carried a gun in one hand and a brace of ducks
in the other, and his dress consisted only of hat, boots and a
singlet. He was a man of about Murty's height, but younger and
sturdier, and had an aspect just then of aggressive unfriendliness,
which urged Murty to push along to avoid the coming rain. But the
man in the singlet bailed him up.
"What sort of a caper do you call this?" he demanded. "Just
peel'em off again quick an' lively."
"Peel what off?" asked Murty.
"That check suit o' mine you've got on," said the aggressive
person. "Do you think good suits like that are put down for you to
pick up?"
Murty's astonishment was mingled with anxiety. The semi-nude
gentleman was apparently subject to dangerous delusions.
"You're makin' a mistake, old man," he said in a conciliatory
tone. "What would I be doin' with your suit?"
"You've got it on, that's what you're doin' with it," roared the
man with the unclothed legs.
"Get out! You've got beetles in your socks, man," said Murty.
"You've got a suit just like this, I suppose, an' you've mislaid it
somewhere."
"I 'know d—d well where I mislaid it," the claimant
returned, with fierce gestures. "D' you think I don't know my own
suit when I see it?"
"You don't, that's evident," said Murty. "How do you make out
it's yours, anyway?"
The claimant jerked his thumb in the direction of the lagoon.﹃I
was strippin' off in the bushes down there to swim after a duck I'd
shot, when a mob settled behind the reeds farther up, an' I slipped
me boots on again to go after 'em, leavin' th' suit under the
bushes. An' when I get back it's gone—an' here's you wearin'
it!﹄He threw the ducks down and leaned the gun against a sapling,
at the same time seizing a rein with one hand to prevent Murty
getting away. "Now then, what about it?"
Murty laughed mirthlessly, as if he was amused at the mistake.
The claimant's cocksureness was certainly extraordinary.﹃Show me
where you left it—or think you left it,﹄he temporised.
"Perhaps I can find it."
"That's no good to me," said the man whose legs Were bare.
"Here! Just take 'em off, an' you'll see th' name sewed on under
the collar of the vest."
Confident of being able to convince him of his error, Murty
promptly took off the coat and vest—and the Other promptly
grabbed them. "There's the name!" he cried triumphantly. "On the
coat too."
"That's Klinker's Emporium'—the name o' the shop where I
bought 'em," gasped Murty. "You pass 'em back here."
"You pass me them trousis. They're mine, an' you know d—d
well they are. Come on; I've had enough argument."
He grasped Murty suddenly by the arm and dragged him out of the
saddle. The horse pulled back in affright, and in the tussle Murty
was upset. Whilst he hung on to the reins, and protested loudly and
vigorously against the outrage, he was denuded of the remaining
garment by main force.
"Well, by cripes, you're the dead limit!" gasped Murty, as the
robber proceeded to dress himself with an equally injured air.
"You're the two ends an' the middle of a blamed ass, that's what
you are. You'll pay for this, you take it from me. The' suit isn't
your size. Fits you too soon everywhere. Isn't that enough for
you?"
The duekshooter looked a bit doubtful. He stretched his arms and
shook his legs and eyed himself up and down; finally he scowled on
the victim and departed in sulky silence.
"Don't think you've seen the last o' me, you fathead!" Murty
called after him. "By eripes, I '11 make it hot for you before I'm
done with yer."
The duckshooter took no notice, and soon he disappeared in the
bushes. Murty sat on a log for awhile, digesting the situation. His
appearance was more remarkable now than the thief's had been. His
white shirt, starched collar, scarlet necktie and polished boots
accentuated the unfinished state of his toilet. When he had mounted
he was conscious of an aggravated grotesqueness.
He decided at once that he couldn't visit his friends until he
had called somewhere and borrowed a new veneer of decency to go on
with. Further reflection showed that he couldn't call anywhere
until he had dressed himself. The residences about there belonged
to farmers, and he remembered what a lot of young people they
mustered among them. He couldn't go back to town. The only course
was to wait for night. Even then, being of a sensitive nature, he
shrank from the thought of letting his friends know of his
humiliation. They would laugh about it for the rest of their days.
He would be the joke of the district, if not an object of
everlasting ridicule. Still, he had to resume the role of a
respectable citizen somehow.
He had been riding slowly through the bushes along the lagoon
during these reflections. The rain was pelting down, and the wind
was whipping the tail of his wet shirt icily about his loins.
Streams of water ran down his legs, and bubbled up again out of his
boots. He pulled up among the bushes, sitting with bowed head and
shivering limbs, heroically defying the elements. It looked the
most dismal spot on earth to stop at, but the bushes acted as a
wind-break, and they were the only available substitutes for
trousers.
As a strong gust bowed the bushes in front of him, he glimpsed a
crouching form under a leaning tree some little distance away. The
sight electrified him. He slipped from the saddle, and darted
through the dripping vegetation with the grim manner and look of an
assassin.
A closer view assured him that the crouching form was wearing
the stolen suit. The gun stood behind the robber, in a little
hollow out of the rain. With a scintillating eye fixed on the
barrel, Murty stepped stealthily and smartly to the rear, the rain
and thunder drowning his footfalls. A grin relaxed the tenseness of
his expression as he planted himself on the opposite side of the
tree, where he waited till the storm had rumbled past.
The other man straightened himself up, and presently reached
round for the gun. Instead of finding it standing in the hollow, he
saw it pointing at him, with a fierce eye squinting murder along
the barrel.
"Off with 'em, you cow!" Murty roared at him, at the same time
making a threatening movement with the firearm.
The man in the suit gave an involuntary jump, then turned
sharply and ran for his natural life.
Murty had expected meek obeyance. For a moment he stared after
the runaway in dismay. Then he rushed back to his horse, flew into
the saddle and galloped in pursuit. The rain had ceased, but there
was a frolicsome wind, which played impishly with his riding attire
as he got up pace.
He had not gone very far when he observed old Mrs. Dougherty, a
tall, bony farmer's wife, driving across his path a little ahead of
him. He pulled his hat down and kept on his way, grimly determined
to overtake the suit.
The clatter of hoofs brought the old woman's head round, and
immediately after it was jerked upward as if she had sat on a pin.
She half rose from her seat, shook and pulled the reins with
frantic impatience and whacked the dozing quadruped hard with a
long stick. The moke gave a startled plunge; Mrs. Dougherty sat
back suddenly, and losing her balance turned a somersault out of
the cart. She was on her feet again in an instant, and with her hat
and a plaster of mud hanging to her hair dashed after the
retreating cart.
Murty clattered by, being now close on the heels of his panting
quarry. Just beyond the ground dipped, and in the hollow he
discovered a charcoal-burner's camp. This was the fugitive's haven,
and for an instant or two Murty hesitated; but seeing no sign of
life about the habitation, he dug his heels in and rode on.
Charcoal was sitting in the tent, enjoying a contemplative
smoke. At the first sight of the breathless man charging down on
him, and the armed apparition in hot pursuit, he started up in
amazement, and the pipe dropped from his mouth. He started with
bulging eyes till he could hear the panting of the pursued, and
then he dived under the back of the tent, and made off towards a
patch of scrub as fast as two bandy legs could carry him. The
pursued staggered in and dropped helplessly on to Charcoal's
tucker-box. Murty almost immediately pulled up at the door, fell
off in his hurry to dismount, and charged in after him.
"Now, then you blithering idiot," he snorted, making
demonstrations with the gun, "off with 'em, quick and lively!"
"Hold on!" the other man appealed, breathing hard.
"Hold on, be d—d!" snapped Murty. "Get out of 'em, or I'll
blow you out. A spiflicated galoot like you ought to be in the
asylum—or else in gaol. D' you hear? Get a hurry on."
"Not so fast, mate," pleaded the other. He pointed to a new
check suit which lay in a careless bundle on Charcoal's bunk.
"Whose is that?"
Murty picked it up. It was similar in every way to the one in
dispute, except that it was a size bigger. In one coat-pocket were
five cartridges.
"Know anything about these?" asked Murty, holding them out in
his hand.
The other man's face changed. "Well, well!" he said, jerking his
head and staring at the find. "Well, well!"
"What th' blazes am I to make of 'well, well'?" Murty demanded,
irascibly. "Are these things yours?"
"That's my suit all right," was the answer. "It was that
Charcoal scroucher who pinched it. I knew he was no chop."
"A nice sort of a fellow you are, ain't yer?" sneered Murty.
"S'elp me, a man can't cross a paddock without bein' stuck up for
his clobber. Dead sure it was yours, too, weren't you?"
"I'm sorry, old man," said the other, commencing to disrobe.
"But never mind. When I round up Charcoal, I'll give him something
for gettin' You into this fix. That cove ought to get six
months."
CHAPTER V. WHIFFS FROM THE
PIPE.
Murty stayed at Muddle's that night, and after a limited look
round the premises next morning, he sauntered in for a chat with
Sarah, who was ironing at the table. She looked quizzically out of
the corners of her eyes as he entered, leaving the door wide
open.
"Ain't there no doors where you come from?"
Doors of country houses were more often open than shut, but
to-day a cool wind was blowing in and that made Sarah's irons
cold.
"No, Sarah," he replied. "Only slip-rails."
"Well, don't you put them up after you?"
Murty closed the door.
Sarah took another iron from the fire, spat on it to try its
temperature, and rubbed it on a bag which did duty for a
hearth-rug. After executing a few rapid curves and circles with it
on her father's shirt front, she slapped it noisily on the stand,
and said: "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
Murty had just lit his pipe, but the query surprised him so much
that he nearly let it go out again.
"That's what Mr. Conyers always says when I'm present," Sarah
added, without looking at him; and there was a peculiar movement
about her lips as she resumed ironing.
"Well," said Murty, "that blamed old chimney's smoking fit to
drive a person outside, and it ain't apologisin' any either. Seems
to have an ambition to out-smoke any other chimney on the river. An
when you can stand that, the little whiffs from my old dudeen ain't
worth mentioning."
"Two evils don't make one good," Sarah returned. "And the
chimney only smokes when the wind's blowing from that quarter.
You're always smokin', wind or no wind. It's a beastly habit,
smoking"—reflectively. "I don't know what you men can see in
it. It doesn't do you any good."
"Maybe you're right, an' maybe you ain't. I know times when it
does a power of good."
"Tell us."
He pressed the glowing tobacco down in his pipe, and puffed
reminiscently.
"I remember when I was a boy, an' I did anything that promised a
hidin', I always kept out of sight till the old man had lit his
pipe. I was safe then. Many a time I've crept round the house,
after they'd finished tea, peepin' through the cracks to see if th'
peacemaker was about, before I'd venture in. That's one o' the
times when th' pipe does good, an' every boy whose dad is a smoker
knows it. An' when it comes to mateship, give me th' man who loves
his pipe—providin' he ain't short o' tobacco more'n five days
a week. You look at two smokers holdin' a quaker's meetin', an' two
non-smokers doin' th' same, an' you'll notice th' first two are
comfortable, while th' other two chaps seem to be wishin' that a
cart would bolt an' run over a dog. Th' pipe soothes an' comforts
when a man's worried or troubled; it's a help when time crawls, an'
a good companion in lonely places."
"Half the men are quite satisfied with th' company," said Sarah,
viciously. "They would certainly give up anything else before the
pipe—even their wives. If I couldn't marry a man without
marrying a smoky companion, too, I think I'd rather die an old
maid. If a woman can get through her worries an' loneliness without
turning herself into a smokestack, then she's company and comfort
enough for his lordship."
"Well, maybe you'd strike a prize, an' maybe you wouldn't.
Smokin' is a good disinfectant, an' it's good for the digestion.
Lots o' people start smokin' by th' doctor's orders."
"Did the doctor order you to smoke?"
"No-o; I can't say he did. I'll tell you how I started: I picked
th' pipe up comin' home from school. 'Twas a short clay, soaked
black, an' strong enough to knock me over now, seasoned an' all as
I am. But I didn't know any different then. I thought it was a
treasure. I washed it in the river, an' polished it with a bit of
rag; an' when I got home I hid it in a mortice-hole of a big round
post at th' corner of the yard. I was pretty well a week gettin'
enough tobacco to fill it. Th' strongest black twist it was, too,
an' I put that in th' mortice-hole along with a box o'
matches—as it wasn't convenient to use 'em straightaway.
"I waited till a Saturday, when I had to go down the river with
a message to a very strict old dame, who had seven prim daughters
on the bargain counter. I mention them because girls was an
embarrassment; to me in those days. Near the house was a patch of
scrub, an' in there I lit up. Th' tobacco was a bit lumpy, as I'd
cut it up with my thumb-nail, an' it only took fire in one corner,
an' required hard drawin' to keep it goin'. Smokers know what that
means. I didn't. I was quite content as long as I could blow a
cloud.
"I blew harder than was necessary, though, trying to make
spinnin' jenny wheels with the smoke.
"No mistake, I was proud—perched on a log with my back
against a tree, an' restin' the bowl between my fingers. There's
two occasions in every young man's life when his head's too big for
his hat; when he blows his first whiffs from th' pipe, an' when he
kisses his first girl."
"Oh!" in shocked tones from Sarah. "Murty...Brown!"
Murty crossed over in a stooping attitude to spit in the fire.
At this Sarah chipped in again.
"That's another dirty habit of smokers—spitting. If
there's one thing that disgusts me more than another it's a man
spittin' about the floor—an' rubbin' it in with his boot.
Could anything be more filthy?"
Then, after a short pause: "Who was the first girl you kissed? I
didn't think you were that sort."
"I'm speakin' of young fellers generally," Murty replied,
watching the almost stationary iron through the smoke drift. When
it began to drive and circle again, he went on:
"I smoked about half a pipeful, as near as I recollect, an' left
th' pipe an' matches on th' log so as to have another draw comin'
back. I was afraid they'd smell th' evidence of my evil habits if I
carried 'em. Women have long noses where pipes an' cigarettes are
concerned"—with a sly look at Sarah, who pretended to be more
than usually busy.
"I walked along whistlin'. Seemed as if I'd entered a new an'
happier state of existence. Felt all right till I'd delivered the
message. Then I began to feel queer, an' got anxious, an' tried to
get away without showin' I was in a hurry. But they were hospitable
folks; they were just goin' to 'ave afternoon tea, an' insisted on
me sittin' in, too. I said I'd had afternoon tea before I started,
an' another on th' road, what I brought with me. But they wouldn't
listen. I informed 'em that I was told to hurry straight back, an'
not to stop one minute on any account. They only waved their hands
an' smiled. Wasn't often they saw me, they said, an' I mustn't go
rushin' away like that. An' all th' time I was gettin' worse.
"The old lady was a gossipy sort; she wanted to know all the
news from up our way, from th' current history of th' family to the
state of th' crops an' th' layin' activity of th' poultry. There
was no shakin' her off once she got warmed up to it. An' I was
still gettin' worse.
"She noticed my strange manner first, an' then how white I was.
Did I feel ill? I said I had a bit of a headache, an' would like to
go an' dive in th' river. A cold dive was always refreshin' when I
had a headache. Ah, she knew there was something; I couldn't
deceive her. She'd get her salts bottle, an' that would relieve me.
I did feel relieved at th' mention of it; I thought she'd have to
go into another room for the bottle, an' then I could do a bolt.
But it was on a shelf in th' corner; an' after she'd nearly
suffocated me with it, she poured out a cup of tea, an' asked me
how much sugar I liked. I was very fond of sweets, but just then I
didn't want any at all. I only wanted to rush away and commit
suicide.
"She was arguin' that it was only my bashfulness, when five of
th' daughters trooped in, an' they wanted to know whose cat had
kittens, an' what sort of dress Melinda wore at Bayley's dance. An'
I was goin' on gettin' worse.
"I was in th' middle o' shakin' hands with them, an' th' old
lady was hearin' up with th' salts bottle again, when the
squeamishness developed with a jump. 'Twasn't any use tryin' to
explain; I hadn't a second to spare. I snatched up my hat an'
bolted for th' scrub like all possessed. I could see them from
where I stopped—where I had to stop—all grouped
outside, starin' after me. I never called there any more.
"I've been seasick since; I've had the barcoo, an' other
upheavals; but that first smoke eruption lay over 'em all. I
thought I was dyin'."
"Did you go back for the pipe?"
"I did, an' I heaved it right out into the river."
"How did you get on when you got home?"
"I had to find an excuse for bein' sick, an' I hit on one that
didn't fit the case. I said I'd eaten a lot of wild cherries."
"And how did they know you hadn't?"
"They didn't know. The guv'nor mixed a packet of Epsom salts in
a cup of water, an' I had to drink it without sugar. He said if I
could stuff myself with wild cherries without sugar, I didn't want
any with salts. I went to bed with th' conviction that the old man
was a dangerous lunatic when it come to doctorin'."
"Good enough for you—oh!"
Sarah gave a jump as she turned again to her work, and snatched
the iron from the table. "Bless you and your old pipe!" she cried,
crossly. "I've burnt father's shirt." She held it up, and examined
it critically, and with much concern.
"That's your smoking again, Murty Brown. If you ain't out of
this with your beastly pipe in two jiffs, I'll burn you."
As he went out laughing, she addressed herself to the damaged
garment with considerable vim: "It's a pity you hadn't died!"
Murty got his horse from the little paddock at the back, and in
a few minutes he, was at the front again.
"I suppose you haven't seen anything of that old moke o' mine,
which I left in the big paddock last time I was down?" he called
out.
"I haven't been in the big paddock,' said Sarah, who was making
a great noise with the iron.
"I must go an' find him," added Murty. "I've got to make tracks
up country to-morrow."
"You're always makin' tracks somewhere. I never saw such a
wanderer. Why don't you settle down?"
"Will you marry me?" asked Murty.
"No, I won't!" was the prompt response.
"I knew you wouldn't; that's why I asked," said Murty.
"I wouldn't marry any man that wasn't more than a week or two in
one place," Sarah added.
"I don't want to be a rock," Murty returned. "But I hope to have
a permanent address by-an '-bye—when the great quest is
ended."
"What quest?"
"Now, didn't Jim tell you—I'm lookin' for an island that's
in the middle of some lake," said Murty.
"But what are you lookin' for it for?" asked Sarah.
"I've been commissioned to explore it for some antique relics
that are hidden there," Murty answered. "I call the place Koponey's
Island, an' if I only knew the name of the lake I'd know where to
look for it."
"How do you know there's such a place if you don't know where it
is?" asked Sarah.
"I've got a document in my swag," Murty replied. "But it doesn't
give the latitude or longitude, or any particulars as to its
situation. I've searched a lot of country, one time an' another,
but haven't struck a clue yet. Maybe I'll hit it next time."
"Sounds like a mare's nest," Sarah commented.
"Well, this ain't gettin' any nearer to it," said Murty, turning
away. "Must get after that moke o' mine."
CHAPTER VI. THE SHEET OF BARK.
Murty was patiently searching among the hills for his spare
horse when a terrific thunderstorm came on. He sought shelter from
the pelting rain and falling branches under a shelving rock. But
there was no shelter for his horse, and a whirling branch, lobbing
on its neck, gave it such an all-fired start that the sudden pull
on the bridle threw Murty full-length into the flooded grass. When
he had got to his feet and clawed the wet out of his eyes, and
picked up his hat and his pipe, the animal was disappearing at a
great bat down a winding creek.
Murty remained under the rock for a couple of hours, when the
wind dropped and the rain slackened to a drizzle. He did not bother
going after his steed, but struck a bee-line for home. In a few
minutes he was baulked by the creek, which was running half a
banker. The sun was going down, and it seemed to be setting in for
a wet night. Recognising the futility of trying to find a crossing
before morning he determined to go back to the rock and camp.
Having a tomahawk in his belt, he stripped a sheet of bark off a
grey box, and leaned it against the rock. Under it he kindled a
fire, and while it burned he gathered a supply of the driest wood
he could find, and stripped another sheet of bark. By this time the
sap side of the first sheet was warm and dry, which suggested to
Murty a healthier, if harder, bed than the damp ground. So he laid
it down under the rock, propping the other sheet up in its
stead.
It was a few inches shorter than himself, with a deep dent in
the middle where it had fitted over a bulge on the tree. This was
convenient, forming a most comfortable receptacle for his hip. In
it, therefore, after drying his clothes and piling on plenty of
wood, he stretched himself and went to sleep.
He woke at dawn to find himself in a peculiar position. Try as
he would he couldn't get up. However he wriggled and twisted, he
could not disengage himself from the embrace of his bed. The heat
of the fire had caused the bark to curl tightly round him, so that
the edges considerably overlapped. His arms being straight down at
his sides, he could get no purchase anywhere to wrench it apart.
Anyone who has tried to open a sheet of bark that has rolled up in
the sun will know what power was wrapped around him.
Murty soon realised that he was trapped, and that his only hope
of escape was to get to his feet. In a straight-jacket that reached
from his forehead to his shins, that was no easy task. Not being an
acrobat or a click beetle, the only way that occurred to him was to
roll down to the creek and bring the sloping bank to his
assistance. He had the use of his feet and his head, and the close
fit of the bulge round his hips helped him to roll.
It was hard getting away, for there were some half burnt pieces
of wood to bump over, and the fire shelter to bowl down. Having
accomplished that, there were numerous logs, stumps and trees to
get round; there were sharp blades of grass that sawed across his
eyes, and there was ever the thought of snakes in his mind as he
turned strenuously over and over.
"If one gets in here," he muttered, pausing for breath, "or a
rattled goanna mistakes me for a hollow log, I'll be fair
flummoxed."
Only when he struck a jumper's nest did he forget snakes and
whiz over the landscape till the trees spun around him.
"Awful sickly thing, rollin'," he declared as he brought up
sharply against a root, and lay for a moment gazing at the
moving-picture show.
A few cautious turns brought him within view of the creek bed.
Luckily the flood had run out. Edging round, he screwed and
zigzagged till he slid over a steep spot, and landed at the bottom
on his feet. He was still leaning against the bank, but after
several hard shoves with his head, and some masterful feats of
balancing, he at last attained the perpendicular. He was panting
and thirsty. Cool water gurgled at his feet—but he couldn't
stoop.
Climbing the bank was a painful, anxious undertaking. Inch by
inch he felt his way, tremblingly swaying on the inclines,
breathlessly pausing on the levels, until, with a final, staggering
rush, he reached the top.
Before him was a flat, at the end of which, a mile away, stood a
selector's house. Eagerly he set out for it. His steps were
distressingly abbreviated. The knee action being limited, his
motion was more of a shuffle than a walk. His hat, which he had
used for a pillow, was jammed behind the back of his neck, and his
ruffled mop was smothered with leaves, twigs, grass and spiders'
webs. His eyes just showed above the edge of the bark. He resembled
nothing so much as an animated bottle tree with the top cut
off.
Near the house he heaved forcibly through a rickety
gate—and nearly fell over. The noise awoke the dogs, whose
barking in turn attracted a woman who had been chopping wood, and a
girl who was standing by with a dish under her arm. They grasped
each other, and pointed simultaneously at the strange thing
approaching them. Murty chuckled at their alarm. He was feeling a
lot better now.
The dogs, with raised bristles, kept up an excited barking and
growling, running round him and smelling at him between whiles.
"Lay down, you mongrels!" rasped Murty, at the same time jumping
and dancing to frighten them. At this strange conduct the women
fled into the house and slammed the door. Murty chuckled again. How
they would laugh presently when they came to strip the bark off
him! He could smell bacon and eggs, and smacked his lips as he
anticipated the motherly invitation, "Sit in, my poor man, and have
some breakfast."
He shuffled up to the step.
"It's all right, missus; you needn't be afraid," he said,
soothingly. The engulfing bark gave to his voice a deep, muffled
sound, and at the same time partly smothered his words.
"Clear out!" came the answer through the keyhole.
"I'm in a tight fix, ma'am," said Murty, more seriously. "Open
th' door, an' you'll see for yourself. I'm not a burglar, or an
ogre—"
The door was opened cautiously, and the woman, stepping from
behind it, thrust a revolver at the astonished supplicant.
"Now, then, make tracks, quick!"
"Hold on!" gasped Murty, backing away. "There's nothing to get
excited about, ma'am. Can't you see—"
"Are you goin' to get?" The revolver was pointed more
menacingly.
"By cripes! You're a nice sort, you are!" said Murty,
rebelliously. "Do you think I'm an armored robber, or an escaped
lunatic? Haven't you got eyes?"
She stepped out from the door, a frightened but determined look
on her face. "Be off, now! Be off, or I'll shoot!"
Chagrined and despairing. Murty shuffled away without further
argument.
"Th' woman's a fool!" he snorted as he looked back savagely from
the gate. "Th' two ends an' th' middle of a double-barrelled
idiot."
He went on with quick steps and a fierce look in his eyes.
Out of sight of the house he leaned against a tree to rest. In a
little while a blackfellow and his gin came mooching along, looking
for 'possums and sugar-bags. Murty was delighted to see them. He
couldn't have been more pleased if they had been his brother and
sister.
He moved away from the tree, and just then Binghi's wandering
eye lit on him. He stopped short with a startled ejaculation, and
bending forward stared with rounded, bulging eyes as the apparition
drew towards him. But he didn't wait to discover what it was. In a
moment he was a flying study in perspective, and the old gin a
whirlwind of legs and skirts behind him.
Murty resumed his weary way, embittered and disgusted.
He was in'a populous district. There were plenty of houses at no
great distance from the track he was following, but fences blocked
him from getting to them. He might have fared better with the
people he met had his face been in view. As it was, he looked more
like a walking stump than a human being.
He met several persons in the course of the next hour. One was a
young man who came cantering along the track, sitting loosely in
the saddle, and singing at the top of his voice. The horse was a
young one, and it was close up when it spied the awful object in
front. It stopped dead, and with a snort leaped sharply aside,
shooting the rider out of his seat like a shot from a catapult. The
victim scrambled quickly to his feet, grabbed his hat and dashed
away through the bush as though he had no thought of anything but
the catching of his bolting horse.
Murty went on, too tired and famished to smile at the fun he was
having.
At the edge of a bit of brush he encountered a stout old lady
carrying a basket.
"O goodness!" she cried, dropping the basket as her hands flew
involuntarily upwards.
Before he could offer an apology she had gathered up her skirts
and fled.
"All th' darn fools alive seem to be livin' hereabouts," Murty
remarked sourly.
He went on, meditating seriously.
Ascending a gentle rise, he descried three small boys trying to
pelt down a bird's nest. So intent were they on this object that he
had shuffled within a few paces of them before he was
discovered.
"Oo! Bluey, look!" shrieked a freckled-faced, ginger-headed
urchin, which focussed all eyes searchingly curiously on the
approaching mystery.
"Oh, strike!" cried Bluey. "What is it?"
"It's only a man, my boy," said Murty, anxiously. He was afraid
they were going to run away. "A man what's 'ad a misfortune, an'
will reward you handsome if you help him—"
"I know, Ginger!" the smallest boy broke in. "It's a
bunyip!"
"'Tain't a bunyip," said Ginger, edging away "Look at his
boots."
"Ah, you're th' boy that's got sense," said Murty, in his most
ingratiating manner, and edging after him. "You're an observant
lad, one as is destined to come to a great end. If everybody was as
cool an' sensible as you, I might have been out of this predicament
long ago."
"He's a loony, that's what he is," Ginger asserted at this
juncture.
"Let's pelt him!" cried the smallest boy, with enthusiasm.
"Hooroo!" seconded Bluey, ecstatically waving his arms.
"Do you want to earn five bob?" Murty inquired quickly, and in a
much louder voice. But the boys had darted after sticks. Bluey
aimed the first, which struck over Murty's chest with a loud,
hollow sound. Vociferous applause greeted him. Ginger and the
smallest boy followed suit, and as each stick rattled against
Murty's casement his tormentors yelled and danced with delight. The
noise the sticks made, and the way they bounced was great sport.
Murty lost his temper, and making a rush at the smallest boy, lost
his balance and fell like a log. The boys cheered tumultuously.
When they saw he couldn't get up again their joy was supremo. They
looked down on his casement from the top, and they looked up at it
from the bottom, what time Murty was pleading and threatening by
turns.
"See here, sonny," he said, addressing Bluey, "if you an' your
mates 'ill pull this fakus apart so I can get out, I'll give you
five bob."
"Give us it now," Bluey stipulated, holding out his hand.
"I can't get my hand into my pocket till I get out," Murty
returned.
"Yah! he ain't got five bob!" cried Bluey, derisively.
"He's got rats, that's what he's got," Ginger declared. "If he
ain't what did he get in there for?"
"Let's roll him down the hill," suggested the smallest boy, who
seemed to be the genius of the family.
The suggestion was greeted with joyful exclamations, which
encouraged him to shove against the bulge.
"You mind what you're at, young fellow!" Murty growled at him,
grinding his teeth.
"Yas!" Bluey shouted defiantly. "Come on, Ginger!"
Murty cast a horrified glance down the steep slope.
"Stead—y, now!" he gasped as they laid hands on him. "It
will kill me, an' you'll be hung, th' whole bilin' lot of yer. D'
yer hear? I'll die on th' way...I'm dying now...d——
yer!"
"Now, then, over!" cried Bluey, totally ignoring the harrowing
prospect.
With the next move he shot up suddenly.
It was a long-distance roll, but it gave Murty the liveliest
minute he had ever known. Gaining momentum with every revolution,
bumping and bonncing, he outpaced his young persecutors with
ease.
At the bottom he was conscious of a bigger bump, than usual,
followed by a tremendous clatter, and a frantic roar as of some one
being knocked down and run over; then a violent wrench that threw
him clean out of his easing, and over the bank of a deep gully.
At the bottom, hidden in long grass, he lay in a dazed condition
for several minutes. The clatter above continued for a little
while, and was succeeded by a scream of vituperation, poured forth
in a loud voice, and with much feeling. Murty listened more eagerly
as he recovered from his dizziness, but the sounds of tramping feet
seemed to be receding, and the angry voice dying away in the
distance. He sat up with a jerk.
"Was anybody killed?" he asked; and then he saw that he was
alone in the bottom of the gully. He was bruised and sore from head
to foot, and still feeling sick.
"Wonder what happened?" he mused, as he got slowly to his
feet.
He crept up the bank and peeped over. Nearest to him, lying
under the point of a dead limb, and split in two, was the sheet
that had enveloped him. The lap had caught on the limb, and with
the pace he had on, it had been torn open, and he had been forcibly
ejected. That much was plain.
Beyond was a demolished bark gunyah, a temporary structure that
he had partly crashed through and partly bowled over. That also was
plain.
On the top of the hill, waving his arms and still talking, was
an angry old man, whom he recognised as the charcoal burner he had
seen the day before.
The boys had fled in terror before him. It was all plain.
"Them little cherubs can have the credit of it all," he decided,
brightening at the idea. Then the billycan at the fire caught his
eye.
"You ain't in a good humour for receivin' visitors, Charcoal,"
he mused; "but, maybe, if a sympathetic traveller called d'reetly,
you wouldn't forget he had a mouth on him. Long step home, yet, an'
I'm starving."
Reaching for his hat, he crept back, and picked his way down the
gully to a secluded pool, where he attended most carefully to his
toilet.
A little later he sauntered up to the camp of the charcoal
burner, who was then busily sorting out his personel property from
the ruins of his residence.
"Good day, mate," said Murty.
"Good day!" sulkily.
"Had a collapse?"
Charcoal straightened up, and wiped some blood off his face.
"I was havin' a nap in th' caboose 'ere," he said, "when three
lovely imps o' boys rolls that there durned fakus down on to th'
camp an' flattens it out on top o' me."
"That sheet o' bark?" questioned Murty, with well-feigned
surprise.
"They 'ad a big stone in it—to give it weight, an' make it
go faster, I s'pose," Charcoal explained. "Th' stone's in th' gully
somewhere, as I see th' track of it down th' banks."
"The scamps!" said Murty, sympathetically. "Might a 'urt
yer!"
"'Urt me!" Charcoal snorted. "Might a stoomed me out!"
"If I was you I'd go an' see their fathers," said Murty,
feelingly.
"I'm goin' to!" Charcoal answered, nodding his head by way of
emphasis. "Straight away as soon as I've fixed up 'ere."
Murty looked hungrily at the tucker that was scattered among the
wreck.
"What's about th' time?" he asked glancing at the sun.
"About 2 o'clock," was the reply.
"I'm lookin' for a horse that got away from me; been lookin'
since daylight," Murty volunteered.
"Had no dinner yet?" Charcoal inquired hospitably.
"No—not yet."
"Better sit down an' 'ave some," said Charcoal, and Murty sat
down willingly.
CHAPTER VII. WITH PROFESSOR DE
QUINLAN.
By the time Murty had collected his stock, and was ready to
resume his travels, Jim had gone off to Brisbane to see a venerable
uncle of his, who had wired for him. Thereupon Murty set off alone
towards the Logan.
Ere many miles had been covered, he picked up with an unusual
kind of traveller, who changed what plans he had formed for the
immediate future.
"His name was Richard de Quinlan," said Murty, when giving an
account of himself a few weeks afterwards; "an' he was about the
rummiest mate I ever knew.
"He was travellin' about the bush in a tilted cart, collectin'
specimens and trappin' for a Sydney dealer. It was a pleasant sort
of industry, an' good money in it; but Quinlan was so deeply
interested in studyin' the mysteries of nature that he often
overlooked the business aspect. I came on him one mornin' near
Sleepy Hollow. He'd left his cart on the road, an' was away off
proddin' up a frog with a stick to make it jump. When it fairly
extended itself and made a pretty good leap, he would out with a
two-foot rule an' measure it.
"'Discovered a frog on Piora Creek that jumped fourteen feet,'
he said by way of explainin' his antics. 'I believe that's a
record, but there's lots of districts the haven't been represented
in the competition yet.'
"He put the new candidate for the championship in a little
perforated cage, with a beddin' of green grass, wrote some
memoranda on it, an' stowed it away carefully in the menagerie.
"'Are you a bushman?' he inquires turnin' to me an' puttin' his
hands on his hips.
"'That's my profession,' I assures him.
"'Then you'll know something about the fauna of this country,'
he says. 'Ken you climb trees?'
"'To a certain extent,' I replied.
"'Well,' he says, 'I want an assistant to go with me up north. I
think you'll about do.'
"I thought it a grand chance of findin' Koponey's Island;
wanderin' around explorin' the country, as you might say, and
gettin' paid for it all the time; so I took it on.
"Nature study always was an absorbing thing to me, though I
can't say I was so enthusiastic after I'd had a week with Quinlan.
I drove, the caravan, while he wandered about lookin' for
specimens, an' every now 'n' again he'd call me off the track to
climb a tree, or to run down a frill-neck or something of the sort.
As a naturalist, he applied himself to his occupation with
marvellous zeal; all day long you'd see him squintin' up trees,
probin' hollow logs, turnin' over sticks an' bark, an' peerin'
through a telescope at any strange insects he encountered; but when
it was a job requirin' activity and exertion he entrusted it
entirely to me.
"At first, when I barked my shins or nearly knocked my eye out,
I looked on it in the same light as he did, as incidental trifles
to laugh at; but when I ripped gaps in my limited toggery, our
views weren't exactly similar. I decided I wouldn 't be worried and
damaged in the interests of science any more. I didn't reckon to
get much credit if I helped it along ever so much.
"Some big bug who never kinked his neck over a log or tore his
pants at the game would get whatever credit was goin'; an' Murty
Brown wouldn't be mentioned.
"Still, I stuck to Mr. Richard De Quinlan, the naturalist. He
asked me to call him Professor De Quinlan before strangers, as that
would make us look more important, and help us in our
investigations, especially on runs where common trespassers were
objectionable. Lend's your knife a minute, James.
"I used to attend to the victuallin' while he was huntin' for
ant-lions, or tryin' which grubs kicked the most on an ant-bed.
Scoopin' in butterflies with his hat on a stick, and lassooin'
spiders with thread, were things he gloried in. I. he only sat down
for a bit of a smoke he'd have a couple of caterpillars fightin' in
front of him, or he'd be deliverin' lectures on dragon flies an'
the prayin' mantis. You never saw such a feller. If he came across
two colonies of jumpers havin' a disagreement, he'd hang around the
vicinity as long as the war lasted. You must have had this knife a
long time. It's pretty blunt.
"I generally had the fire lit an' a heap o' wood ready for night
before De Quinlan showed up. He'd disburden himself of his day's
collection, an' have a look round.
"'Water the frogs?' he'd ask.
"'Yes.' We put them in jars of water in camp, but carried 'em in
little cages when travellin'.
"'Feed the snakes?'
"'Yes.'
"'Goannas lay?'
"'Two eggs.'
"'Find a bed for the echidnas?'
"'Aye.' Quills and Spikes, as we called the two porcupines we'd
captured, had to be tethered near an ant bed.
"Sometimes his billy when he came in would be swarmin' with
bore-sinkers and wood-riddlers. He'd have to annihilate them with
pins before I could make the tea. Now an' again he'd hoist a dead
snake or two out o' that billy, an' put 'em in bottles. Other times
it would be two or three kinds of lizards. He'd tether them by the
legs, and watch 'em half the night to learn their habits.
"His cart was a regular travellin' menagerie. When he opened it
up in the mornin' you'd thought it was a stink factory. Beetles in
all conditions you could mention; an' heaps of skins half-cured, or
not cured at all. Used to strike me that De Quinlan was rather too
thorough, as if he wanted to see how many varieties of smell a skin
could shed before it rotted away. How his interest in natural
history kept up in spite of the vile odours of those specimens, I
don't know.
"He used to keep a notebook, too, an' you'd see him every spare
minute makin' records of his observations. Couldn't make head or
tail of his scrawl myself, and if he didn't go over it fairly
frequent to keep familiar with the writin', I'd be hanged if he
could make it out, either.
"When we'd got about a hundred miles west, an' were makin' for a
railway to unship our cargo, it came on to rain, an' two days later
we were flood-bound on a bit of an island. De Quinlan didn't mind
if we were stuck there for a year, provided plenty of specimens
came ashore. In less than a week he had the grass worn off all
round that island doin' sentinel duty.
"In the course of our conversations we discussed all the inland
islands he'd seen in his travels, but none agreed with the
description of Koponey's.
"'What's the attraction?' he asks me.
"'There's a rare orchid growin' there,' I tells him, 'an' a
gentleman collector has offered a big reward for specimens.'
"'That's interestin',' says De Quinlan. 'Just the sort of thing
that appeals to me. There's a lot of romance in orchid huntin'; an'
lives have been sacrificed in the hunt, too. But it's a good hobby
for a man that's knockin' about the bush.'
"'That's how I take it,' I says. 'Something to keep me
interested when I'm lookin' for a job; or when I'm on a long
journey an' got nothing else to do to relieve the monotony.'
"The weather kept on showery most o' the time, an' as we'd only
one tent, I had to camp alongside De Quinlan. In the day-time I
used to try to get interested in his experiments. Helped to put the
time in. He had two spiders hung at the tent door—which made
it awkward to get in an' out—an' he'd fish for them with a
fly on a bit of cotton. If they didn't bite well he'd swing them
together, an' let them knock spots off one another.
"The most shuddersome exhibition on his programme of
entertainments for wet days was a fight between a triantelope an' a
centipe. He was always huntin' for those sort of gladiators to fill
in a dull hour. I took to huntin' for them, too—to kill all I
could find. I tried to lose a brute of a scorpion he had, but it
was no go. He was so anxious about the state of its health that he
pretty near nursed it; an' I lived in dread of the thing gettin'
away.
"He had his side of the tent dotted with specimens. He'd run out
of cardboard, an' took to pinnin' them on to the tent. He also had
a row of assorted abominations swingin' from the ridge-pole on bits
o' thread, just where they'd bump a person in the eye when he was
thoughtless enough to stand up straight.
"There were rows an' rows of 'em on the walls. Tiger-beetles,
pie-dishes, nut-crackers, clickers, whirligigs, fireflies—in
fact, he could 'ave set up a respectable museum in that line.
"The elephant beetles, an' a lot more in the novelty class, he
kept alive; an' the bombadier was one of his variety artists that
used to amuse him in times of enforced idleness when there were no
pugnacious creatures to provide, excitement. He'd set it runnin'
along the floor, an' at every foot or so he'd give it a prod to
make it let fire with its detonator, an' eject a cloud of acrid
vapour.
"I didn't mind 'em so much in the daytime, but at night they
were an all-fired nuisance. De Quinlan had all my match boxes
emptied to put beetles in, an' the scratchin' of those blessed
things at night was enough to shatter the nerves of a shingleback.
Then there was the buzzin' an' whirr-r-ing of pinned things that
hadn't died yet; the smell of them that had; and—you know
those 'orny-legged mantis things?—well, they'd be kickin' an'
jumpin' in jam tins fit to drive you mad. The caterpillars that
broke loose would come crawlin' over us, an' I'd think it was that
villainous scorpion. I reckon I averaged two dozen nightmares a
week in that camp.
"There was one little black beetle that was always gettin' on
its back, an' then it would knock its head on the bottom of the box
till it righted itself. Then it would try to climb the wall of its
prison, an' tumble down topsy-turvey again. Then more whacks! I've
hurled enough descriptive remarks at that one little pest to
incinerate the museum. Professor didn't mind it at all; he was in
his glory...Never saw such a pipe as this for gettin' stuffed up.
Ph-e-ew!
"Anyhow, it was the stingin' grubs that broke up our happy home.
He had two sorts of them. One was a black an' yellow horror that's
found in clusters. When you go near them they chuck up their tails,
an' the look of the up-ended cluster is the most shiversomely ugly
thing I know in the bush. The other sort is a hatter—mostly
seen on wattle trees. It's four times bigger, and not bad lookin';
but the least touch of it will raise a white blister as big as a
sixpence. 'Twas that thing that got astray one night, an' no
mistake it gave me particular fits.
"I got up an' put my boots on, an' I jumped on that crawlin'
insect till there was no insect to see. Then I flung the lamp at De
Quinlan's pet lizard, an' kicked his best jar of frogs into the
creek.
"Poor De Quinlan nearly took a fit. The loss of those frogs was
a national calamity; and he feared the lizard would lose the sight
of one eye. I felt sorry for the lizard till De Quinlan started to
tell me what sort of person I was in his opinion; then I caught him
by the neck an' hurled him through the beetle department.
"I rolled up there an' then, an' plunged through that billabong
at midnight; an' the last I saw of Professor was joggin' down the
slope of the island, chasin' an' escaped beetle with a hurricane
lamp."
CHAPTER VIII. SAM'S CARAVAN.
"Well," said Murty, after a reflective interval, "that jaunt
with Quinlan took me a long way out from my old tracks. I got round
to the Macintyre after leavin' him, and thereabouts I picked up
with another tilted conveyance.
"Some blokes think the tilted cart is a comparative luxury on
the road. I travelled with it to the Burnett, an' I can 't say as I
was particularly struck on that kind of locomotion. Lend's a match.
Never saw such tobacco as this for goin' out."
After lighting his pipe he resumed:
"It was this way. I'd left my horses at Jondoey, one dead lame
an' the other dog poor, an' set out to walk to Nanango, where, I
expected to hear of some of my old mates. I was wearin' new boots,
an' before th' first day was out I was fair crippled with blistered
heels an' toes. Hadn't enough in the bags to stop an' break th'
things in; so I was hoppin' along with one foot tied up in an old
felt hat, an' carryin' th' boot, when I came up with a bloke an'
his missus in a tilted cart. The fellow's name was Sam, an' he
called the other part of the firm Melita. What they were further
called, I dunno.
"Sam took my swag on board in return for some tobacco. There,
wasn't much in the cart, but quite enough for what was left of his
horse to crawl along with. The woman walked behind with me, an'
Sain led Stromboli—that was the horse. There was a happy time
when the couple sat on cushioned seats—in the early days of
their wallaby life. Every footman they came across wanted to sit
there, too, or expected his swag to be carried. Stromboli's job was
strenuous enough as it was, but Sam was too soft, Melita said; an'
so with helpin' this one an' helpin' that one the proprietors at
last had to get down an' walk themselves. They were tryin' to swop
th' cart for a horse an' pack-saddle when I joined them.
"We made about ten mile a day while the road was good. That
was mostly where there was no feed to speak of. When we'd
unharnessed, Sam would get out a bran bag an' two butcher's knives,
an' we'd fossick about the gullies an' scrubs an' prickly pear
clumps for blades o' grass. Took us about two hours, as a rule, to
get th' moke a feed. He was too tired for hard fossickin' himself.
When we'd put him in the cart in th' mornin' he'd turn his head
round till his cheek touched the shaft, an' look at the near-side
wheel for two minutes; then he'd turn round the other way, an' cast
his gaze on the offsider till you'd think he was petrified. Finally
he'd give a big sigh; an' when Sam touched him up he'd go into the
collar, put his head down an' snort, an' go back again. Used to
prance an' blow his nose an' switch his tail till he got warm.
'Twa'n't no use hittin' him; he'd stop an' give a bit of a kick
with one leg. Same time he'd blow a real sneezer. It took a lot of
humorin' to get him goin'.
"One night it rained, an' I crawled underneath for shelter. Sam
an' Melita used to camp in the cart, proppin' the back up with a
stick. I must 'ave kicked the prop away in my sleep, for the fakus
tipped up suddenly in a heavy shower. Luckily the wheels turned a
bit, an' the tailboard just dropped clear of my feet; but Sam an'
Melita an' their forty years' gatherin' were mixed up an' flung
violently out into the wet. They growled a lot gettin' back; Sam
sayin' it was Melita did it with her fidgetin', an' Melita sayin'
it was th' vibration from Sam's snorin'. 'Tanyrate, I shifted.
"Next day the flat were sticky, an' we were most of the time
spokin', me at one wheel an' Melita at the other. I pitied poor old
Melita. She had big 'lasticside boots on, an' the 'lastic was worn
out. Now an' again an extra-stiff bit o' clay would grip her by the
heel; she'd give a heave, with her hands on the spokes, an' leave
the boot behind. She put 'em in the cart at last. No mistake, she
looked a trick; her hat an' hair skew-whiff, her skirts wet an'
muddy, an' clingin' round her ankles. At every bit of a rise we had
to unload an' carry th' things to the top, sometimes a mile or
more, then help Stromboli up with the empty cart. I suggested
taking him out an' draggin' up one at a time, as bein' much easier;
but Sam reckoned the old fellow had a pull in him yet. Maybe he
had, though it was pretty evident he'd lost all ambition to
demonstrate it. I was workin' a mighty stiff passage, that was
sure, but I didn't like to leave Sam in difficulties after he'd
helped me over a crippled foot.
"The first serious trouble we had was crossin' a slippery gully.
We'd carried the dunnage over, an' was zigzaggin' Stromboli up the
bank when he slips an' slaws side on, an' before you could say get
up, the whole pot an' bilin' turned a turtle into the gully. The
tilt was flattened out, a shaft was broken, an' Stromboli was
kickin' on his back an' smotherin' in two foot of water. Sam was
fair paralysed, an' only for old Melita plungin' in, the team would
'ave been wiped out there an' then. She held Stromboli's head up
while we undid the harness an' pulled the cart off him. When he got
out he stood on the bank an' snorted at that gully like a
locomotive. We had to take the wheels off to turn the trap over,
an' then we were two days repairin' the damage.
"Just as we were all ready to make another start a traveller
name o' Spargo came up. He was a persuasive sort of chap with a bit
o' style about him, an' had as much to say as a political meetin'.
He hadn't been in camp an hour before he pretty well owned the
plant, Sam an' all. Sam was an easygoin', dull-witted kind of
person, an' Spargo could talk him out of any mind he had in half a
jiff. He ridiculed the turnout first glance, an' poked borak at us
for bein' seen on a public road with such a scrapheap, disfigurin'
good scenery at every turn of its wobblin' wheels.
"'It's nuthin' but bad management,' he sez, standin' up like a
tragedian on a stage an' flingin' out both hands. 'Yer ought to be
travellin' luxurious, man—all spic an' span, with full an'
plenty, an' a fat 'orse. An' look at yer! What 'ave yer?' He walks
round the property, jerkin' his head like a sick fowl. 'A battered
old rattle-trap that I wouldn't pick up, an' a hide full of bones.
An' yer starvin', too!'
"'Plenty o' single men starve on these tracks,' sez Sam, which
remark struck me as bein' partic'ly hard on poor old Melita. She
wasn't a bad sort in camp, an' she could spoke a bogged wheel fair
to middlin' when the clay wasn't jerkin' the leathers off the lower
end of her.
"Spargo fairly bristled. 'Ah!' he sez, convincin' like, 'if you
was single there'd be some excuse. But you've gotta wife always
with you! Why don't yer use her—as any commonsensible man
would?'
"Sam lit his pipe with a firestick, an' thought on it for a bit.
Then he says, 'How would you use her? Supposin' you was in my place
now?'
"'Just listen to me.' Spargo hitched up the legs of his pants
an' squatted down on his heels. We cleared our throats to listen.
'Soon's I sighted a station,' sez Spargo, 'I'd get under cover an'
turn out. Then I'd take the wife with me an' go up to th' house, on
foot, carryin' a dummy swag an' a billy for the occasion; an' the
missus would be fixed up with a bundle, too, an' the waterbag. The
sight of a woman under such conditions would be extra touchin',
'specially if she's young an' not bad lookin'. They'd just load us
with rations; the storekeeper would part up little extras, the cook
would shell out as if he loved us, an' maybe the squatter's wife
would find some old clothes for us—if she happened to have
any that she couldn't find any other use for. Then we'd drive on a
few miles, an' camp for two or three days to keep th' horse in good
buckle.'
"Sam didn't show how the scheme took him one way or the other.
He couldn't speak for thinkin'.
"'Tell yer what I'll do—just to convince yer,' sez Spargo,
more persuasive like. I'll doddle along with yer for a day or two,
an' provide for all hands. That is, if you'll lend me the
missus.'
"Sam shifted the pipe to the southern end of his mouth, an'
turned slowly round to Melita. 'Are yer on?' he asks her. She says
she didn't mind, an' that settled it. Fact was, poor old Melita was
dog-tired of the way things were jiggin', an' Spargo's scheme
seemed to offer some, relief. She rolled up a rug, an' copped out
on the water-bag. Spargo took all he had come with.
"'We'll go on ahead an' tackle Boonda—that's about three
miles,' he sez to Sam. 'You an' the other chap fetch the cart
along, an' we'll have a spread ready when yer overtake us.' With
that they set out for Boonda. We fetched the cart along all day,
but we didn't overtake them. Looked to me as if they'd bolted, but
I didn't like to disturb Sam by mentionin' it, as he seemed to 'ave
found a lot to think about. We got goin' earlier than usual next
mornin', an' when we'd lost sight of Boonda, Sam began to look like
some one who'd mislaid his identity.
"'She ought to 'ave known better,' he says at last.
"'Better'n what?' I asks him.
"'Than to think Stromboli could do it.'
"He meant the distance. Struck mc Spargo had done it, but I
didn't like to disturb Sam with too much conversation just then,
an' so didn't mention it.
"We passed a pub an' store that evenin', an' Sam inquired if any
travellers had passed that way within the last day or two. The
publican said he'd seen nobody but a married couple, who called
early that mornin'. Sam didn't ask any more questions—just
said, 'Get up, Strom!' an' passed on. By-an'-bye he says to me,
'Dunno what's come over Melita.'
"'Must 'ave been Spargo,' I says.
"'She always acted straight,' said Sam, starin' at the track an'
flickin' his whip.
"'Seems to me Spargo's put a bend on her,' I sez, thinkin' it
better to break it gently to him. I could see the drift plain
enough now; but Sam was as dense as a gum log, an' he had tremenjus
faith in Melita. He was still watchin' for the smoke ahead.
"We camped at the first gate at sundown, an' while moochin'
around after wood I comes across Melita's lastic-sides agin a tree.
I sneaked 'em away into the bush, thinkin' they might hurt Sam's
feelin's if he happened to see 'em. He didn't eat much for supper;
there wasn't much to eat. But he was more talkative after.
"'That was a good new rug,' he says after starin' about twenty
minutes at the fire. 'What rug?' I asks. Melita took,' says Sam.
'Where'd you get it?' I asks him, just to keep him interested.
'Jondoey,' says Sam, fishin' out a coal. 'That's where I got my
boots,' I says. He looks at them for five minutes. 'How much?'
'Eight an' six.'
"Half an hour after he says: 'Poor old Melita wants a new
pair.'
"That put the stopper on me, an' we didn't talk any more that
night.
"Well, we kept on fetchin' that cart along—in fact, we
fetched it along for a week; but we never came up with Spargo's
spread. The tilted concern had become a nightmare with Sam by that
time. He sold the lot for a fiver just before, we reached Nanango,
an' swagged it up north. I stopped awhile on the diggin's
there.
"And you never heard any more about the Elopers?" said Murty's
mate in an assertive sort of way.
"Who's tellin' this yarn—you or I?" asked Murty. Along
pause. "About two weeks after I lost sight o' Sam while makin' down
to the Logan, I stumbled across the pair out Boonah way. Spargo an'
Melita had a married couple's billet on a big cattle station."
Long silence and much smoke.
"He was a per-suasive chap was Spargo."
CHAPTER IX. "THE QUEENSLAND
MARSUPIAL COMPANY"
At Gater's pub, on the Logan, Murty picked up his mate, Jim
Webb. Here, also, he found Bill Tarkalson and Lem Scully, who were
working at Dulla, the adjacent squattage.
"I thought you'd made your pile by this, Bill," said Murty. "Tom
Muddle told me you had a big contract on at Brody's."
Tarkalson's expression became pathetic.﹃It was a bungled up
business, Murty,﹄said he.﹃You might be able to help us rectify
that affair,﹄he added after a moment's pause.
"Rectify it?" Murty repeated, puzzled.
"Come and have a drink," Tarkalson invited, "and I'll tell you
about it."
They sat down in a little parlor, and Murty took off his hat to
listen better.
"We struck Brody's station one evening about sundown," said
Tarkalson, resting his arms on his knees and gazing at the floor
with a smile that had something grim in it. "There were three of
us—Lem Scully, Mat Conyers, and I. We had a pound or two
among us at the time, but our horses were fair knocked out, an' the
grass-bearin' country ahead was none too good, so we were ready to
tackle anything on offer at Brody's to give them a spell. Conyers
was the only one of us who had two horses. He carried Scully's pack
and his own. I was walk-in', but I had a pack-horse, which I took
for wages owin' at the last place I worked. Let's try a fill o'
that new tobacco of yours.
"Brody had th' name of being a straight goer, but he was a hard
nail all the same. 'I think I can put you on to something that you
will make good money at,' he says. 'This place is overrun with
wallabies. I had to wire-net my horse-paddock to keep the brutes
out. I've just sent a mob of blacks out to Lorry's Lagoon; but if
you go anywhere north-west you'll be clear o' them. I'm payin'
tuppence each for scalps, and buyin' all skins at market rates,
less 20 per cent. for commission an' carriage. You can get what
rations you want here, an' the amount will be deducted from your
account.
"We cottoned on at once. Scully an' Conyers had a rifle each,
an' I got one from Brody, cheap. It wasn't much of a concern, but I
wasn't much of a shot, so it didn't matter. Scully was no dab
either; but Matthew, accordin' to his own talk, was a crack shot.
Could put a bullet in the bung-hole of a beer-cask every time it
turned up rollin' down hill. He'd been buffalo shootin' in th'
Territory—shootin' with one hand at full gallop. Just a
matter of nerve, he said. We wanted to have a few practice shots at
a tree next mornin', but Matthew wouldn't hear of it. There was no
sense in wastin' good ammunition like that. He was surprised at me
an' Scully.
"'T any rate, he had a proposition to make. He was mostly
bristlin' with new-fangled ideas at times like that. We'd get a
supply of opium from the Chinaman, he said; and then we'd go out to
Lorry's Lagoon an' get the blacks to hunt for us. They'd do
anything for opium in that part—especially when it was on the
spot. We'd give them a little tucker an' tobacco—an' promise
them a divvy when we got the cheques. I agreed it was an easy way
of makin' a rise. 'One thing certain,' I said to Scully, 'they'd
get as many in a day as we'd get in a week.'
"'Eggs-actly,' said Scully, in his slow, deliberate way. He was
never very eloquent, but as good a man as ever I met was Scully.
Though he shaved clean regularly, he always looked rough; you could
hardly see his face for freckles. Conyers was a beauty in
comparison, but he wasn't half the man Lem was.
"'What I don't like about the business is this,' I said to Mat;
'they'll be doin' all the hard work, an' we'll be gettin the
profits.'
"'Eggs-actly,' said Scully.
"'I don't hold with that,' I said. 'I believe in doin' my share
an' paying a fair thing for services rendered.'
"Matthew argued about comparative values in regard to whites and
blacks, and in the end he had his way; and, armed with opium,
tobacco and rations, we went out to Lorry's Lagoon. He spent our
last few bob on a set of books, pens, ink, and other superfluous
things that we could 'ave done without.
"'With so many employees, and doin' business on a gigantic
scale,' he explained, hitchin' the ledgers up under his arm,
'there'll be a lot o' book-keepin' to do—receipts and
disbursements, and that sort of thing. We ought to have scales for
weighin', too, but we'll get them next time. I'll look after the
books an' stores, measure out opium and tobacco, check the takings,
and give receipts, and superintend operations generally. That will
keep me pretty busy. You being the best cook, Bill,' he said to me,
'you'll attend to the colander department, and string scalps; an'
Lem will peg out the skins. You'll find we won't have much time to
scratch ourselves—if the hunters are any good at all.'
"'Eggs-actly,' said Scully; but I noticed there was a mystified,
half-vacant sort of look showin' between the freckles.
"Conyers was a Barwon native, an' to hear him talk you would
think he'd been over half the earth. I used to try at first to get
him bushed about Australia; but my humble remarks would only remind
him of something in Borneo or Brazil, or some such place that was a
week o' Sundays off my track. Besides bein' able to ride outlaws
and class wool, he could survey land and navigate a ship. He had
plenty o' push, and an impressive way with him that always put him
in front—so far as me and Scully were concerned.
"Well, Matthew talked the blacks over all right; there were
about forty of them. He read out an agreement to 'em, and took down
their names—which were mostly Sandy an' Jacky. They were all
to be perpendicular by sunrise every mornin', and not to show back
from work before night. I forget what the penalities were now;
'instant dismissal' applied to a lot of cases, I know. Anyhow, he
made them pull down their gunyahs first of all, an' rebuild them in
two long rows. He had original ideas, you'll understand. Then they
helped him build an office and storehouse with bark, and a galley
for the cook. He spent most of his time in the office, postin' an'
balancin' accounts. There was no end o' disputes over those
accounts, too. Sandy's notched stick seldom tallied with Matthew's
ledger. But it was the billet his soul hungered for, though
business got so pressin' after a time that he had to get an
assistant.
"Her name was Avelina. She cleaned the office out, brushed his
hat and greased his boots. Mat was particular about his appearance,
let me tell you. Made a good impression on the servants, he said.
Avelina also fetched the mails. Mat subscribed to the local paper,
and he got a letter now 'n' again from a girl in Gunnedah. I got
hold of one of her letters, which he dropped among the scalps.
Seems he'd been tellin' her he was head manager of the 'Queensland
Marsupial Company, Unlimited,' and had 140 men and 60 odd girls
under him; an' she was askin' for some particulars.
"At night time Mat would stand in front of the office, with his
thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, an' gaze down the
street. It looked just like a street with the fires goin' in front
o' the gunyahs. Then he would stroll down and view the effect from
the other end. I think Matthew did really consider himself a big
employer—if he didn't feel like a bloated capitalist. 'T any
rate, after doin' the block, he would give us the latest wallaby
quotations from the 'Billabong Banner,' an' reckon up our wealth.
We were making 25 quid a week. After you with the match.
"Well, everything went swimmin' for about a month. Then we had
to render our accounts an' square up accordin' to agreement. Scully
and I wanted to get a conveyance from Brody, but Conyers said there
was no necessity for that. It would mean the loss of a day, an'
meantime the employees would be idle. 'Twas bad management to leave
the employees idle. So what did we do but pack each blackfeller
with a bundle o' skins an' scalps, an' send 'em off first thing in
the morning to Brody. The gins followed with the campware, as we
were goin' to shift to new ground next day. We could have got in
simultaneous ourselves, but Conyers had a balance-sheet an' a
capital account an' some profitan'-loss to make out yet, an' the
day-book to rule off.
"'We must 'ave these matters in order when we go to the office,'
he explained, 'so we'll be able to check the station account, and
see that all's square. I don't say as Brody would do a man out of a
scalp, mind you; but no man's infallible, and figures are things
the best of 'em might easily blunder at—often do. Just as
well to be sure.'
"'Eggs-actly,' said Scully, starin' at the ground.
"We got the horses and groomed them, and pottered about till
dinner-time. Mat was still in the office, perched on a saplin'
seat' an' bent over a bark desk, subtractin' from a pile of matches
in front of him. There were scraps of paper and ink and splotches
all over the ship; but the blamed accounts wa'nt balanced yet. We
had dinner, and he went at them again. 'Twas four o'clock before we
got a move on.
"'What's the sum total?' I asked him as we rode along, Mat with
the ledgers under his arm, some papers stickin' out of his top
pocket for effect, an' a pencil stuck behind his ear.
"He said proudly it was £126 7s. 10d. We were surprised.
"How much is that each?' I asked him.
"Mat opened the ledger and examined several pages. '£42 2s.
11¼,' he said. 'That's ten guineas a week we've been makin'. In a
year's time we'll be worth £500 each.'
"We left our horses in the stockyard, and Matthew sailed into
the office with the ledgers. Scully and I stopped at the door,
there bein' no need for all to speak at once.
"'Well, what do you make of it, Mr. Brody?' asked Mat, his face
one big smile.
"'Make of what?' asked Brody.
"'The skins and scalps.'
"Brody looked puzzled. 'What skins and scalps?'
"'Why, them we sent in with the blacks this mornin'.' The smile
was wastin' an' lookin' sick.
"Brody leaned back with a mystified air. 'I've not heard
anything about them,' he said.
"Mat's jaw dropped, and his eyes jumped as if he'd been hit on
the back of the neck.
"'The only blacks that have come in were those I sent to Lorry's
Lagoon,' said Brody. 'They brought their lot in, and I paid them.
You'll find them in town.'
"On hearing that, Scully turned his head round slowly like a
bogged cow does and looked at me with a half-stupefied
expression.
"The scamps have taken us down, Lem,' I said in a whisper.
"'Eggs-actly,' said Lem, an' he looked sad.
"You paid 'em!' gasped Conyers, who seemed to 'ave got something
in his throat that was hard to swallow. 'Well, that's a dash fine
go! Those was our skins. We employed the blacks to hunt for
us—"
"'I know nothing about that,' Brody chipped in coldly. 'I
employed them to hunt for me, and I paid them accordin' to results.
In any case, as the law is in Queensland nowadays, you can't employ
aborigines without a special license.'
"'What are we to do, then?' asked Conyers.
"Brody opened an account book, and he said: 'There's eleven
pounds against you and your mates for supplies. You can pay
that.'
"That floored Conyers properly. Ile walked out with his head
down, tryin' to hide the ledgers under his coat. Scully was
squattin' against the wall now, chewin' a bit of grass, and starin'
at the floor. I went up to Brody to arrange for the liquidation of
the busted company.
"'It's evident we've been had,' I said. 'We're left without a
bean, so I suppose you'll allow us time to settle that little
account.'
"'Well, yes,' he said; 'I'll allow you three months—"
"'Thank you, Mr. Brody,' I said. 'It's unfortunate—'
"'In the meantime,' Mr. Brody went on, unheedin' my respectful
thanks, 'I'll look after your gear for you, and your horses can be
fattenin' in my paddock. I won't make any charge for that.'
"That knocked me over. I believe to this day, the old dog put
those blacks up to it. He went with us to the yard. There was only
Scully's hack an' my pack-horse there; Conyers and his livestock
had disappeared. I took possession of my swag, an' Brody took
possession of the rest. We squatted down and filled our pipes then.
'Twas an occasion when a draw was comfortin', though it wasn't much
of a draw out of a hundred and twenty-six quid.
"'What are we goin' to do about it, Bill?' Scully asked.
"'Hang me if I know, Lem,' I said. 'Don't see as we've got a
hope.'
"It wasn't any use hangin' round, any way, so we got goin'
pretty soon on Matthew's tracks. We came on to him, camped, at
sundown. He had the day book left, an' was tearin' out the leaves
an' feedin' the fire with them.
"'Pity you didn't boil your billy with that rubbish at first,' I
said. 'This is where your management of the great Marsupial Company
has landed us.' An' I threw my swag down with emphasis.
"'Never mind, Bill,' he said, very quietly; we'll get even with
old Brody one of these days.'
"'We want £ 3 13s 4d from you anyway,' I told him. 'That's your
share of the bill you left us to foot.'
"'Eggs-actly," said Scully.
"'That'll be alright,' said Mat softly. 'I'll fix that up. For
the present I'll carry your swags along on my horse.'
"He carried them along right enough—for seven weeks; then,
bein' mostly ahead of us, poked into the one solitary vacancy that
was out that way, and Scully and I were left to lump our own. But
Matthew was magnanimous, after all. 'I've fixed that little account
up for you,' he said, handin' me a sealed envelope as he was goin'
away. When I opened it I found this—writ on a survivin' folio
of the company's books:
William Tarkalson and Lem Scully, Esqs.,
Dr. to Matthew Conyers.
"To carry their luggage on his horse
for seven weeks, at 10s per week, 3 10 0
By contra account 3 13 4
———
Balance herewith £0 3 4
———-
"The balance herewith was his share of the bit of rations we
had, an' three tucker-bags."
"I suppose you weren't off the beaten roads anywhere durin'
those seven weeks?" Murty inquired.
"Very little," said Tarkalson.
"Ever see anything of a lake with an island in it?" asked
Murty.
"Not that I recollect. What's it called?"
"'Taint been called anything in my hearin' that's of any use in
locatin' it," said Murty. "That's why it's so tarnation hard to
find. The bloke that gave me the map of it only drew the lake an'
the island, an' its prominent vegetation. Which is all right once I
get there, but no good to anybody otherwise. I'll make it worth
your while, Bill, if you can get its address for me when you're
knockin' round."
"What do you want it for?" Bill asked him.
"There's some documents buried there in a bottle that means a
tremendous lot to me," Murty informed him.
"Well," said Tarkalson, meditatively, "if you help us to rectify
the bungle we've got into, I'll help you."
"Right," said Murty. "If I can do anything for a mate, of
course, I'm always ready—providin' I'm not required to point
a loaded gun at myself."
CHAPTER X. THE KIDNAPPING OF
BRODY.
The sun had set, and the stone curlews were making weird melody
on the thickly-timbered ridges across the Logan, when Brody drove
up to Gater's. He had left town in the morning half sprung; he had
departed from Dulla station late that afternoon, three-quarters
sprung; and when he resumed his homeward journey from Gater's pub
that night he had to be assisted into his buggy. He was still a
straight-laced, dignified gentleman; the only ludicrous thing about
him in his lapses was his studied effort to appear sober. They all
knew him along the road, and the women at every house watched
interestedly from door and window as he rattled past. They judged
his condition according to his pace. If he was driving steadily, he
was sober; if he was driving hard, he was pretty full; and if he
was driving furiously and singing, he was as drunk as a lord. Nor
was this his limit. He got blind drunk at times, when he tore down
gates, barked trees, and got bumped out over logs. These lapses
occurred only when John Brody paid his periodical visits to town,
where he sometimes sat on the Bench, and reproved the common herd
for being drunk and disorderly, and fined them five
bob—decorated with the option.
While he talked with Gater in the bar, Tarkalson, Scully, Murty
Brown, and Jim, who was nicknamed Webster, were talking of him in
the next room.
"He's mean enough, that man, to skin a flea for its hide," said
Tarkalson. "If he ken get out of payin' his men's wages on a
technicality, or any blamed shuffle at all, he'll do it—an'
him worth thousands. He did me an' Scully in for our beans because
we 'adn't a leg sound enough to stand on in court. He's studied law
for that special, I think."
"In law parlance," said Jim, "the case was ex parte, and
you had no locus standi."
"What's that?"
"Briefly," said Jim, "the claim for skins and scalps delivered
for you by blacks, who had previously been hunting for themselves.
They represented the goods as their own, and received the
emoluments. When you transpired subsequently, your claim was
rejected with contumely and other natural products; and you had no
redress against the dusky fraternity because you had no license to
employ them."
"Eggs-ackly," said Scully.
"But I've found out since that he didn't pay th' blacks more'n a
fiver altogether," said Tarkalson. "Nobody knows th' justice of our
claim better 'an Brody, an' he'll admit in his own heart, when we
bring him to book, that he deserved what he got. What's sauce for
the goose is sauce for th' gander."
"Precisely," said Jim, "though the application of the sauce is
not exactly similar."
"That isn't necessary," Tarkalson declared. "We can't afford to
mince, matters an' be mealy-mouthed in dealin' with a man that's on
th' crook. We've tried all fair means, an' it's been no go. So we
must put th' screw on him. An' we'll know nothing after, just as he
pretends to know nothing, you understand?"
"I comprehend," Jim responded.
"Th' principal thing is to work together, so as not to give him
a pull on us."
"Succinctly," said Jim, "you want me and Mr. Brown to kidnap the
gentleman, so that you and Mr. Scully can claim a ransom without
incriminating yourselves?"
"Something like that," Tarkalson admitted. "If you do as I say,
there'll be no hitch."
"I don't hold with them proceedin's," Murty objected. "They're
unlawful."
"Yer needn't be afraid, Murty," Scully assured him. "He'll be
too drunk to 'urt y'r."
"'Tain't that; it's what will 'appen if we're bowled cut," Murty
explained. "Kidnappin' th' owner of Crowlong will make a mighty big
stir in this country let me tell yer."
"Might do the country good," said Tarkalson. "It wants stirrin'
up."
"A J.P., too!" Murty went on.
"The bigger the game the greater the thrill," Jim put in.
"Damn th' thrill!" snapped Murty. "I like a quiet life
myself."
"Shugh!" said Scully, "I only wish I could go."
"I only wish you could," Marty returned. "'S a pity to do you
out of a little enjoyment like that."
Scully winked at Tarkalson, and left the room. Jim rang the bell
for Mrs. Gater. When she had brought in the drinks, she said,
indicating the bar: "Doin' in a cheque with the flies."
"Must be wobbly now," said Tarkalson, carelessly. "Shouldn't
wonder if something 'appens him gain' home."
"He's got a good quiet team," Mrs. Gater answered, "though that
isn't much to depend on when whisky's driving."
"I s'pose he's middlin' helpless when he's drunk?" Murty
enquired.
"Don't you believe it," Mrs. Gater replied airily. "He can get
around now, an' he's got a good idea what he's doing, though he may
be as full as a tick."
Murty chewed that over very seriously, and he didn't like the
taste of it.
When she had left them, Scully returned, carrying several
straps, a bag, and four pieces of sheepskin. He threw two of the
latter to Jim, and himself tied the other two round Murty's
feet.
"Keep on th' grass," Tarkalson enjoined, as they set out, "an'
don't drag your feet."
A mile and a-half from Gater's there was a double gate, and two
miles off the road from this spot, and across a scrubby hill, there
was an empty hut in a small paddock. It was never visited by
travellers, and had, therefore, been considered the safest and most
efficient repository for the person of John Brody, Esq., J.P.
At this double gate, behind a bush, waited the kidnappers.
Brody drove up full tilt, and stopped with a jerk that staggered
him in his seat. He talked to himself gutturally for awhile, then
got down, and led his horses through. As he closed the gates again,
and was fumbling with the catch, he was suddenly enveloped in the
cavernous mouth of a three-bushel bag. His involuntary roar, and
the bump he gave the gate in his first leap for liberty, startled
the horses. As these had to be retained to ensure success, Jim ran
after them, leaving Murty to hold the bag on.
Murty fought the battle of his life with that bag but Brody was
a strong man, and he threw him off repeatedly, and seriously
damaged the gate with him.
Murty closed with him again, and in the tussle that ensued he
lost his moccasins, and got his feet badly trampled. Then the bag
came off, and the big man's fists got full play. They played on
Murty's jaw, they whizzed against his ear, banged into his neck,
and rattled against his ribs. Murty, gasping and groaning, and
bleeding at both ends, was sparring desperately for wind when Jim
returned and tripped up the human cyclone. Murty would have liked
to express his opinion on kidnapping at this stage, but he was
under a pledge of silence until the job was completed.
Having secured their prize with straps, and drawn the bag over
his head again, and Murty having recovered his hat and his
moccasins, and drawn a bush several times over the scene of the
fight, they lifted John Brody into the buggy and drove off to the
hut. On the way, Murty, who had acquired a thirst, and a lot of
dust in his throat, explored the vehicle, and, finding a bottle,
applied a liberal portion of its contents to his wounded
feelings.
By the time they reached the hut, Brody was asleep. Getting him
out in that condition was awkward and laborious. Consequently they
dropped him in the process. Brody woke, swore voluminously, and,
after giving them ten years each for assault and battery, evinced a
desire to go to sleep again. They sat him comfortably in a canvas
chair, which he had brought from town, lashed him securely to it,
and locked him in the hut. The horses were turned loose in the
paddock, and the buggy run in among some bushes behind the hut.
Then they started back across the bush to the pub.
As soon as they had got out of earshot of the prisoner, Murty
exploded.
"By Gripes, Jim, you're th' two ends an' th' middle of a
double-barrelled idiot! No mistake about it."
"What's your speciality in disturbances now?" asked Jim.
"Look at me!" Murty cried, pathetically. "I'm marked enough to
be identified."
"That's not a delectable condition, I'll allow," said Jim. "But
the minor protuberances and contusions and abrasions will disappear
eventually, if not sooner."
"A nice mate you are!" Murty went on, in an injured tone. "To
run away an' leave me alone with a darned velocipede like that.
Dunno how I escaped alive."
"You didn't mobilise with sufficient celerity in the first
place," said Jim. "And, as you were so dilatory in despatching
yourself in pursuit of the horses, it was absolutely necessary for
me to leave you in sole charge of the attacking force. Had you kept
the gentleman's head in the bag—"
"Kept the devil in a bag!" Murty sneered. "Do you think I wanted
it out to see what colour its hair was? If he ken recognise
us when he sees us agin, it will be your fault. But I s'pose I'll
have to suffer, as usual."
"Don't alarm yourself, Murty," said Jim. "We can prove an
alibi. Just keep your mental pabulum, and remember we are
playing cards at Gater's."
* * * * *
After breakfast on Sunday morning Jim and Tarkalson, carrying a
gun each, went down the river looking for ducks. Murty wasn't
feeling very well, so kept to his bed. Scully remained at the hotel
to keep Gater company. The shooters had no eye for game until they
came near the hut. At a small waterhole close by they shot three
ducks, and the reports of their guns were immediately answered by
faint coo-ees from the hut. Tarkalson coo-eed back, and continued
to call at intervals as they approached, as though the voice was
hard to locate.. When they pushed the door open, and saw the big
man lashed to a canvas chair, their astonishment was a masterpiece
in facial expression.
"Good Lor'! it's Mr. Brody," Tarkalson exclaimed.﹃A
contortionist, I presume?﹄said Jim, surveying him from the
doorway.
Brody heaved at the chair, and shuffled his feet. "Undo these
straps, Tarkalson, for God's sake!"
"How did you get like that?" Tarkalson asked, interestedly.
"A couple, of d——d brigands waylaid me and brought
me here. I was a bit fuddled, to tell you the truth, and have only
a faint recollection of what really happened...I know I had a fight
at the gate."
"An' have you been here all night?"
"I have."
"Must feel rather uncomfortable by this time," Tarkalson
remarked, sitting down on the doorstep. Jim sat down beside him,
and commenced to fan himself leisurely with his hat. Anger, fear
and suspicion were blended in Brody's eyes.
"Are you going to release me, Tarkalson?" he asked, sharply.
"By th' way, Mr. Brody," said Tarkalson, "I hear you've sold
Crowlong, an' that you're leavin' these parts in a week or
two."
"What's that to do with it—or with you?" Brody
demanded.
"Why," said Tarkalson, "there's a little matter of fifty quid
owin' to me an' Scully, an' it's just struck me that you mightn't
get another chance like this to square, up with us."
"If you have any claim on me, Tarkalson, we can discuss that at
the station."
"We discussed it there before," said Tarkalson. "It was your
innings then; it's mine now."
"Look here, my man," said Brody, angrily, "let me warn you that
you are, making things very ugly for yourself. It's extortion; and
though you may be innocent of any complicity in this outrage on me,
you render yourself liable as an accessory after the fact by
leaving me like this."
"But we don't know you're here!" said Tarkalson, quietly.
Brody, who had been straining forward, dropped back limply in
his bonds.
"What's more," Tarkalson continued, "you're likely to be
uncomfortably stiff afore anybody else knows you're here, seein' as
you've, got into the habit o' sometimes stoppin' away a week
without notice. It's a bad habit, Mr. Brody."
Brody remained silent, staring at the ground.
"I suggest, Mr. Tarkalson," said Jim, getting up, "that we leave
our mutual friend to his reflections till the day after to-morrow,
by which time, I predict, he will be more amenable to reason."
"I think so," Tarkalson agreed, following him out. Brody woke up
from his reverie as the door closed, and called him back.
"Come here, damn you!"
Tarkalson thrust his head in.
"There's a cheque book and a fountain pen in the inside pocket
of my coat. Get them out. Then free my right hand."
"Now, you're comin' to your senses," said Tarkalson, complying
with the requests. "Date it for yesterday, please, Mr. Brody. This
is Sunday."
When he had thus purchased his release, they harnessed up the
horses for him, helped him in with much courtesy, and he drove away
without a word. Before leaving themselves they carefully swept out
all tracks inside and outside the hut, even to the marks of the
chair legs.
Brody drove straight to Dulla, the nearest station, and returned
after dinner with Toby Carson, the manager, and two blackfellows.
They spent several hours about the gate and the hut, and along the
road; and when they could find no tracks in support of Brody's
sensational story, Carson began to question him jocularly as to the
number of glasses and the sort of grog he had had at Gater's on
Saturday night.
Brody came back to Gater's in a sullen mood. Tarkalson and Co.
were lolling on the verandah—except Murty Brown, whose eye
was filling a hole in the window curtain.
"Tarkalson," he said, "I want you to describe to Mr. Carson how
you found me this morning."
"How I found you?" Tarkalson repeated, surprised.
"Yes."
"This mornin'?"
"Yes, yes! You know—in the hut."
"What hut?"
"Why, the Three-mile hut!"
Brody was getting exasperated.
"You must be makin' some mistake, Mr. Brody," said Tarkalson. "I
haven't been near the Three-mile hut."
"Damn it all!" Brody cried, "didn't you and that man beside you
find me bound to a chair?"
"Me!" said Jim, elevating his brows.
"You, yes!" Brody answered nodding emphatically, and getting red
in the face. "You had three ducks with you. Do you deny that?"
"Are you sure they had three?" asked Gater.
"I am."
"Well, they only brought one home."
That staggered Brody. Tarkalson, in fact, had planted the other
two birds to take to Dulla.
"He's got 'em badly this time," remarked Carson in an undertone
to Scully.
"Did I not give you a cheque this morning?" Brody demanded.
"You gave me a cheque," said Tarkalson, "but not this
morning."
"When?"
"Last night in the bar. Don't you remember when Gater went out
to see what was disturbin' his fowls?"
"I don't!" snapped Brody. "I gave you that cheque this
morning."
"You couldn't 'ave done that," Gater interposed. "It's dated
yesterday."
"He asked me to ante-date it because to-day was Sunday."
"And I cashed it for him last night!" concluded Gater, who was
taking no chances of having a bad document left on his hands.
The roar of laughter that followed drowned Brody's remarks, and
it rang in accompaniment to the furious rattle of his wheels as he
drove away.
CHAPTER XI. KOPONEY'S ISLAND.
They were yarning that Sunday afternoon at the back of Gater's
pub—all except Murty Brown, who was continuing the rest cure
in a darkened room.
Murty had expressed a wish to lose himself outback for awhile,
and to employ the time searching for the unplaceable speck; but
Jim, who had been engaged on that quest before, threw a damper on
the proposal.
"What its official title is I have never ascertained, but it was
known to us as Koponey's Island," said Jim, who was nicknamed
Webster.
"Never mind the title; let's 'ave the yarn," said Tarkalson.
"With the greatest animosity," Jim returned, taking his
coat-tails in his arms and seating himself on a portion of the
wood-heap. "We had been on a job-hunting expedition for about three
months, when we came to a big depression in the landscape that had
an upheaval in the middle of it like a camel's hump. The road
snaked off in two directions to circumnavigate it, and I sat back
in the breeching at the fork for a minute while Murty Brown brushed
up his bump of locality.
"'By cripes, Jim, we've hit it!' he says. 'We've hit it!' he
repeats, in capitals, and heaves his roof at the bifurcation.
"'Hit what?' says I.
"'See that atoll in the middle of the lake, with a fringe of
lignum round it, an' one bushy tree for top-dressin'?' says Murty.
'That's Koponey's Island.'
"'I don't quite comprehend,' I says. 'The decorative item is
certainly obtrusive, but the lake eludes me.'
"'You're the two ends of an ass, Jim,' he says. 'All this
dumped-in vicinity is a lake when it's full. S'far's I know, this
is th' first time it's been struck thirsty since Koponey navigated
it in a bark canoe and went into recess on that atoll. An', seein'
as how we're only shoein' the shoemaker at present, I think we
might do worse'n go into recess there ourselves. It's quite on the
cards that we'll discover something. I 'appen to know, at any rate,
that Koponey took a valuable cargo across with him; an' I've reason
to believe he left it there.'
"'Please to elucidate,' I says, as Murty charged down on the
concavity. 'Who was this Admiral Koponey person, anyhow?'
"'He was a spry chap as lived by his wits, Jim. Haunted back
town an' shanties, an' took down honest bushmen like you an' me at
hazard an' other games, when they were shikkered, an' bought their
live-stock an' jool'ry for nex' to nothing when they were
cleaned-out an' 'ad an extra-special desire to fill 'em up again.
Plenty o' jokers knockin' around like Koponey; they do a bit o'
tommyhawkin' at shearin' time, an' lay up with gammy wrists about
three days a week; but Koponey never tackled hard work at all. He
worked the sheds with French photos., and lay by at the shanties
like a spider waitin' for flies. His French specials were real
pure. 'Twas them, an' some cronk bizness with a cheque that set the
traps after his scalp. He got wind of it an' made tracks across a
multitude o' territ'ry at short notice. One evenin' he camped at a
muddy waterhole on Sandy Brannon's, an' while he's there a nice fat
hogget gets bogged. 'Twas rotten luck, Koponey said; th' darned
thing couldn't get mud-hobbled only just when he 'appened to be
there. Of course, it suggested fresh chops for breakfast, an' bein'
in a lonesome place, Koponey extracted it as an act of mercy, an'
led it to the slaughter. 'Ad it skinned an' slung up, an' was just
openin' it down nicely, when Sandy Brannon an' one o' the men rode
slap on to him. It was a desp 'rate case, an' needed desp'rate
measures. Koponey outs with a revolver in one hand an' a pound-note
in the other. 'I was starvin' when I pulled that sheep out o' the
bog an' killed it,' he says, 'but I know that won't save me. Take
the quid an' leave me alone, an' I'll be off your run before
sundown.' 'All right, me man,' says Brannon, an' rode off without
takin' the quid. Then Koponey slipped his anchor an' made a
dinnyaiser for his lake. He 'ad a pile o' money on him, besides a
swag o' jewellry, an' he shipped it to that island in a bark canoe.
Hid there for a couple o' months, then cleared out-back, leavin'
everything behind him. He meant to come back in a year or two, dig
up his plant, an' go into business somewhere in a new quarter. But
he got smashed up in a mining accident—where he'd tackled
work for th' first time, I b'lieve, in his born days. I 'appened to
be workin' mates with him, an' when he knew he was booked for a
brighter sphere, he ups an' tells me about his treasure. 'It's on a
little island in th' middle of a lake,' he says. 'There's one bushy
tree on it an' a fringe of lignum round it.' An' that there
eminence, Jim, is accordin' to prescription, ain't it?'
"'Omitting the trifling matter of a wet circumference,' I says,
'I'll allow the similarity is conspicuous; but what are the precise
bearings of the lake as mapped out by the lamented Koponey?'
"'Never mapped 'em,' says Murty. 'He collapsed right at th'
lignum fringe. That's why I've been ten years, off an' on,
explorin' Australia an' ploddin' round every darned lake I ever
heered on. An' here I run slap on to the blessed situation when I'm
not givin' it a thought. By cripes, Jim, you an' me's in for
something special.'
"'I hope it will develop as you prognosticate,' I says, as we
lands on the lake's protuberance. Its population was a wedge-tailed
eagle. We ousted him, and took possession with due formula. As a
quiet place for a Quaker's residence, Koponey's Island was sublime.
There was water at one extremity, but the wood supply was painfully
abbreviated. The eagle had most of it up the tree, and we
commandeered that with promptness. While I rigged the tent and
boiled the billy, Murty was chopping up the island with a
tomahawk—which comprised our mining outfit. It was a sight
for sore eyes to see the bottled up energy escaping from him. But
the treasure eluded him that night, and it was ten days before he
got a renewal of his mineral license. It rained—rained for 36
solid hours; and when we upended ourselves on the second morning,
we found the blessed deluge had marooned us. The lake was full, and
an obstreperous bullock had materialised on the premises.
"At first we rather congratulated ourselves on his
approximateness, but when he introduced himself, in his robes of
office, we weren't quite so exuberant in his company. It was a
foregone conclusion that we would have to assimilate him sooner or
later, you understand; besides, we wanted his outer casing for a
coracle. We thought the brute would be amenable to reason, and
allow us to negotiate in a peaceable manner; but he became so
demonstrative at first sight of us that we removed to the eagle's
quarters without waiting to get our hats. He arrove with much
snort, and established himself tinder the balcony, swinging his
fly-killer and taking observations. We christened him Pugnacity. He
remained thereabout for two hours, then went off a little way to
take in grass. He couldn't go far without embracing aquatics, as
that blessed island was only 40yds. long, and deplorably attenuated
in the waist. Our roost centralised it. Murty slipped down after
his tomahawk, and he had just shinned back out of reach when
Pugnacity returned to investigate.
"'By tripes, I'll make cold meat of him,' says Murty, and he
heaves the hatchet at him with criminal intentions. It collided
with his cranial armament, bounced off, and revoluted into Lake
Monotony.
"It was a national disaster just then on Koponey Island. Our
pocket-knives were blunt and wobbly in the blades, or we might have
managed with a stick and a bootlace to guillotine the beast. He was
the most cantankerous specimen of the bovine genus I ever rubbed
acquaintance with. There was plenty of grass in our country for a
day or two, and he had only to turn round to lubricate. That would
satisfy any respectable quadruped; but Pugnacity had been badly
brought up. He was bellicose by nature, and had selfish ideas; and
that hurt us all the more now that we had nothing to kill him with.
He would haunt our basement for hours, then go on circuit duty for
a little while, and take refreshments, but as soon as he saw us
connected with his grass-plot he would resume hostilities, and we'd
have to streak for the elevator.
"We got our furniture aloft before dark. Sleeping on the same
plane with Pugnacity was too precarious. Murty made a hammock with
the tent, and I constructed another out of the blankets. We hung
our ration-bags and paraphernalia about the limbs, till that
blessed vegetable looked like a Christmas tree. Pugnacity deposited
himself within call, in case we fell out, and consequently Murty
retired with disturbances in his mind. He annexed the nightmare,
among other catastrophes, and kept the community awake with his
agony shrieks. My lamps lit on him in the grey dawn as he clutched
a handful of hammock on each side of him, and prospected the
universe for calamities.
"'Good morning, Murty,' I says; 'how are you sagaciating?'
"'By tripes,' says Murty, 'it was real awful. If I put in
another night like the last I'll die of heart-disease. I wish that
beast would emigrate. I'd face starvation willingly if I could only
'ave a bit of real estate to sleep on.'
"'It isn't a very salubrious situation. I'll allow,' I says,
'but it will be much more in juxtaposition if that fellow goes
voyaging. He's the natural resources of this island, and we must
develop him somehow.'
"'I hope he'll be developed soon,' said Murty.
"'We are unanimous on that identical point,' I says. 'If we
concentrate our superior intelligence on that desirable end, we are
bound to accomplish his bamboozlement in the course of time.'
"Pugnacity was browsing at the north pole just then, and we took
the liberty to drop down and make a fire. He was enjoying a good
breakfast evidently, but he left when he saw me appropriating a
small decoction of the lake, and we found it necessary to hurry
upstairs again. We boiled the billy, though in spite of him. Murty
suspended that utensil over the fire with the tent-rope, and when
it boiled he just hauled it up, and hung it intermediate so we
could dip from our respective allotments. Pugnacity remained
contiguous, with a resentful optic glued on the combustion, and we
had an argument on his driving power, and discussed him generally
from a gastronomic standpoint. There were times when we could crack
jokes about the European situation, and feel quite hilarious; and
then would come the relapses when the thought of being evicted by a
cow's uncle would stir the bile in us, and cause an ebullition of
bad language. He regarded the shade of our residence as his
birthright, and when the sun got hot he favoured the neighbourhood
with much conspicuousness.
"We held out for five days, hammocked most of the time, and
taking exercise on the instalment system between whiles. That put
finality on our menu card and the sixth day found us with a void
that ached for the enemy. About noon Murty crawled out of his
hammock, and, dressed in a week's beard and some sunburn, dropped
quietly over the balcony.
"'What do you meditate?' I says.
"'I'm goin' to fish out my tommy,' says Murty. 'That disgruntled
son of a cow's 'ad the loan of us long enough. Here goes!'
"Pugnacity was studying
perspective seascape; but the first glimpse of Murty in his
dismantled state electrified him. He seemed to regard him as a
fresh indignity, and focussed him with opprobrium till he had
penetrated some quantity of lake. We were confabulating with regard
to the whereabouts of the lost property, and didn't observe his
manoeuvres. When Murty turned, with the precious implement in
custody, Pugnacity was making demonstrations on the bank. Murty
jumped and ejaculated spontaneously.
When Murty turned, Pugnacity was making
demonstrations on the bank.
"'My Gawd, Jim,' he says, 'he's got me!' For a moment he shifted
and twisted as if he was trying to get behind himself.
"'Don't alarm yourself,' I says. 'Transmit that hatchet this
way, and I'll attack him in the rear.' Murty transmitted it. Then
Pugnacity heaved his bulk of contumacy at him, and Murty
precipitated himself into the lignum bushes. I dropped down and
acquired the hatchet, but had to elevate again with express speed.
The tantalising beast wouldn't come to the sacrifice, and he
wouldn't despatch himself far enough to restore confidence in Mr.
Brown. He was more aggressive than usual. Our residence was the
only comestible left on the island, and swimming after lignum
didn't appear to be a habit of his, so we got the benefit of his
spare time—especially Murty.
"'This is awful,' he says, when he'd been transfixed about two
hours. 'Why don't that atrocity emigrate? Can't you do something
for me, Jim?'
"'Unfortunately,' I says, 'I have no influence with the
obstructionist. But we might contrive to circumvent him between us.
How's your constitution?'
"'I'm gettin' th' cramps,' says Murty.
"'Well, that's not too voluptuous, I'll allow,' I says. 'But
keep your head up, and I'll guarantee you'll be relieved in less
than a week.'
"'I'll be defunct before then,' says Murty. 'Haven't you enough
agility about you—a young man like you—to decoy him
further?'
"'He decoys with too much velocity,' I says, 'when you consider
the gradient of our staircase. But if you'll conduct yourself to
the farthest extremity, and make yourself attractive there, I'll be
able to initiate something.'
"Murty set off wading round the island with a disturbance in his
dental department, and as soon as he had got Pugnacity interested
at the north pole, I took the tent and rigged it on its gable end
near the water—temporarily, you understand, so it would
col—lapse and conglobulate on the slightest provocation. Then
I constructed an effigy of Murty Brown, titivated him up in a red
shirt and a flaming tie, and erected him in the immediate
foreground. I drew Murty's hat well over his frontispiece, and
introduced an eagle's feather to impart a military aspect. I had to
abbreviate the finishing touches, for old Pugnacity was coming
along to interview the proceedings. His indignation, when he saw
Dummy, was even more emphatic than when Murty's nakedness was
imposed on his sensibilities. He approached with deliberate step,
his cranium in the atmosphere, his olfactory organs in full blast,
and murder scintillating in both eyes. Dummy was a new sensation;
he didn't vamoose like the other two-legged monstrosities on
Koyoney's Island. He stood defiant, and Pugnacity seemed to
recognise that his reputation was at stake. He craned forward to
sample Dummy's effluvium, and one prodigious snort nearly upset his
attitude. His tie fluttered, and the next instant he struck the
background with violence in six places. The background fell over
Pugnacity like a winding-sheet, his horns hooked it, and, with a
frantic roar and a mighty upheaval, the conglomeration plunged into
the lake. His departure and Murty's home-coming were
contemporaneous.
"'How-wow-wow are yer?' says Murty. Poor chap was pretty nigh
refrigerated.
"'Oh, salubrious,' I says. 'How are you appreciating?'
"'For Gawd's sake, go an' chop some steak off him while I thaw
meself,' says Murty. 'My very bones are petrified.'
"The lamented Pugnacity had struggled into deep water, and
towing him into the shallows, with his caudal appendage between my
teeth, was a distressing process. But we landed him eventually. We
flayed him with the hatchet, and we butchered him with the same
instrument; and four days subsequently we embarked in his
cuticle—which we scuttled on the main coast. It had the
station brand on the port bow."
"And what about the treasure?"
"Well, as to that," said Jim, who was nick-named Webster, "I
won't insinuate that Koponey was a fabricator; prospecting with a
hatchet wouldn't have done the man justice. But the plain fact was
the local features of the place didn't tally in all particulars
with Koponey's map; and that satisfied Mr. Brown eventually that it
was the wrong address. All we shipped from that island were the
foundation poles of the eagle's residence and a sun-dried hunk of
Pugnacity."
CHAPTER XII. RIDING SLINGER.
Shortly after the affair at Gater's, the chief actors shifted
their quarters to Dulla homestead. Murty was eager to continue his
search, but want of funds called a temporary halt. He also wanted
an enthusiastic mate. Jim had gone cold.
"Searching for a crook's hoard doesn't altogether conform with
my code. of honour," he informed Murty.
"Look here," said Murty. "I've only told you half the yarn yet.
It's not the money or the jewellery that's planted on the island
that I'm after. There'd be men all over the country lookin' for it
if I told 'em the secret."
"Be a little more explicit, Mr. Brown," said Jim.
But Mr. Brown turned away.﹃If you've lost inteinterestthe
quest,﹄he said, tantalisingly, "it's no use sayin' any more about
it. Anyhow, we've got to earn some money before we can go any
further. I hear there's cattle goin' away from Dulla. That job
would do me nicely."
Dulla was one of the oldest squattages on the Logan. Its
patchwork buildings, and the collection of wrecked vehicles about
the blacksmith's shop, were evidence of the fact. There were
bullock waggons, horse drays, spring carts, buggies and
waggonettes; some were mere frames of splintered wood and bent
iron, and some had wheels without tires, or wheels that had lost a
number of spokes and felloes. Toby Carson, the young manager, had
brought them in from out-camps and elsewhere, and Lem Scully and
Bill Tarkalson had taken the contract of making them into
serviceable rolling stock.
Scully was the blacksmith. He stood at the anvil, artistically
decked in a doughbanger's cap and a leather apron, flogging iron
and making sparks fly.
Tarkalson, who modestly described himself as a rough carpenter,
sat chopping out spokes with a tomahawk, and piling up chips.
Lolling on the bench was Matthew Conyers, who had just arrived from
the Richmond, looking for droving. He was interrupting the work by
recounting how he had broken in 40 colts at Wyangarie at a pound a
head.
"That's a good price, ain't it?" asked Tarkalson.﹃For ordinary
horses it's a fair thing,﹄said Conyers, "but it was little enough
for that lot. Rip-snorters they were, every one of 'em. Buck a
house down."
"Didn't buck you down, though?" remarked Scully, blowing the
bellows.
Conyers smiled as though such a contingency was among the
impossibles.﹃They had an outlaw there that'd thrown all th' crack
riders on Wyangarie,﹄he went on. "The' boss offered me a pound one
mornin' to ride him. I snapped; an' he set me about the roughest go
I've had since th' black mare bucked over th' precipice with me on
Gordon Brook."
"Thought it was McPherson who rode that mare over the
precipice?" questioned Scully, leaning on the pole of the
bellows.
"It was me," Conyers informed him with decision.
"It said McPherson in th' paper," Scully persisted.
"I contradicted that report," said Conyers. "But they mislaid my
letter till it was too late. McPherson was a subscriber. I
wasn't."
Toby Carson came to the door with a bridle on his arm. A couple
of stockmen were catching horses in the yard.
"Anybody ridin' Slinger to-day?" asked Tarkalson. "No," said
Toby. "Want a seat?"
Tarkalson, with a jerk of the tomahawk over his shoulder, drew
attention to the interested person on the bench.
"This chap's fit for an argyment with anything you ken
produce—providin' you make it worth his while. Crack rider
from Wyangarie."
"Well, if he can ride Slinger I'll give him the brute," said
Toby.
"There you are, Mat," said Tarkalson. "Th' finest-lookin' 'orse
on Dulla."
"'N animal with a bit o' spirit in him," added Scully with a
grin.
Conyers slipped off the bench and limped across to the forge for
a light. "I'd like to snap that," he said, limping back. "I'd like
to—but I'm afraid my leg won't stand it."
"What's th' matter with your leg?" asked Tarkalson,
surprised.
"Horse fell on it crossin' the range. My back's been troublin'
me a bit, too," said Conyers, indicating the spot with his
thumb.
"You seemed all right when you came in," Tarkalson remarked,
aggressively.
"Felt all right, too," Conyers admitted. "Comes on me after I
sit down awhile."
Tarkalson and Scully exchanged glances. "Give us a blow, Bill,"
said the latter, and the matter would have, dropped there but that
Toby Carson scented fun.
"There'll be some, cattle going away from here next week, and
I'll want another hand," he said. "Have a camp, and you can ride
Slinger some afternoon before we start."
Conyers didn't look as pleased as the occasion seemed to call
for, but he consented, remarking that he would be quite fit for the
droving at any time, and hoped that gammy leg of his would not
deprive him of the pleasure of a seat on the outlaw. He wanted a
horse of Slinger's reputed calibre for a buck-jumping contest at
the Sleepy Hollow show.
"I remember you entered for the Grafton show one time," said
Scully. "Yer didn't go any further, though."
"Th' blamed horse got out into the bush th' day before," Conyers
explained.
"Heard 'em say th' fence was cut where he got through, an' there
was tracks of a lot o' gallopin' thereabout," said Scully, tapping
the anvil busily.
"I heard about that too," said Conyers, twisting uneasily.
"Believe that fellow as won the prize did it. I know he was a bit
frightened o' me an' my nag."
Tarkalson was seized with a fit of coughing.
When Conyers had been a couple of days on Dulla an event
happened that precipitated matters. A sheep had got out of the
killing pen, and Toby Carson and a rouseabout were trying to catch
it near the yard. Tarkalson and Scully went out to give a hand, the
yard being close to the shop. Conyers followed. He was a good
runner, was Conyers. That is, he could run away from the blacksmith
and the carpenter. He flew around, darting this way and streaking
that way; he dodged and danced and leaped in the air, knocking his
heels together and throwing his arms about to show his agility.
When the sheep had been caught, Carson sail:
"Leg seems pretty right now, Conyers. What about a ride this
afternoon?"
Conyers' expression was that of a man who had been taken an
unfair advantage of. He ran his hand down the afflicted limb and
began to limp again.﹃I'm afraid that twistin' about didn't do my
leg any good,﹄he said. Then his thumb dived into his spine.
"Back's th' worst. Caught me up pretty sharp once or twice."
Carson grinned and walked away.
"Look 'ere, Conyers," said Tarkalson when they had got back to
the shop. "I bet th' boss two quid this mornin' that you cross
Slinger an' sit him. Seems I'm goin' to lose."
"You wouldn't if I was right," said Conyers.
"Eggs-ackly," assented Scully. "But it looks 's if them ailments
you've picked up are goin' to be chronic. Often taken that
way?"
"If you don't mount him, I've got to forfeit," Tarkalson
continued. "If he slings you I lose, but if you stick to him half
th' wager's yours."
"You oughtn't 'ave bet that way, knowin' how crippled up I am,"
said Conyers.
"I thought I could depend on an old mate, who's not in th' habit
o' sayin' he ken do things he carn't, an' who's got a wholesome
contempt for a person who has no pluck in him."
Conyers left the shop offended, and strode off down the paddock.
At dinner-time he came back—a new man. He joked about
Slinger, and smiled all over his face.
"Your two quid's safe, William," he said, with a confidence that
surprised Bill. "I'm goin' to ride the outlaw this afternoon. Pass
the mustard."
They couldn't account for his high spirits and sudden change of
manner.
"Must 'ave let him out," Tarkalson whispered as they left the
table.
"Eggs-ackly," said Scully.
But Slinger wasn't let out. He appeared in the yard an hour
later, and Conyers at once went over to fulfil his promise,
carrying his saddle and bridle on one arm, and a long bolster on
the other.
Slinger was a big black horse, with the sleek coat and carriage
of a stallion. He looked powerful and active, and he was certainly
a snorter. He snorted every time Conyers moved.
The others sat on the caps, recalling the men Slinger had maimed
or killed in his time. Conyers looked pale. He saddled the murderer
in the crush, with a lot of trouble. Then he secured the bolster by
the middle to the crupper staple, hooked the reins under the
stirrup leathers, and let Slinger loose in the yard. He bucked like
a demon, bucked, grunted, and squealed; and at every prop the ends
of the bolster swung out and slapped him across the flanks, which
made him kick and buck all the more. Conyers kept him going round
the yard for an hour, till he was too tired to buck any
more—till he would hardly even kick at the bran bags and
kerosene tins Conyers threw at his heels. He was in a lather of
sweat when Conyers caught him and relieved him of the bolster.
"You're not going to get on him yet?" Toby inquired with
sarcasm.
"I'd try him with th' fam'ly bed-tick an' a few pillows first,"
Tarkalson suggested.
"Do yer want a landin' net?" asked Scully.
Conyers didn't hear these opprobrious remarks. He led Slinger
out of the yard, and started across the paddock, watching the
snortful beast across his shoulder as he went.
"Means to have clear ground," Toby remarked as the three
followed him. They followed him for half a mile. Conyers still led
the horse.
"Showin' th' animal some scenery," said Scully.
When they had tramped about a mile Toby began to grumble, and to
make caustic allusions to Matthew's appearance and horsemanship
Tarkalson, having blown the trumpet for him, felt inclined to kick
that person.
"Don't think th' skiter ken sit a kick-up," he confided savagely
to Scully. "Where's he travellin' to, anyway?"
It was soon clear where Conyers was travelling to. A mile and
a-half from the homestead was a boggy spring, and into this he led
Slinger till the horse was bogged up to his knees, and he began to
bog himself. Then he prepared to mount. He had a monkey-hold rigged
on the off-side of the pommel, which he took a firm grip of before
he left the ground. Slinger stood pretty quiet. He couldn't do
anything else; he was too well hobbled with black mud. Still, when
he felt the weight on him, he made a good effort to get rid of it,
plunging desperately through mud and slush; but he grunted and
stumbled more than he bucked. Conyers went twice over the pommel,
once behind the saddle, and several times he lost his stirrup irons
and stuck a foot down into the quagmire, to the jeering yells of
Toby and company. But he wasn't slung; there was always some of him
on the horse.
Below the bog was a big dam, where the stock watered. Conyers
rode Slinger into it, and swam him round in it; he flanked him,
caught him by the ears, stood up in the saddle, and took other
liberties with that outlaw. He rode him back into the bog, back
again into the water to wash him, and so on till sundown; while
Carson and Scully chiacked him, and Tarkalson threw mud over him
when his back was turned, and called him things unprintable.
Suddenly Conyers left the water on the dry side, and headed for
the yard at a good jog, the horse going like an old stager. He was
dead beat. With a yell, Tarkalson rushed after him, picking up
sticks. Scully remonstrated.
"Let him go, you fool! If he gets to th' yard safe, you'll win
th' wager."
"Win th' wager be darned!" cried Tarkalson.﹃I never made no
wager, 'n' if that blamed yahoo don't fall off I'll 'ave to pay him
a pound. A pound for that!﹄And Bill made renewed efforts to
get near enough to throw a stick at Slinger's heels; but, just as
there was a prospect of success, his foot caught in a creeper, and
he lost some skin off his nose in the resultant fall.
When they reached the yard, Conyers had unsaddled, and was
sitting on the gate-post, smoking a cigarette. He looked
pleased.
"I'm goin' to make a pack-horse of him," he informed Tarkalson,
with a nod towards the depreciated outlaw.﹃Wouldn't mind gettin' a
few more at the same price.﹄He jumped down, laughing. "You might
let me have that quid to-night, Bill, if it's convenient."
Tarkalson, dabbing a bleeding nose with a handkerchief, swore
under his breath, and went and sat down on the anvil.
CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSEKEEPER AT
DULLA.
Breakfast had been earlier than usual at Dulla, as Toby Carson,
the manager, was driving his wife that morning to Beaudesert, where
she would stay for the month or six weeks that he expected to be
away with cattle. Work had not yet started in the blacksmith's
shop. The two mechanics, over their pipes, were discussing a
delicate problem with Mat Conyers and Jim, who was nicknamed
Webster. The latter had come up from Gater's pub the previous
evening. Murty Brown was in the hut sleeping off the effects of too
much conviviality as the result of meeting old friends. Jim had
just been engaged for the road. Murty hadn't been similarly
fortunate, and the finances of the firm being at a desperately low
ebb, the question of a profitable occupation for him was a serious
one.
A housekeeper was wanted to take charge of the place, in
conjunction with Selina Saddler, the pretty housemaid, during the
absence of Mr. and Mrs. Carson. The subject had been debated with
Mrs. Gater at the hotel, and it was settled to their mutual
satisfaction, that Murty Brown should have the the situation.
"Murty likes a bit of fun," said Conyers, "and I don't see why
he shouldn't provide it."
"Eggs-ackly," said Scully. "An' 'twill be a nice, rosy billet
for him. He ought to jump at it."
"He's the best material here to make a woman out of, anyway,"
said Conyers. "He's got small hands that ain't been disfigured much
with hard work, an' a squeak in his voice that'll pass for a
woman's. He's pretty clean about the lip an' cheeks, too, an' when
he shears that wisp round his throat an' powders a bit, he ought to
pass. Toby won't see much of him, an' if Selina bowls him out, we
can easily talk her over. Seems a good, simple sort, who
wouldn't make any fuss."
"I'll speak to Toby 'fore he goes," said Tarkalson. "Lemme see.
We'll call him Mrs. Winkles."
"Mind your pronouns, William," cautioned Jim.
"She's stoppin' at Gater's while her 'usband's away shearin',"
Tarkalson continued, "an' she'd be glad of a job for a month or
two. A rough, staggyfied-lookin' old piece she is (which should be
consolin' to the missus), but a good grafter, an' thoroughly
reliable. Mrs. Gater ken confidently recommend her. That'll satisfy
Toby."
"See him at once, Bill," Conyers advised, "an Jim an' I will go
an' talk Murty out of his sex. He's bound to be a bit obstropulous
at first."
"You needn't anticipate any impediments in the arrangements, Mr.
Conyers," Jim interrupted. "His impecuniosity will be an inducement
from the jump. I know Brown. Let's interview him."
Tarkalson's part in the negotiations occupied only a few
minutes, but nearly an hour elapsed before Conyers and Jim returned
with Murty.
"Well?" said Tarkalson.
"Mrs. Winkles is agreeable," Jim announced. He nodded towards
the vanishing vehicle. "What's the governor's proclamation?"
"Conyers is to take the waggonette an' bring her up at
once."
"Good!" said Jim, "I'll go with him and superintend the
transmogrification. Are you ready, Mary Ann?"
"Who the 'ell are you calling Mary Ann?" Murty demanded, firing
up.
"He's a bit obfuscated yet," Jim explained apologetically to the
company.﹃Get the locomotive, Conyers, and we'll obliterate him at
once. And,﹄he added, turning to the indignant Brown, "mind you
moderate your vernacular when you're Mrs. Winkles, and conduct
yourself with the utmost decorum before the immaculate Selina."
"'Twon't matter when I'm Mrs. Winkles how I conduct myself
before S'lina," Murty returned. "I'll 'ave to be careful what I say
before the men."
"Likewise be deaf and blind to their palaver and blandishments,
Mary Ann," Jim advised.
Their laughter evoked no response from Murty, and he departed
with mixed feelings. Arrived at Gater's, they lost no time in
getting to work on the transformation. This wasn't all smooth
sailing. To begin with, Murty couldn't see the sense of changing
his trousers and socks for stockings, till Jim explained that
Selina would be sure to notice them sometimes when he stooped, or
stood on a chair, or fell over something. Such catastrophes happen
to women at times, and it was a good policy to be properly dressed
for the occasion. The corsets he threw out of the window as
unworthy of argument. If his waist wasn 't the orthodox style, they
might tight-lace him a bit in that quarter with a saddle-strap.
Then Conyers approached him with two pink pin-cushions.
"What's them fakements for Murty demanded.
"Them's your bust," said Conyers. "You're a a bit flat-chested
for a dame of your age."
Murty peered down at the excrescences with mutinous eyes. His
hand stole behind him.﹃You're not puttin' an improver on me, are
you?﹄he queried. "You want a lot of improvin' yet," Conyers
informed him.
"I mean the swellin' behind what they call a bustle," Murty
explained.
"Don't alarm yourself," said Jim; "the protuberance is obsolete.
But we can accommodate you with a crinoline."
"Darn the crinoline," snapped Murty.﹃It's enough to put a
bustle on a bloke's chest 'thout makin' a balloon of him. Where do
I carry my sweat-rag?﹄he asked suddenly, as his blouse was drawn
on.
"In your bosom," said Conyers. "You'll want some eau-de-cologne
for it."
"In my bosom!" Murty repeated, and chuckled mirthlessly.
Conyers was busy with the skirt. It was a heavy black one, with
several rows of pleats and tucks at the bottom, and of a waist
limit that affected Murty's breathing apparatus when it was hooked.
Then he was handed over to Mrs. Gater for the artistic touches,
which she performed with a joviality that Murty at once resented
and envied. He felt like a funeral himself. A prize-packet brooch
was pinned at his throat, and his ears having been pierced in his
youth, the good woman couldn't resist encumbering them with two
pendulous ornaments; his face was beautified with rouge and powder
and other mysteries, all of which, Murty ascertained, would wash
off when required; a pink ribbon encircled his neck, and, topped
with a gargantuan dish-cover hat, specially designed for tropical
suns, the transition from Murty Brown to Mary Ann Winkles was
complete.
"Now, let's see you do the block," said Jim.
Murty started with swinging arms and the thump of an elephant.
"Abbreviate, your stride, or you'll burst through the fabrication,"
said the mentor. "Hold your appendage—so, and don't make a
flutter as though you were an agitated tarpaulin. Now elevate your
parasol. That's it. How do you particularise her, Mrs. Gater?"
"Oh, she's simply magnificent," Mrs. Gater replied, with tears
in her eyes.
"Looks charming," said Conyers.
"Give her a small decoction of rum and cloves for her spasms,
Mrs. Gater," Jim requested, "and then we'll elope with her."
Everybody at the hotel turned out to see her off, and they all
said "Good-bye, Mrs. Winkles," and hoped she would like her place.
Mrs. Winkles hoped so too. She breathed with difficulty, and
perspired freely, and ultimately disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Arrived at the homestead, Conyers escorted her to the front door,
and, having introduced her to Selina, left her with much haste to
join Tarkalson and Scully, who were outside the shop examining some
old wheels they didn't want. Jim had a fit in the stable, after
which he took the horses out, and also hurried round to the shop,
blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. Selina showed Mrs. Winkles to
her room, eyeing her with every indication of disapproval on the
way.
"You look hot," she remarked. "Perhaps you'd like to rest till
dinner time?"
"I would," Mrs. Winkles affirmed, with alacrity, "I'm sweatin'
like a horse."
Selina sat down on the bed, while Mrs. Winkles got from under
her hat.
"What short hair you have," remarked Selina, biting her lip to
discourage the threatened development of a giggle.
"I suffer with headaches," Mrs. Winkles explained. "Th' doctor
told me I'd never have any relief till I cropped it. Such lovely
hair I used to have, too. Dick used to admire, it."
"Dick's your husband? What shed's he working at?"
"I can't think of the name of it now," Mrs. Winkles answered,
pondering. "I've got a shockin' memory for names, you wouldn't
think. It's out west, anyway."
"It would be nice for you if he got on here," Selina suggested.
"So much better than travelling about."
"It would," Mrs. Winkles admitted, "but I wouldn't care to stop
permanent. I s'pose there's plenty to do in this caboose?"
"The washing and ironing are the worst," Selina replied.
"There's a pile of white dresses and shirts, cuffs and collars, and
other starched things." Mrs. Winkles opened her eyes and mouth, and
stared.﹃That and the scrubbing and general cleaning-up can all be
done the first week,﹄said Selina. "Then you'll have it pretty easy
till the missus comes back. There'll only be the jam to make, and
the mending and darning and sewing to do."
"Jam—mendin'—darnin'—sewin'?" Mrs Winkles
repeated, diving distressfully into her bosom for her sweat
rag.
"There's a big bundle of damaged hosiery," Selina proceeded.
"And there's several pillow-slips to make and new sheets to hem. Of
course, it won't take long to run them up on the machine."
"No—of course not."
"The baby's clothes will take the longest—"
"Ba-by's clothes!" Mrs. Winkles gasped, with a horror-stricken
expression that was pathetic in its intensity.
Selina nodded. "She left a list of what she wanted, in the
workroom."
"Did she?"
"And the material—flannelette, linen, thread, tape, and so
forth—it's all ready to hand—"
"But I didn't know she had it."
"The baby? Oh, it hasn't arrived yet. But missus thought it a
good time, I suppose, to get things ready, as Mrs. Gater
recommended you as specially experienced in that line."
"Mrs. Gater's th' two ends of a blamed ass!" said Mrs. Winkles,
fiercely. "How would an old bushy like me know anything about
babies now?"
"How long have you been married?" asked Selina. "Oh, years.
Years an' years. I disremember how many. Charlie could tell, I dare
say."
"Who's Charlie?"
"My 'usband—Mr. Winkles,"
"I thought you said his name was Dick?"
Mrs. Winkles started. "You see," she said, and coughed behind
her hand to hide her embarrassment, "his name's Richard Charles. So
sometimes I call him Dick, an' sometimes Charlie. Th' name of him
don't get monotonous that way."
"What a funny idea! Well, I must go and lay the table for the
men; and, meanwhile, you can have a rest."
Left to herself, Mrs. Winkles, after an exhaustive search for
her pocket, and a liberal use of bad language, extracted her pipe
and proceeded to smoke herself into something like a settled state
of mind. Unfortunately, Selina returned unexpectedly, and, unable
to find that pocket again as speedily as circumstances demanded,
she concealed the pipe in her lap. Selina sniffed and looked round
suspiciously. In a moment, as though in answer to her unspoken
query, Mrs. Winkles' lap began to belch smoke like a miniature
volcano.
Selina shouted:
"Look out! your dress is afire!" in such a startling manner that
Mrs. Winkles jumped to her feet without thinking, and the shameful
pipe clattered loudly on the floor.
Selina looked horrified.
"Oh, Mrs. Winkles, do you smoke?"
Mrs. Winkles coughed desperately, and beat her chest.
"I'm afflicted with th' asthma, S'lina, an' the doctor says I
must smoke asthmatic tobacco for it. You don't mind me, do
you?"
"Oh, it's nothing to do with me," Selina answered coldly, and
withdrew.
Mrs. Winkles addressed some ornamental remarks to the offending
pipe and the unfindable packet, then sought relief to her shattered
nerves in further indulgence. At the same time she formed her plans
for the future. She would sweep and scrub, and dust, and potter
about to kill time until the boss and the men were gone. After
which she would tackle the washing; and that was as far forward as
she had the heart to look just then.
In pursuance of this decision, on the third day of her career as
working housekeeper, she was scrubbing out the office when she came
accidentally on a bottle of brandy—kept for sickness. Mrs.
Winkles wasn't feeling very well just at the moment, so she tried a
dose of it. She was so favourably impressed with the mollifying
result that she took three more doses in five minutes. She felt so
happy then that she, sang a lullaby to the scrubbing brush, and
even joked about the prospective infant. Her courage also revived,
and all the difficulties of house-work began to vanish. She
scrubbed industriously for a while, refreshed her flagging energies
again, scrubbed spasmodically a little longer, took more
stimulants—and finally fell over the bucket. Soon afterwards
Selina found her lying on her back in a pool of muddy water,
tobacco ashes and loose matches strewn about her, and all her
pristine splendour gone. In disgust she went to the men, and those
worthies carried her to her room, commenting that they had never
thought she was a woman of that sort, took off her wet garments,
and put her to bed—a proceeding that so shocked the modest
Selina that she threatened to give notice first thing in the
morning.
Mrs. Winkles slept off the effects of her debauch in the course
of the afternoon, and at dusk, arrayed in a pink petticoat, slipped
over to the hut, looking, as Scully said, like a walking
nightmare.
"By cripes, this is a nice caper you've got me at," she
grumbled, dropping on to a bunk. "I've disgraced my manhood."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Winkles," said Jim. "It wasn't stipulated in
the agreement that you were to make an alcoholic receptacle of
yourself."
"You've belied me an' Mrs. Cater, who recommended you," said
Tarkalson, sorrowfully. "What'll Toby say when he hears of it?"
"My troubles about Toby!" Mrs. Winkles snapped. "I'm full of it.
Look 'ere"—striking a melodramatic attitude—"there's
sewin' an' mendin' and darnin' to no end, an' toggery to make for a
blamed baby what ain't 'appened yet. It's got me fair flummoxed. I
ain't equal to the situation. No!" she went on, tragically, "I
ain't built that way. An' Selina suspicions something, too, or she
thinks I ain't quite respectable. Stuck in the room talking to me
last night when I wanted to get my nightgown on—which is th'
only comfortable thing I've, got to wear. Had th' blouse half
undone, holdin' it, when a darned beetle hooked me in the neck. I
made a grab at th' beast, an' my blessed bust falls off. Had to own
up then as I padded. S'lina seemed to be thinkin' a lot when she
left me."
"Phew!" said Tarkalson, "you're too chickenhearted."
Mrs. Winkles shook her head deprecatingly.﹃We ain't doin' th'
fair thin g by Selina,﹄she declared. "She embarrasses me th' way
she talks."
"Well, that won't make you blush, will it?" said Jim.
"I do, gunbust me if I don't. I warn't meant for a woman, Jim,
an' 'taint fair to hoodwink S'lina—"
She stopped short, with a violent start, and the pipe dropped
from her mouth. Toby Carson stood in the doorway, looking as cross
as two sticks. He had not been expected home till the morrow.
"Are you Mrs. Winkles?" he asked in an awful voice.
"I—I am!" said the lady who smoked and wore a pink
petticoat, avoiding his eye.
A moment of dreadful silence, everybody waiting breathlessly.
Toby shoved his hat back, and pulled it forward again. Then he
coughed.
"I wished to tell you that Mrs. Carson has changed her mind, and
is coming back with a companion; so we'll be able to dispense with
your services."
"Very well!" said Mrs. Winkles, squirming under his glance.
"I'll pay you a week's wages in the morning," he concluded,
turning away.
"You'll have to draw it for me, Jim," said the housekeeper,
disrobing. "Mrs. Winkles is dis-appearin'."
"I'll want a document from her to do that," said Jim.
Murty at once produced the document:
"Please pay my wages to Mr. Jim Webb, and
oblige.
"Yours truly,
"Mary Ann Winkles."
Then he left for Gater's with Mary Ann's remains under his
arm.
CHAPTER XIV. "ISLAND LAKE."
The cattle which Mat Conyers and Jim Webb had been waiting for
left Dulla run for Ramornie a few days later, with Toby Carson in
charge.
They picked up Murty Brown on the road. He emerged from the
wilderness at the first night camp, and got the place of a Dulla
stockman who had gone back sick.
Murty, though a restless, wandering bushwhacker, liked to work
back to his old quarters now and again. His customary track, when
not engaged in the great search, was from the Logan to Ramornie.
Any part of it was home, but Sleepy Hollow and Big Ben were
headquarters.
Apart from an occasional stampede at night, nothing occurred to
disturb the serenity of his life on the road. Droving had become
merely a pot-boiler with Murty, a necessary evil that handicapped
him in pursuit of his main object. Its chief virtue was that it
kept him moving. A job that kept him stationary was an infliction.
If he couldn't be exploring new territory, he could meet travellers
on the stock route who hailed from all parts, and who followed a
thousand tracks in the back country, and the front country too.
Murty's perennial smile beamed on them all. He was particularly
affable to loquacious nomads who had apparently been everywhere. He
always had tobacco and matches for swagmen: and if he met any near
the night camp he invited them to tea. Then Murty yarned with them
about the country, about all parts of the country, but especially
about localities that were dotted with natural reservoirs. He had
no time for people who didn't travel. Hunters, drovers, shearers,
cattle buyers, prospectors, and workless wanderers were his choice
spirits.
Near the Orara River he met an old man who was nearly blind with
sandy blight. He had been shepherding far away on the Darling
Downs, and was making for the coast to recuperate. He knew the
place Murty was looking for—and he spoke with the air of a
man who was not given to romancing. Murty swung out of his saddle
and squatted on his heels to absorb the intelligence.
"I was lookin' for a couple of strayed horses when I hit the
lake," said the old man. "I noticed smoke on the island, which I
thought was a queer place for anybody to be camped. The water
wasn't deep, or very wide, it bein' a dry season. At times, I
understand, there's no water there at all. So I rode across, an'
there I found a bloke I had seen once or twice before at shearin'
time, a tall, flash sort of bloke named Koponey—"
"That's the joker!" cried Murty, his eyes dancing with
excitement. "That's the very identical spot! I used to know
Koponey, though he hadn't an extra special good character."
"No, he 'adn't," the old man agreed, "an' I tell you I didn't
stop long in his company. There was a grave at one end of the
island, not more than a week or two old by the look of it. Koponey
said he'd buried his dog there. He did use to have a dog, an' he
had none then. But he seemed uneasy when I questioned him about it,
an' about him being there himself, like a marooned pirate. I didn't
like the look of things, an' left. For the same reason I never
mentioned it to anybody. If there was a murder I didn't want to be
mixed up in it. As there was no witness, it would have been just as
easy for Koponey to say he had found me in the suspicious
circumstances. I wasn't lookin' for trouble, anyway."
"All Koponey murdered was a bogged sheep," said Murty. "He was
hidin' on that island for fear the police would be after him for
it. He wasn't the clean spud, but he wasn't fracturin' the peace on
that speck."
"I'm glad to hear it," said the old man. "I've always worried
about that, thinkin' I'd struck a tragedy on Island Lake."
"Is that the name of it?" asked Murty, quickly. "That's all I
knew it by. To most people it was just a flooded plain."
"Well, if you can direct me to it," said Murty, "I'll fix you up
for a holiday. Koponey left his will there, pertainin' to a
valuable estate, an' I'm commissioned to recover it."
"I can do that easy enough," was the reply. "You want to set out
from Jondoey or Jondaryan—"
"Gunbust me!" cried Murty. "That's where De Quinlan took me. If
I'd stuck to him we might 'ave hit it. How far is it from
Jondaryan?"
"I don't know the distance, but it's a darn long way. See
here—"
Picking up a stick, he commenced to draw a map in the dust,
showing the route and the places along the way, and while he
scratched about on the road, Murty copied the tracings into his
pocket book. When it was completed, he drew his wages from Toby
Carson and handed the cheque to the old man.
"That leaves me stony, motherless broke again," he reminded
himself.
But he could not go straight to the long-unfindable, so he could
afford to wait awhile before setting out.
Soon after they had parted, with mutual good wishes, Murty
ranged up alongside Jim Webb. But he rode along without speaking
for some distance.
"Say, Jim," he said then, "do you think the skeleton of a man
could be carried all right on a pack-horse?"
Jim flashed at him a sharp look of surprise.
"If you can be, carried on Packer," he replied, "the neddy
wouldn't have any difficulty in transporting a mere skeleton.
'There would certainly be no complaints from the dear
departed."
"It wouldn't break or damage his small bones?" Marty
questioned.
"Providing you packed him carefully, and avoided violent contact
with trees; and providing he was not afflicted in the flesh with
osteomalacia—"
"What the devil's that?" cried Marty.
"It means brittle-boned," said Jim. "Eliminating those
contingencies there would be no danger of breakages. But what are
you cogitating about now, Mr. Brown."
"I was just thinkin' of a yarn the old bloke was tellin' me,"
cried Murty. "Poor old chap can scarcely see daylight from
granulation of the eyelids."
Then he pulled his horse round to turn in a straggling
bullock.
CHAPTER XV. MAKING A RISE.
After delivering their mob at Ramornie, Murty Brown, Conyers and
Jim, who was nicknamed Webster, pitched camp on a grassy flat just
below South Grafton, to spell their horses before striking north
again. Meanwhile they discussed improbable ways of getting rich
quickly to finance what Jim called wild-cat ventures.
Conyers turned over many schemes in his mind, and one morning he
came into camp simmering with excitement.
"I've just struck it!" he announced, dropping on to the bunk. "A
dead certainty, an' 's easy as flippin' yer finger."
"What's her name?" asked Murty, who was sewing on buttons.
"It's business," said Conyers. "With a little smartness, we ken
make £10 a day. Easy."
"Shugh!" said Murty, taking up his work again. "You're
woolgatherin'."
"Ten Pound a day an' no risks!" Conyers repeated.
"Kindly elucidate, Mr. Conyers," said Jim. Conyers lit a
cigarette.
"I met a chap in town this mornin' as wants horses," he began.
"His name's Phineas Jones. Ruin' for Japan or India, or somewhere.
Anyhow, money's no object to him, seein' as he's willin' to part up
twenty quid a head for good, upstandin' hacks. I got into
conversation with him, an' when he asked me if I had any to sell, I
told him I was ex-pectin' a few down shortly from my estate."
"What d'yer call it?" asked Murty.
"Meanwhile," Conyers continued, ignoring the question, "I had
three nags at the camp that I could sell him for £15 a head. He'll
be out this afternoon to look at them."
"I don't quite comprehend," said Jim. "Where are the
quadrupeds?"
"I've got one that I don't want," said Conyers.
"Quain, over here, has another, an' McFogg, the farmer across
th' road there has th' third. We'll get them two first of all, an'
if we succeed in sellin' 'em to Phineas Jones, then we'll lose no
time in buyin' 'em off Quain an' McFogg."
"Horse-stealin'!" cried Murty. "By tripes, if you're goin' at
that, Mat Conyers, the sooner you disconnect with this company the
better."
"My dear fellow," said Conyers, loftily, "if you would only keep
that simian face shut up, you might be mistaken at times for a man
of odd'nary intellect. There's nothing crooked about this business.
It's a straightforward, honest deal."
"You mean, then," said Murty, "you'll buy the 'orses off Quain
an' McFogg, an' then sell 'em to Phineas in th' usual manner?"
"No, I don't. We'll sell them first an' buy them afterwards.
That's where the beauty of it comes in. There's no risk of losin'
an' you know what you're makin' when you're buyin'."
"If that's what you call an honest deal, then I'm a darned
rogue," Murty declared.
"Well, your looks don't belie it, anyway," Conyers retorted. "'S
a wonder to me how you escape arrest like you do."
"Don't haggle, Conyers," Jim interrupted. "Introduce a little
more luminosity into your remarks."
"The idea is this," said Conyers; "I'll go an' 'ave a talk with
Quain while you're roundin' up our neddies—fetch up what's
runnin' with them too, as a mob makes a good impression; an' Murty
will whip ever an' interview McFogg.
"Ho! Will he?" cried Murty mutinously.
"You'll put on your best clothes, Brown," Conyers resumed. "You
can 'ave th' loan o' my chain to give you a well-to-do
appearance—"
"That darned brass thing with no watch on it?" Murty
protested.
"There's a hobble-ring on one of my straps; that'll keep th'
chain from slippin' out of your pocket, an' nobody will know but
'tain't a watch. You'll go to him as a buyer. You 'card he had a
chestnut 'orse to sell. When he trots him out, you look in his
mouth as though you knew all about 'orses' teeth, feel his
fetlocks, look round, an' try an' beat down the price. You ask what
he's by; if he's staunch, and if he has any vices. You were took
down with a vicious brute once, says you. Inquire if he's easy to
ketch, an' if he bucks. Finally, you say you are pleased with the
look of the beast, an' his references are satisfactory, but you'd
like to try him. You want him specially as a town hack, an' would
like to ride him down Prince-street. If he shapes Al, you'll be
over with the money before sundown. That's all straight sailin',
isn't it? Jim's a bit of a bush lawyer; ask him if there's anything
illegal in that transaction."
"Providing you don't covenant with Mr. McFogg in any way that
would be binding," pronounced Jim, "there would be no infringement
of the law."
"Well, that's delightfully obscure, anyway," said Murty. "But,
mind you, if any hitch do occur, you've got to be attorney for the
company."
Mr. Brown having acquired the necessary well-to-do appearance,
the three set out on their respective errands. In an hour they were
back again, all with horses.
"Ah!" said Conyers, beaming. "All a man wants in this country is
brains and a little push. What's the price, Murty?"
"Ten quid." Murty answered. "If 'twarn't for this hobble-ring
watch I'm wearin' I might 'ave got him for less. Gunbust me if old
McFogg's clock 'ain't stopped when I got there, an' seein' me
sport-in' th' jew'l'ry, he reckoned 'twas a good time to set her
jiggin' again. 'It's mighty unfortunit,' I sez, 'but mine's stopped
too. Forgot to wind her up last night.' He looked at me 's if he
expected me to haul it out. People mostly do show th' ticker. It
got me fair flummoxed. Daren't stoop even to feel th' prad's
fetlocks for fear th' darned thing would drop out o' my pocket; an'
'ad to be rude to th' youngster when it wanted to climb my knee.
Next time I wear a chain, there'll be something on the end of it
that ken put McFogg's clock right, I'll bet. Here you are, Matthew;
put it away careful."
Phineas Jones turned up at the appointed time. He inspected the
horses, bought them, paid for them, and took them away. Conyers was
jubilant. He almost ran to the bank to cash the cheque and bustled
himself out of breath getting back again.
"That's the way to do business," he said, producing a bundle of
crisp notes. "We'll simply coin money at this game. There's
thousands in it. Byan'-bye we'll be able to buy in mobs an' pay
cash on the nail. We might corner horses, in fact, an' become
millionaires. You laugh, but there's plenty o' things more
impossible than that. Here's your tenner, Murty. Go an' pay McFogg,
an' I'll skip over an' settle with Quoin. You might cook something
extra appetising—while we're gone."
Murty found McFogg at the pigsty, chopping up pumpkins.
"Where's th' 'orse?" he asked.
"Hobbled him at the camp," said Murty. "He suits."
"Suits, does he?" McFogg repeated, slowly and moodily tossing
pieces of pumpkin over to the porkers. "Wal, I don't think I'll
sell. I've changed my mind."
"Changed—your—mind!" gasped Murty, turning pale.
McFogg put his broad back against the chock-andlog wall, and his
arms on top of it.
"Anderson was over from th' next farm," he began, "an' he tells
me I ken get a lot more for that 'orse from a buyer in town be th'
name o' Jones. Anderson traded him one that ain't worth shucks agin
mine for fourteen lovely sovereigns. He'll be along this way in th'
mornin'."
"I wouldn't 'ave any truck with him if I was you," said Murty,
swallowing the dryness in his throat. "I hear he ain't no
account."
"Don't matter so long's his money's all right."
"That's just where it is." Murty chipped in. "I 'ave it on good
authority that his cheques ain't to be relied on. He's some sort o'
crook. Whether-orno, Mr. McFogg, you sold th' beast to me, an' I've
come to pay th' tenner."
"He ain't sold yet an' he ain't goin' to be sold for that,"
McFogg answered.
"If I'd known you was that sort of man—" said Murty.
"What sort of man?" McFogg demanded, loudly.
"Why," said Murty, abashed, "I—I thought when you said
you'd do a thing—why, of course you'd do it."
"I offered to sell at a price to-day," McFogg returned, "but
since then the market's improved. You should 'ave closed at th'
time. As it is, I want th' 'orse returned to-night."
"But—he—he can't be returned," Murty was in a blue
funk, and breathed like a man who was suffering from enlargement of
the liver.
"Why not?" McFogg demanded.
"He ain't as well as he used to be."
"What's th' matter with him?"
"He's dead!"
McFogg sprang away from the pigsty. "Dead!" he cried. "What did
he die of?"
"It was this way," Murty explained. "We took him over
Dobie-street punt an' back to see how he'd shape, an' jogs down
Swan Creek Road. Comin' back, we goes for a bit of a spin, but we
ain't gone far 'fore he turned a turtle an' dislocates his blamed
neck. He warn't reliable, that 'orse. I'm sufferin' all over from
th' buster yet. 'S a wonder I warn't killed. But I've come to pay
for him—"
"You'll pay £25 then," McFogg declared.
Murty staggered, and for a moment he blinked at the big farmer
in painful silence. "Why," he said, finally, "he warn't worth half
that when he was alive."
"I value that hoss at £25," McFogg repeated doggedly.
"By cripes, that's a bit pure!" gasped Murty. "It's
pre—posterous!"
"Are ye goin' to pay me?" McFogg asked. "If ye 're not, I
promise you, me man, I'll make it warm for you afore I'm done with
you."
Murty hadn't the least doubt that he could do that.﹃I'll go and
see my mates,﹄he said, edging away. "We were partners in th'
animal."
He hurried off in a state of nervousness bordering on collapse.
To the camp was only a few minutes' walk, but Murty's dull
perceptions were unusually active during the interval. Conyers was
sweetening the tea with a pannikin, and talking of silver teapots
when he arrived. Murty's distress was so eloquent that Conyers'
radiant smiles vanished at first sight of him.
"By cripes, we're in a nice mess now," he burst out, glaring
wildly around him. "Where's that blamed Attorney-General?"
"What's up?" asked Conyers.
"McFogg won't sell!"
Conyers turned pale. "My Gawd!" he said, hoarsely.﹃What sort of
a bungling blamed fool's deal did you make with him? Dynamite your
idiotie eyes!﹄he yelled; "didn't you follow my instructions?"
"I did," Murty yelled back at him. "But you didn't instruct me
that McFogg was an unprincipled swine-breeder, an' warn't to be
relied on. He's a cow of a feller."
"What's interrupted the negotiations?" asked Jim, coming out of
the tent.
Murty detailed the circumstances in figurative language, and
gave several descriptions of an agriculturist who represented the
two extremities of an ass.
"It's not a delectable situation, I'll allow," said Jim. "But
don't get excited. Though Mr. McFogg can claim continuity of
ownership, and though you violated the laws of your country in
disposing of the quadruped before you had acquired him by the
orthodox process, I adduce from the evidence that there were no
criminal intentions, and with a little diplomacy—"
"An' plenty o' that sort o' periphrastic flap-doodle," Murty
broke in, viciously.
"I presume we can circumvent the corybantic extortionist," Jim
concluded. "Affix my saddle to the most adjacent hack, Mr. Brown,
while I get ready to confabulate with him."
Murty executed the order with the hurry and fuss of a
sycophantic groom. He wanted a free mind to go to bed with.
It was sundown when Jim left the camp on a black colt, and ere
dusk had given place to night the two distressed stock dealers were
surprised by a visit from Mr. McFogg. Murty asked him, in a low
voice, to have a pint of tea; but the big man intimated that he had
left his own tea waiting at home.
"I've been thinkin'," he said, hitching up the legs of his
trousers and squatting on one heel.
"Eh?" said Murty, with feverish expectancy.
"I've been thinkin' over that affair," McFogg repeated, "an'
seem' as litigation's expensive, an' means worry an' loss o' time,
I've decided to take th' tenner."
Murty rushed him with it, also with paper, pen and ink for the
receipt.
"You wouldn't 'ave done any better with Phineas Jones, anyway,"
Conyers remarked when the document was in safe custody.
"No-o," McFogg droned gloomily. "I was talkin' to Phineas Jones
awhile ago. He's a man what's 'ad a lot of experience in dealin's,
an' knows a heap about law. He pinted out, when I told him how we
stood, that I was renderin' myself liable to prosecution for breach
of contract, as a verbal agreement is bindin' in 'orse dealin',
sheep-shearin' an' marriage. 'N' as for himself, he wouldn't 'ave
anything to do with a hanimal that was liable to get tangled up in
a lawsuit. Said my simplicity, an' other hifalutin' things I
couldn't keep track of, filled him to the utmost capacity of his
astonishment."
"Was he ridin' a black colt!" asked Murty.
"He was."
"Ah!" said Murty, winking at Conyers. "That was him we saw goin'
to your place."
Jim dropped in just then. Murty and Conyers shook hands with him
as though they hadn't seen him for 12 months, and called him Mr.
Jones. But next morning the real Phineas Jones called on his way to
McFogg's farm, and he was riding the horse that was supposed to be
dead.
As soon as he had left them, the three conspirators packed up
hurriedly and lit out for Sleepy Hollow.
CHAPTER XVI. MURTY BROWN:
DETECTIVE.
Murty, Jim and Conyers turned out at Lankey's Hut, where there
was a good grass paddock for the horses. Between the Hut and Sleepy
Hollow was Abner Boker's residence. The Bokers were people of some
importance in the district. They had a rent roll in town for one
thing, and it was said that they had retired from an hotel business
with a substantial bank account. It was also common property that
Mrs. Baker wore the breeches. She drew the money, and paid the
bills, allowing Abner barely enough to keep him in tobacco.
Murty had seen Mrs. Boker on his way to the hut, and she had
askeed him to come down after tea.
"Seeing as you'll be campin' a week, and time will be hangin'
heavy on your hands," she said, as she directed him to a corner
chair, "I thought you might be able to do a little job for me.
Maybe, 'twill put something in your pocket."
Murty cocked his ears. At the same time he murmured that he
would be only too glad to oblige her in any way.
"I remember you telling me you had been in the detective line
one time, and I've heard from Mr. Webb that you're good at
ferretin' out things."
Murty tried to recollect when he had told her that and concluded
that he must have been drunk. However, he thought of the something
that it might put into his pocket, and decided to stand by it.
"I like followin' up clues," he said, modestly.
"Of course," Mrs. Boker rejoined. "Everyone to his profession.
Well, as you know, I've been devoting my energies almost wholly to
rearin' turkeys. Fine, prime turkeys they are too—the best on
the river, though I say it as shouldn't. But I've taken the prize
four years runnin' with them at the show. You know that."
"Yes," said Murty, wishing to keep her to the point.
"I fatten 'em for the Christmas market principally," she went
on. "I make a good lot out of them that way. But lately some
infernal thief's been robbing my yard, and catch him I cannot.
Every Sunday morning there is one bird missing."
"Every Sunday morning?" Murty repeated.
"As regular as the sun rises."
"No other mornin'?"
Murty took out a frayed note-book and a stub of pencil. This was
evidently a case worthy of a detective.
"Do you count the flock every mornin'?"
"I do that, but it's only on Sunday there's one short."
"Count 'em goin' to roost?"
"Aye. I've got into the way now that I count 'em whenever I feed
'em."
"Don't make no mistakes?"
"Not much."
"Then that's one point clear. That's a clue," said Murty, making
a note of it.
"What is?"
"The thief has turkey for dinner every Sunday."
"No doubt he does, the scamp."
"Knowin' that, we have two chances of coppin' him; either while
he's shakin' th' bird, or while he's dinin' on it. He'd 'ave to
account for it being in his possession. That's the law as laid down
in the Act. Unfortunate, I ain't tasted turkey, or 'ad an
opportunity o' smellin' one fresh cooked, for a long time. If I
could refresh my instincts in that respect," he said longingly, "it
would be worth while to stroll round on Sunday about dinner
time."
"I want to tell you," she chipped in, "that Abner is at home
every night except Saturday. He goes down to the hotel on Saturday
night to smoke a pipe and chin a bit with his old cronies."
"Every Saturday?"
"No, I tell a lie. There was one Saturday he didn't go. It was
damp, and he, had a cold, so I made him stop in. And that night the
turkey didn't o either."
"Ah!" said Murty. "That's important. What was the date?"
"I don't know the date; but 'twas five weeks come
to-morrow."
"I'll look it up," Murty promised, making hieroglyphics in his
note-book.
"It's somebody as knows my husband and his movements," Mrs.
Boker went on. "He slips up here while Abner's at the hotel."
"That's so. I saw that at once," Murty declared. "Now, tell me.
What time does Abner leave here?"
"Eight o'clock, as a rule."
"What hotel does he most frequent?"
"Th' Boomerang."
"Nowhere else? Think."
"No, nowhere, else."
"What time does he arrive there?"
"Oh, before half-past, I should say. It's only a mile."
"That's rather indefinite," said Murty, tapping the pencil on
the paper. "We must be precise in these things. Shouldn't take a
man half an hour to walk one mile."
"Perhaps, no but Abner don't hurry himself these
times—'specially when he's cuttin' wood, or goin' a
message."
"If he was expectin' a nip, though, 'twould accelerate him
some?"
"It would. Indeed, it would."
"What time does he come home?"
"About 10."
Murty put all this down in his book. He was feeling a pride in
his work by this time.
He expressed a desire to view the poultry shed, and when Mrs.
Boker got the lantern, he examined it carefully inside and out,
noted the material it was built with, the height of the roosts, and
stepped the distance from it to the house. He was somewhat
nonplussed to learn that the door was padlocked every night, and it
was still padlocked in the morning. Further, she carried the key in
her pocket, and she had sat on the verandah, watching the door,
till Abner returned. Still the turkey disappeared.
"Nothing damaged?"
"Nothing at all?"
"He ain't no ord'nary barnyard thief, that," Murty remarked at
this juncture. He pondered over his notes for a while.
"Does he favour hens or gobblers?" he asked then.
"Gobblers—the biggest and fattest, too, the brute."
"Ah! Good judge of poultry. That's another clue." He put it
down.
"Any particular age?"
"No, they're all much of a muchness."
"Any special colour?"
"They're all one colour, man. As like as two peas."
"So they are. Lemme see. Ever hear any row?"
"I fancy I heard a flutter once or twice, but I couldn't be
sure. You see, I'm a bit hard of hearin'."
"See any tracks in the mornin'?"
"Never a track, Murty—'cepting our own. That's what
puzzles me more than anything."
"Don't puzzle me," said Murty, proudly.
"How, then, do you account for it?"
"Sheepskins tied round his boots, wool side out."
"Well, well! Look at that!" said Mrs. Boker, admiringly. "It It
takes the trained detective mind to put two and two together, so it
does."
Murty's self-importance rose immensely. He made more notes,
studied them, and pondered. Then he started on a new tack.
"How does your husband come home, Mrs. Boker?"
"On foot," Mrs. Boker answered promptly.
"I mean in what condition. Sober?"
"Oh, yes! He has a glass or two. 'Tis the only time he has that
I know of. He did come home a bit clewed one Saturday, but 'twas
through meetin' unusual company."
"What does he drink?"
"Always squareface."
She could not understand the force of these questions, but she
had faith in the great mind that was working in pursuit of
clues.
"Has nothing through the week?"
"Well, now, I have fancied I smelt it on him, though I don't
know where he could get it. I. may have been mistaken."
"Do you kiss him?"
"Eh—what?"
"If you kissed him anyways regular," Murty explained, "you'd
know at once if he had drink."
"Oh, aye," said Mrs. Boker, a little embarrassed.
"Well—we're not always young, you know, Murty."
"Quite correct," Murty agreed. "'Tis a pity you left off though.
I'd like to be sure on that point. Do you know who he drinks
with?"
"Anybody that'll shout for him. Abner ain't particular. But
mostly he hobnobs with Josh Taylor."
"Ah!" said Murty. "Just as I suspected."
"How—what?"
"This Josh Taylor is a confederate. He shouts for Abner, an'
keeps him talkin', while the other fellow comes up here an' collars
th' turkey. Josh don't expect Abner to shout, of course; so Abner,
with his own couple of bob, can have a drop to fetch home with him,
if he has a mind to."
"Look at that! And that old liar swears to me he doesn't have a
drop. T recollect now, one night here, he was quite maudlin...I do
hate slyness, Murty. I do, indeed. Though, mind you, Abner's
honest. I'll say that."
Murty smiled in a superior way.
"Now, what is this Josh Taylor?" he asked. "What's he do?"
"Anything he, can get. He 's workin' for Barden, the surveyor,
just now."
"What wages?"
"A pound a week and his tucker."
"Married or single?"
"Married."
"How many children?"
"Seven."
"Ah, as I suspected. Another clue."
Mrs. Boker looked at him with interrogatory eyes.
"Small wages, big family to keep; that man must have cheap
poultry to make ends meet."
Murty had now assumed quite a professional air. His notes were
becoming voluminous, and every time he added to them he felt a
deeper glow of pride. This was the work he was cut out for. He had
found himself.
"Indeed," said Mrs. Boker,﹃I often wondered how that family
made, a do of things. And such airs she puts on—with her
feathers and frills, and the lord knows what. The idea!﹄She leaned
forward and lowered her voice. "If you can bowl out mother Taylor
I'll give you a fiver. That I will."
"To-morrow's Saturday," said Murty, reflecting. "I'll have
something to report within 24 hours. You leave it to me."
He closed his book, and having slipped it into his pocket, felt
to make sure it was there, and remarked that it was thirsty
weather. Mrs. Boker agreed it was, but thought it would soon rain.
Then she shook hands with him, and wished him luck.
Of course, he told Jim all about it as soon as he returned to
the hut—and Jim laughed at him.
"Why, man alive," he exclaimed, "all you've got to do is to sit
tight and watch the turkey's residence!"
"You think you're smart, don't you?" said Murty, irascibly. "How
would I get the confederate, an' all th' particulars, that way?
It's my firm opinion that Josh Taylor has turkey one Sunday, an'
his confederate the next Sunday. 'Taint as simple as it looks. It's
a system."
"Whatever its designation," said Jim, "I wouldn't help that old
termagant if all Sleepy Hollow was feasting on her gobblers. She's
got no end of money, and there's poor spineless Abner no better off
than a pauper."
"She buys his clothes for him, and allows him half-a-crown a
week for pocket money," added Conyers. "And the old nincompoop took
her from the washtub!"
"She's got sense," Murty contended. "She's made up her mind she
ain't goin' back to that tub. She might do a heap better by old
Abner without hurtin' herself any considerable. But that ain't no
concern o' mine. He married her, not me.."
Murty spent a lot of time poring over his notes next day, and
the outcome of it was that Jim's suggestion soaked into him. He
would begin that way, he said to himself, and thus get something
definite to work upon.
So Saturday night found him crouching under a bush behind the
poultry shed. He had not been there long when a man came briskly to
the back, slipped a slab out, and disappeared inside.
Murty commended him subsequently for his adroitness, for there
was hardly any noise, and in a little while he stepped out with
something bulky in a bag, replaced the slab, and set off for
town.
Murty followed with a solid lump of wood in his hand.
The man with the bag made straight for the back door of the
hotel. Here the publican met him, lifted the turkey from the bag,
and took it into the kitchen. Five minutes later he reappeared, and
handed the bearer a square bottle. This he hid in the yard, and
then ambled jauntily round to the bar for a pot and a yarn with
Josh Taylor.
But Murty didn't follow him round. He merely ejaculated:
"Cripes, if that don't knock me clean out!" then sat down on a case
of empty bottles, and thought hard.
Finally, he decided that he had got an urgent message from Tom
Muddle, telling him to "come at once," and he would therefore have,
to abandon the case.
The man who carried the bag was Abner Boker.
CHAPTER XVII. THE CRUISE OF THE
LOG HUT.
Ebook editor's note:
In 1938, Edward Sorenson wrote a short article in The
Queenslander, 14 December 1938, page 2, under the heading,﹃So
They Say﹄a column of short items. It seems that Sorenson had used
this incident to create the short story appearing is this ebook.
The article reads:
Cruising Hut
Some timber-getters on the Richmond (River) built a temporary hut
on the bank of the river, where they rafted their logs. Its
foundation consisted of three big pine logs, laid a few feet apart,
and decked with pine slabs; the walls built thereon and the roof
were also of pine. It was a cosy high and dry hut—until a big
flood came down one night, when there was only a caretaker on the
premises. the startled inmate was awakened by a heavy bump,
splashing of water below deck, and scraping of bushes on the roof.
Looking out, he found his address had shifted into a patch of dense
scrub, having navigated a wide hollow where a backwash had kept it
out of the current.
The place was still quite dry inside, though swarming with small
refugees from the jungle. These, coupled with an anxious watch on
the eddying water, kept him busy during the rest of the night. In
the morning, with the aid of a boat, long ropes, and a bullock
team, the hut was returned, intact, to its original site.
Murty and Jim left Lankeys Hut for Big Bend early in the
morning; but only Murty reached there, and that was nearly a week
afterwards.
"We got weather-bound at Brand's Hut," he explained, when at
last he was comfortably ensconced at Muddle's.
"Th' hut that was built on three pine logs?" Muddle queried.
"The very identical," said Murty. "You see, 'twas all scrub
round there then, and there was no end o' snakes an' other critters
pokin' round that there was no demand for. So when it come to
buildin' a hut for th' pine-getters to camp in, they decided to
build it on high blocks so's th' dogs could get under it. Three
logs were drawn up to cut into blocks. They 'appened to be left
right on the site, a few feet apart, an' all nice an' level, an' it
suggested to one cove, who didn't like sawin' blocks, that it would
be a good plan to build the hut on th' logs as they were. As they
only wanted a temporary residence, they fell in with this idea. 'T
rather pleased 'em, in fact, as bein' something out of the ord'nary
style of architecture; besides which the foundation would always be
sellable, which it wouldn't be cut up. I mind the chaps around used
to talk about that hut, an' travellers who'd heard tell of it would
go out of their way to see it.
"Th' logs were adzed level on top, an' th' sleepers spiked
across 'em. All the timber used was split pine, even th' floor, an'
th' door, an' the shutters. So 'twas strong an' light, an' well
ventilated. There was a loft in it, with a shutter in each gable
end, as the dimensions of th' ground floor was a bit limited, an'
there was a good many lodgers to be accommodated at times.
"When we got there the pine 'ad all been cut in th' vicinity,
an' the men 'ad shifted back into the hills. But the log hut, bein'
built at the main skid-way, was left standin', as it was handy for
'em when raftin' the logs. 'Twas handy for us, too, as it was
pourin' rain, water layin' everywhere, an' the river runnin' a
banker. We boiled the billy on a sheet of tin, then got up aloft in
ease the water rose in th' night. The hut was stripped of
everything, savin' three or four bag bunks, stuffed with corn
husks, a couple of whipstacks, some greenhide, an' an old straw hat
that wasn't worth pickin' up.
"We opened one of the shutters; an' we felt very comfortable,
sittin' there in dry clothes; listening to the rain hummin' on the
shingle roof, an' th' frogs croakin' round us, an' watchin' the
logs an' rubbish spinnin' down the river. Near dark we sees Capt'n
Carrab skimmin' along on a monster raft, an' too blamed busy to
look round if a dog bit him. He just loved the river when she was
that way—no creeping with tides, and waiting for the turn,
but one straight run down at the rate of knots. Over 500 logs he
had that trip, and I tell you it was no play handling that round
sharp curves on a swift current. Now'n again he'd knock a branch
off, an' carry away bits o' the shore decorations, an' he'd no
sooner be clear of a point on one side than he'd be tearing into a
point on the other side. She's a fine twisty-twiny river is th'
Richmond; she'd go a long way if she was straightened out.
"'Tanyrate," Murty went on, "'twas no sooner dark than we were
asleep, bein' tired out with plod-din' over boggy country. We
didn't seem to 'ave been sleepin' long, when I starts up in a
double-dyed blue funk, an' can't make out where I am, or what's
happenin' nohow. Looked like I was out at sea, on board ship, an'
she was tossin' an' pitchin' an' rollin' so I could scarce hold
myself in bed, an' th' waves were swishin' against her, an'
chuckin' spray on to me through th' porthole. I was mighty
scairt.
"'Jim,' I sez, bracin' myself on my hands an' knees.
"'Hulloa!' sez Jim, very quiet.
"'Are you awake?' I asks.
"'I'm under that impression,' he sez. He'd been sittin' up some
time adjudicatin' on th' situation, as he told me after. 'What do
you surmise?' he asks.
"'By cripes, Jim,' I sez, 'we've been, shanghaied We're on the
bounding main.'
"'Bounding puddleholes!' sez Jim, laughin' sarcastic. 'Our ship
is the log hut, from Brand's skid-way.'
"'Then she's slipped her blamed anchor,' I sez, 'an' we're
signed for an excursion in her.'
"'Correct!' sez Jim, quite cool. 'But don't alarm yourself.
She's a bit tumblesome, an' evidently erratic in her steering, but
she's quite seaworthy. If she keeps the middle of the channel she's
as good a risk as there is afloat.'
"'But will she keep it?' I questioned. 'Th' current has a habit
o' whizzin' short round bends, an' cuttin' across points.'
"'That's our only danger,' sez Jim, 'With nobody at the helm,
we're likely to hit a tree an' go smash to pieces at any
minute—"
"'I'm goin' up on to th' hurricane deck,' I tells him, feelin'
for the leather fast'nin' on th' shutter.
"'Better not,' sez Jim. It's a wild night outside.'
"'Oh, I don't mind it bein' a bit boisterous,' I sez. 'When I go
on an excursion I like to be on top, where I can see all th'
scenery.'
"'Well, mind you don't get smashed against a tree gettin' out,'
sez Jim.
"'By cripes, that's logic,' I sez, an' I crawfished
double-quick, an' left the fo'c'sle porthole open. 'We'll vamoose
by th' stern companion-way.'
"Jim talked mightily unconcerned all the time, but he wasn't
behind me crossin' the 'tween decks. He was in front. 'If you will
leave a dry cabin to sit out in th' wet,' he sez, 'I suppose I must
go an' look after you.'
"It was fair gruellin' on the hurricane deck, which was the
ridge of the roof. It was easy to climb up an' get astraddle of it,
but with her bumpin' an' dippin' an' rollin', an' now 'n' again
givin' a shake, an' then doin' a bit of a waltz, an' th' cappin'
wet an' cold an' slippery, it wasn't so easy to keep there. We
crouched low, peerin' ahead for trees an' branches, but it was like
lookin' into a tar barrel. Never saw such a black night. We had no
fear about th' craft itself; the three logs kept her balanced, an'
wouldn't let her turn over one way or the other; but 'twas a narrow
fairway, a swift current, an' trees an' snags all along on both
sides. We expected to hit something full tilt every minute, an' it
was odds on if we did the whole fabrication would collapse in one
ace. We could locate a good many trees by th' noise th' waters made
gettin' round 'em. Jim, who was ridin' th' bowsprit in front o' me,
would holler: 'Sit back, breakers ahead!' An' as we whisked past,
he'd say: 'Pretty close that time!' Kept th' thrills shootin' up to
my hair all the way.
"Once we hit a snag, which was rotten, as luck 'appened; but it
spun her round twice, an' must a started some of her plates, for
she groaned a lot after. Th' shock knocked me skew-whiff, an' I 'ad
to cling on like an all-fired wild eat till she got goin' in one
direction again. Then she dragged an' bumped over th' top of a
willow tree, goin' in little jumps an' jerks that made it hard
ridin'. Jim sez 'twould rub th' carbuncles of her hull, an' make
her travel better. Dunno; she was a trifle careened when she got
clear. Maybe, the ballast shifted.
"By 'n' bye we saw a light on the port bow, an' a little farther
on a glimmer to starboard, then another to port. We knew by them,
an' the twistings we'd done between, like cuttin' out th' letter S,
that we'd passed Bill Brooks, Rann's Bight, an' Dougherty's Point.
Th' next was Woram, an' as Dick Daghorn 'ad a punt, which would be
close up to his verandah now, we reckoned he'd come after us an'
land us somewhere about Big Bend, an' we'd be snuggled in the old
barn in half an hour. He was out with his flashlight like th' rest
takin' observations. River residents don't sleep much when their
river's a banker. They put a stake in at the edge o' th' water, an'
every hour or so they trot down to see how much she's riz, an' put
in another stake, maybe, an' haul th' punt in a bit more.
"We let out a yell soon's we saw Dick's light bobbin' round. The
rain was holdin' off a bit then, but there was a strong head wind.
'Who's that?' he shouts. 'Murty Brown an' Jim Webb. We're adrift!'
I yells back. 'All's safe here!' roars Dick. 'An' I don't think
it's reached Muddles yet. Goin' far?' 'We're driftin' on Brand's
Hut!' Jim bawled out to him. 'Stop an' 'ave a cup o' coffee,' sez
Dick, an' 'fore we could thank him for th' invitation, we were past
th' clearin'.
"'Shiver my woodheap!' growls Jim (Jim was always usin' nootical
expressions on board th' log-hut), 'old Daghorn thinks we're a
rescue party flyin' round to see if his feet's wet...How are you
propitiating, Mr. Brown?'
"'I was thinkin' I couldn't get any more miserable than I was,'
I tells him, 'but since that blamed ass mentioned hot coffee I find
I was mistaken.'
"From Woram, for three or four miles, there was thick scrub on
each side, some of it buried out of sight. Roundin' th' first turn,
th' current swept in to starboard, an' we hears the tree-tops
brushin' and knockin' agin our bottom. I took a firmer grip o' th'
jib boom. Next minute she crashed into the top, of a cherry tree,
an' I hears th' tearin' an' smashin' o' limbs, an' a big splash. I
wondered Jim didn't make some nootical remark. She shook an'
staggered for a bit, then swung out into the open. The swing set
her spinnin'. Round an' round she went, rollin' an' creakin', an'
pretty soon I was as sick as two dogs. Couldn't hear a sound from
Jim. When she got into her stride again, we were scurryin' down
river stern first. That was worse'n before, but I daren't try to
turn round. ''Twill soon be all over now, Jim.' I groans out. No
answer. 'D' yer notice th' cant she's got on her?' I sez, louder.
Dead silence. I feels in front o' me; edges along till I could feel
th' figure-head. Jim was gone!
"No mistake, I felt sorry for myself then. 'Poor old Jim!' I sez
to myself. 'Must 'ave got knocked off th' bridge in th' collision.
An' now he's gone to Davie Jones' lock-up.' Then I thought he might
a popped down into the cabin for refreshments. So I leans over an'
sends a coo-ee through the porthole.
"'Ship ahoy!' comes ringin' back from ahead o' nie. I darn near
fell off th' poop with surprise. Lookin' over my
shoulder—gingerly—I could see a light travellin' across
th' river. 'Hullos!' I sez. 'Port your helm! Port your helm!' 'Twas
Capt'n Car-rab shoutin'. 'Port your own helm,' I sez. 'I ain't got
any.' 'Stand off!' he shouts. 'You spiflicated, long-nosed pirate;
where th' tarnation cats are yer goin'?' ''Fore I could explain
that I wasn't responsible for where I was goin', th' log-hut was
rip-smash into his middleships.
"Seemed Capt'n ad' been tryin' to get into slack water
hereabouts to tie up for th' night, havin' left his wife here goin'
up; but his forepart got tangled in the scrub, an' his stern swung
across an' got stuck in the scrub on the other side, an' there it
hung, with a big sag in th' centre. What good I'd a-done portin' my
helm, when he was all over th' channel, I dunno.
"'Tanyrate, I made clear way for th' next excursion ship. Th'
shock o' th' collision left nothing but the hulk of the log-hut
afloat. The uprights were all tenanted into the sleepers, an' being
brittle pine, they snapped off like carrots, an' the whole
fabrication toppled over on to its beam ends on th' raft. I got off
lucky considerin'; but when I collected my self, I was whirlin'
down river again, an' the light was half a mile away. Th' cable 'ad
parted in the middle, an' I was on one half o' th' raft, carryin'
the wrecked hut an' a tent, an' Capt'n was on the other half, with
only his oilskins an' a lantern. He was usin' some bad language
when I heard him last.
"I crawled into th' tent, an' feelin' round I finds another
lantern an' some matches. Then I got hold of a black bottle which
gave me a better opinion o' th' weather an' things in gen'ral.
There was plenty o' tucker, clothes, an' a good bunk to turn into;
an' there was tobacco an' a big pipe, with a stem half a yard long,
an' a nice easy canvas deck-chair to smoke in. Gunbust me, I'd
struck it plum sumptuous. I has another swig out o' th'
bottle—to ward off rheumatics—then I changes my wet
things for a master mariner's uniform, with gold braid on the
sleeves, an' gold buttons, an' a monogram on the cap. I was Capt'n
Brown. Dined in state, then lay back in th' deck-chair, an' pulled
more comfort out o' that long pipe. I was happy—only for one
thing; couldn't help thinkin' o' Jim, poor old Jim! If he could
only see me in that uniform!
"I meant to go to bed an' trust to Providence; I couldn't do any
good watchin'; but in the mornin' I found I was still in th' chair,
an' feelin' none too good. Has a reviver, an' steps out to get the
latitude. The sun's up a mile, an' th' water's at a
standstill—just on the turn to back up. I was that dashed
glad I could a yelled. Then I looked behind, an the inclination to
jubilate died. Just above me was th' Capt'n in his boat, tryin' to
tow his half o' th' raft down to my half. I dived into th' tent
again, an' 'ad the Capt'n's uniform back in his sea-chest in two
jiffs; thought he'd want to dress for dinner soon's he arrived. He
left off towin' drekly after, an' comes aboard. I tried to look
surprised. Pretty soon he made the look genuine.
"'Split my thunderin' tops'le!' he sez in a sort of gasp,
stoppin' an' gazin' at me. 'You dunder'eaded, blunderin' son of a
land-lubber,' he sez, or something like that. 'It was you cut me
down last night! What d'yer mean by scurrying down stream without
lights, you buccaneerin' clod-squasher?'
"He stood up like an admiral, his chest out, his face red with
the intensity of his feelin's, an' his eyes glarin' like
tramlights. I reckoned a lot of it was bluff. So I hauls up, an'
fires back at him with his own ammunition.
"'Splinter my scuppers!' I sez. 'You goggle-eyed lobster; what
do you mean by blockin' the thoroughfare with your darned lumber?
Why warn't you on your own side, you crusticated old barnacle?'
"He pretty near choked at that. 'What!' he roared; 'do you
presume to teach me th' law o' th' river? You, that knows as much
about navigatiin' as a stump-cacklin' jackass! If you don't lay
over all the brazen noodles I ever sailed into, by the holy
bunyip!"
"'Take a reef in your weather-gaff, Captain, I sez (whatever
that means, I dunno). 'There's goin' to be a marine inquiry into
this, an' you're up agin a heap o' trouble.'
"'Eh? What?'
"I put on a sorrowful air. 'Captain,' I sez, 'you didn't see a
dead man floating about as you come down, did you?'
"'Why—no!' he sez, starin'.
"'Suppose he won't float for awhile yet,' I sez, meditative
like.
"'Who?' sez the Captain.
"'Jim Webb,' I sez. 'Poor old Jim.'
"'What's happened him?'
"'Lost overboard in th' collision an' drowned.'
"That knocked him. He went into the tent, an' picked up th'
bottle. Th' weight of it seemed to surprise him; he shook it an'
held it up to the light, an' looked 's if he was suddenly struck
with a great sorrow for poor Jim.
"T busied myself gettin' th' breakfast, an' kept him quiet
deseribin' the excursion. He said there was no doubt he was to
blame for the mortality.
"When we'd 'ad a feed, we goes down to salvage what we could
from the wreck. Poor Jim 'ad left a new pair o' blankets behind
him, so I give mine to the Capt'n. He'd left some good clothes,
too, which I promised I'd wear in memory of him. Chucked some of my
old togs an' my boots, an' some odds an' ends overboard, an' makes
what was left into a big swag.
"'You can put me ashore, now, Captain,' I sez.
"'What's your hurry?' sez Captain. 'Stop where you are, an'
we'll rig up a berth for you."
"'Can't stop now, Captain,' I sez. 'It's my duty to find poor
Jim, an' give him decent burial. It's th' least I can do for
him.'
"He put me ashore, an' I tramped back to Woram. It was about
seven or eight miles by road; but I follered the river round, which
made it near 30, an' mud an' water all the way' thinkin' the corpse
might be floatin', or come ashore somewhere. I called at th'
farmhouses, an' told my troubles to a lot of sympathetic people,
an' inquired if they'd seen anything o' Jim's remains. They were
all keepin' a look-out for him after I left. Some of 'em couldn't
drink river water thinkin' of him, an' one fam'ly chucked away a
lot o' fine fish thinkin' they might a-been spilin' Jim's features.
Several people, mostly women an' nippers, 'ad seen him floatin'
past. They'd thought he was a log at first, but now they were sure
it was the corpse. Others took me out o' my way to investigate
something they'd seen floatin' among a heap o' rubbish. Mostly
turned out to be a deceased calf, or a defunct pig, or some extinct
poultry... No mistake. I was fit to drop when I got to Woram."
"And did you find Jim?" asked Octavius, as Murty paused.
"I did...I found him sittin' on the verandah yarnin' with
Daghorn."
CHAPTER XVIII. CRANKY PRANKS.
The corn-pulling season made Murty a welcome acquisition in Big
Bend for the time being. Murty wasn't in love, with corn-pulling,
but circumstances had lately made the surroundings more congenial
than they had been, and simultaneously the northern track had
become a trifle lonesome. Lem Scully had married and settled in the
Bend. Bill Tarkalson had also established himself nearby, and Mat
Conyers was stock-riding on Wyangaree. So Murty applied himself
with passable contentment to the study of corn cobs.
"While, I'm undressin' cobs, among other domesticated pursuits,"
he told Sarah, "the horses will be puttin' on condition."
It was a frosty, moonlit night. In Muddle's barn a lantern and a
couple of slush-lamps threw a glare on a row of figures seated on
pine blocks before a huge pile of unhusked corn, with a straddle,
of yellow cobs on either side, and a growing heap of white husks
behind them.
It was the husking party, the central figure of which was Tom
Muddle. Beside him sat Murty Brown; and distributed among the
visitors were his son and daughter, Octavius and Sarah Muddle.
The men yarned and smoked and worked; the women gossiped and
worked; while the stripped cobs rained into the straddles. Now and
again a cob would slip from someone's hand and hit someone else's
head, which had the effect of invigorating the whole party: and
sometimes they had a race, a hundred or a thousand up, for the
Championship of Big Bend, which was good business for Tom
Muddle.
"What about that great quest of yours. Murty?" asked Sarah, with
a touch of sarcasm.
"It's just a matter of one, more trip now," said Murty.
"When will that be?" Her eyes were laughing, for 'Murty's
Island' had become a joke with Sarah.
"As soon as I've accumulated enough to finance the expedition,"
he informed her. "But I'm stuck for a mate just now. James has
deserted me for a girl in Sleepy Hollow. In fact, the whole
bloomin' confraternity's tarred with the feminine brush."
"What about Conyers?" asked Sarah.
"Conyers is all right," answered Murty. "Only he's got a
wonderful genius for gettin' me into trouble. But as everybody else
is goin' into double harness, I suppose in the long run it will be
Mat and I for the island."
When the husking party had got well settled down to work and
reminiscences, the dogs on a sudden sprang out of their warm beds
in the husks, and barked with enthusiasm, whilst someone
approaching from the darkness growled back at them to "lay
down."
Tom Muddle waded out through the husks to investigate, and
Murty, not being used to husking, followed to stretch his legs.
At the corner of the barn they found a tired-looking parson
approaching sideways, with his eyes on the dogs. His horse had
knocked up, and he had left it at the slip-rails down the flat. He
wished to get up to Barmon's that night—if Mr. Muddle would
oblige him with the loan of a horse till to-morrow.
"Certainly, certainly," said Muddle. "Lend's a hand to ketch old
Captain, Murty. As hick has it, I've got him in th' little paddock
'ere, but he's a blamed old rogue to ketch."
When the rogue had been caught and mounted, the parson said: "If
this young man will come with me to the bottom slip-rails, he can
fetch your saddle back on my horse. He'll lead up without trouble
after his rest."
Murty said "Right-o!" and started off down the track before
Muddle could offer any objections. Murty didn't like husking
corn.
That was the last they saw of Murty that night.
The slip-rails were a mile from the house. Arrived there, the
parson dismounted, and, producing a long-barrelled pistol from his
pocket, levelled it at the head of his astonished attendant.
"Hands up!"
Murty's hands shot up smartly, and his hair, by the feel of his
scalp, seemed to be following suit. "Have you any weapons?"
"No."
"Have you any cord to tie yourself up with?"
"No."
"Hands down."
Murty dropped them with pleasure.
"What's your name?"
"Murty Brown."
"How old are you?"
"Forty-six."
"Hands up!"
Murty raised them again rebelliously.
"Can you ride?"
"Yes."
"Mount that horse."
Murty noticed that the weapon pointed at him was old and rusty,
and the stock appeared damaged; but he never doubted that it was
capable of doing him violent injury, and lost no time in getting
into the saddle. Then the parson bound his hands behind him with a
strap, and, taking the reins off, tied his feet to the stirrups
with them. Next, standing on a stump, he gagged him tightly with
two folded handkerchiefs, and finally, giving Captain a whack with
his hat, sent him off with a jump that nearly dislocated Murty's
neck. Then he mounted the knocked-up horse, and galloped furiously
away into the bush.
"By cripes, this is a queer go if you like!" muttered Murty,
kicking at Captain's sides in the hope of working him round to the
house. But Captain steered for the round swamp in the middle of the
paddock, stopping at intervals to take in grass.﹃What did he do it
for?﹄he kept asking himself, without deriving any satisfaction
from the query.﹃Where's there any commonsense or reason in a caper
like this? Lord love a duck, what did I ever do to him that he
should make it his special bizness to come 'ere an' tie me to this
animal? Nothing!﹄with emphasis. "Never saw the lunatic in my life
before!"
It was the greatest conundrum Murty had ever encountered in his
wandering career. There was no motive, no apparent object; the
thing was inexplicable.
"I've had to do with some cranky pranks in my time," he mumbled,
"but this one's away top of the whole bunch."
He tried some more contortions on Captain with the object of
changing his course. Captain treated them all with
indifference.
"If I owned such a cow of a horse as this," Murty said,
vengefully, "I'd buy a pig an' feed it with th' beast. No mistake,
he's a pearl! Get up! Gee back—whe-ey!"
Getting wild, he kicked him into a jog. Then Murty bumped up and
down till his teeth rattled, without getting any nearer home.
Fortunately Captain was a quiet horse. He didn't seem to mind being
sat on continuously, providing he was let graze about. He grazed
about for hours, while Murty watched the 'possums and squirrels,
listened to the mopokes and curlews, and studied astronomy.
At intervals he sat back and mumbled the following remarks to
the shadows:—
"Hands up!"
"What's your name, you cow?"
"Hands down."
"How old are you, darn you?"
"Hands up!"
He saw the fire blaze up at the barn, and knew they were burning
the husks; then he saw lights at the house, and knew they were
having coffee and doughnuts; and later he heard the visitors
talking and laughing as they made their way home across the flat.
He kicked Captain again on the off-chance of intercepting somebody.
Captain walked into the round swamp, and the more Murty tried to
kick him out of it, the deeper he went into it, till Murty's feet
were under water, and his toes were partially frozen. He cursed him
inwardly for a stubborn beast, while Captain fed greedily on
water-grass and rushes. He bit desperately at the gag, worked his
jaws, and twisted his face into all manner of contortions. If he
could get his mouth free he would soon let them know where be was
and what was keeping him. But free he could not get it.
"It's no use," he concluded, "I'm part an' parcel of this
gormandisin' quadruped, an' jus' got to graze about till
mornin'."
By-and-bye Captain got tired of the swamp, and, going out on to
a rise, picked up several mates. They trotted round him and
snorted, and one came up and smelt him. Captain wheeled round and
lashed out so suddenly that Murty very nearly toppled over.
He was a fair horseman, but he, wasn't used to riding in that
fashion, and when the mob galloped away, and Captain kicked up his
heels and galloped after them, it tried him to the utmost to
maintain his equilibrium. They went round the swamp twice before,
Captain pulled up; and when he turned into a clump of trees and
showed a disposition to camp, Murty encouraged him to do so. He was
very tired and stiff, and after trying an hour to keep his eyes
open, he fell asleep.
When he woke, the sun was up. Looking towards the house, he saw
Octavius and a stranger riding away. He was still in the clump of
trees. Leaning towards a friendly limb, he succeeded in forcing the
gag from his mouth. Then he kicked Captain into the open, and
coo-eed lustily. Sarah and her father had been standing on the
verandah, watching along the track, and wondering what had become
of Brown.
A few minutes later they were down the paddock, making frantic
efforts to catch Captain, Tom Muddle holding out his hat with a few
clods in it, and saying, "Kerp, kerp, kerp!" while Murty sat back
and said, "Whey-e-eyah!" with great emphasis. But Captain had seen
the hat trick before, and dodged away. Sarah, being more
nimble-footed than her father, ran after him, flying to right and
left, till she had him going towards the yard.
"Who tied you up, Murty?" she yelled after him. Murty, between
jerks, related the circumstances in as few words as the English
language would permit.﹃That was poor old Brushook from down the
river,﹄she shouted.
"Who-o?"
"Samuel Brushook," Sarah repeated. "He's broke out again."
"It's a pity he, didn't break his blamed neck!" snapped
Murty.
"He gets queer fits at times, an' plays high jinks. One time he
imagines he's a bushranger, an' then he thinks he's a
parson—an' other things. He was a squatter one time, owned a
station somewhere on Cooyer Creek, but lost it all. He's always
been a bit weak like since, but there's no harm in him."
Murty grinned at the irony of it. He found himself wondering, as
she dodged him into the yard, what might have happened to him if
there had been harm in Brushook.
"His uncle was here this morning," Sarah rattled on as she
unbound him. "He's been all night chasin' around. Seems Mr.
Brushook went off yesterday with an old pistol he'd found. 'Twasn't
loaded—"
"'Twarn't loaded!" Murty exclaimed, with disgust and
mortification in his voice.
"No," Sarah answered. "It had no hammer or trigger; but he stuck
up a parson with it on the road. Took his horse and made him change
clothes. Luckily, the uncle found the parson, or there might have
been trouble. They're always afraid the police will be interferin'
an' takin' him away. The people all know him down there, an' have
great fun with him."
"Do they?" said Murty. "'Tis to be, hoped they won't let him
escape any more. They're welcome to all the fun they can have with
him."
He separated himself from the cantankerous Captain with a groan,
and limped painfully into the house. Tom Muddle came panting in,
and condoled with him, and hoped he would excuse Brushook's little
joke. The poor chap didn't mean any harm.
Murty looked at his swollen wrists—and said nothing,
CHAPTER XIX. MURTY BROWN AND
HUMPHREY HODGE.
When the corn pulling was finished at Muddle's. Murty Brown
drifted casually into Bill Tarkalson's service, assisting him first
in fencing his bit of farm land, then burning off logs and stumps
in preparation for ploughing. Being used to droving and station
life, Murty found this kind of work anything but congenial. But he
held on, partly on account of a chronic state of bankruptcy, but
principally because his usual mate, Jim Webb, could not be induced
to locate himself beyond two or three hours' ride of the township.
He had tried to cure Jim of the courting habit, but when he found
that his old comrade had acquired in addition an intense interest
in "lands for selection," and spent what spare nights he had
studying maps, he gave him up as a hopeless case. Murty was about
as sentimental as an axe handle.
Then Bill married Sarah Muddle, and went away on the river boat
for the honeymoon, and by way of filling the vacancy Sarah had
left, Octo Muddle married Priscilla Carab.' "The Girl on the
Raft."
When Murty emerged from the excitement of the double event, he
discovered that he had a new mate. He had a hazy idea that Bill had
put him on to assist in the heavy work of levelling logs, and
grubbing and splitting, but he wouldn't condescend to ask. Murty
had a little pride about him. To admit his ignorance of the
engagement would be to lower his status on the plantation, if it
didn't lead the new-comer to regard himself as head man. He did
seek enlightenment from the Muddles, and from Don Garry his next
neighbor; but the excitement had obscured their memories also. In
the end, Murty took things for granted, and lost no time in
securing the reins of government.
The mate's name was Humphrey Hodge. He was a big man of
slommicky build, an immigrant, whose movements lent an impression
that he had been reared in a land of lots of time. But he was
enthusiastic in pointing out to Murty what he would do if he owned
the selection. Expense was immaterial to him. It also appeared
immaterial to him whether the job in hand lasted a day or a month.
It was hot work burning off in the middle of the day, and he made
an effort to alter the hours.
"We're not goin' about this in a proper, systematic way, Murty,"
he said, in a confidential sort of manner. "We should work early in
the mornin', an' a bit at night, an' camp through the day, 'stead
o' sweatin' our eyes out. Fires seem to burn better at night, too.
Have you noticed?"
Murty had noticed that Humphrey took a lot of calling in the
morning, while he never let the sun sink on him in the paddock, and
he checked the threatened innovation in the bud.
"'Taint a safe job to be doin' at night, 'count o' snakes," he
said. "Killed three black ones to-day."
Murty was cook. He left off half an hour before Humphrey at
mid-day to boil the billy. Then he coo-eed. Murty could never see
when he went back what Humphrey had been doing in the interval, but
he said nothing. For a week they got along amicably together,
Humphrey proving himself a sociable sort in the evening, after he
had tucked away a good feed, and helped himself liberally from
Tarkalson's tobacco store, which, he said, Bill had told him to
make use of. Then their good relationship ended abruptly.
Murty had coo-eed for dinner as usual, but without response. He
had his own dinner, and his customary smoke, before going to look
for Humphrey. He found him lying under a tree, fast asleep. Instead
of calling him, Murty began chucking logs about with a great noise
a little distance away. Humphrey jumped up, looked at the sun, and
started to work again. With a good-humored grin on him all the time
Murty busied himself close by, waiting for the big fellow to ask if
dinner was ready. But he didn't ask; he worked all the afternoon,
worked harder than he had ever done before, and never spoke. He did
not seem to know if Murty was in the neighbourhood.
It was the same at tea time. He reached for everything, whereas
he used to ask Murty to pass them; and he washed up his own things,
leaving the rest on the table.
When they had lit their pipes, Murty thought it time to mend
matters.
"What 're you makin' all th' noise about, Humphrey?" he asked
pleasantly.
No answer.
"Seem to be hard o' hearin' lately?"
Still silence.
"Anything get in your ear to-day?"
Humphrey slapped the bowl of his pipe hard against the palm of
his hand, blew into the stem, then shuffled over to where the broom
was standing, for a straw. Afterwards he went to bed without saying
good-night.
The breach widened in the morning. Murty got up earlier than
usual, and shook the roof with the clatter he made getting
breakfast ready. Humphrey came out, and put his own billy on. He
repeated this at noon, and in the evening, and thereafter he made
his own damper, and boiled his own beef and potatoes. He worked in
a different part of the paddock, did things in his own way, acted
on his own initiative, and never uttered a word, good, bad or
indifferent.
"This don't suit my complexion at all," Murty grumbled.
"'Tw'an't all rosebuds ail' vi'lets before, but with a yahoo
skulkin' around as ought to be in th' deaf an' dumb asylum, it's
the' dead finish. Wouldn't even swear when he jammed his finger
this mornin'. Gunbust me if I think he'd let loose if I hit him
with an axe. Always meditatin'. Devil take such a feller. He'll
have to make himself scarce, an' th' sooner th' quicker."
"Kick him out," Octo Muddle advised.﹃By Gripes, I'd like to be
there!﹄Octo was a mere stripling alongside Humphrey.
"You're welcome to come at once, Octo," said Murty quickly.
"I'll put you on in his place, if I have to pay you myself."
"I'd be only too glad to," Octo said, "but we're very busy just
now."
Things went on much the same to the end of the week, the
monotony being relieved once by an exchange of compliments over the
lighting of the fire, Murty had been fire-lighter all through, but
now he suggested to Humphrey that he should do his share of it.
Humphrey was evidently hurt by this departure, for thenceforth he
carried his own wood, and lit his own fire—alongside Murty's.
On the first occasion Murty stared at the duplicate as though he
couldn't believe his eyes.
"Lord love a duck," he said, "if I had a disposition like yours,
humpy, I'd put it in a bag with a blackfeller's dog an' drown
it!"
Humphrey struck up a soft, low whistle as he lowered his hilly
into the flame. He had made a hook for himself out of a piece of
wire.
"Must be a burden to you," added Murty. Humphrey went on
whistling. "S'pose you'll be puttin' up a new fireplace
tomorrow?"
Humphrey slewed sharply. "What yer slingin' off at?" he snapped.
"Fire ain't in your way is it?"
"Nobody said it was."
"Don't cost you anything, does it?"
"No, it don't!"
"This is a free country, ain't it?"
"I suppose it is."
"Then shut yer clap-trap!"
Murty shut it as desired, but he didn't keep it shut long. He
felt that a prolonged association with Humphrey Hodge would drive
him to drink. Tarkalson was not expected back for another
fortnight, and Murty decided that the curmudgeonly person would
have to shift before then. They were at the tea table when Murty
spoke to him.
"You started on a Monday, if I recollect, Mr. Hodge?"
Mr. Hodge began to gather up his tableware very busily.
"I said, you started on a Monday?" Murty repeated, much
louder.
"I can hear yer!" Mr. Hodge bawled back at him, with a
side glance like the leer of a dingo.
"Oh I thought you couldn't," said Murty.
Mr. Hodge cleared away with more bustle than usual.
"I wanted to notify you," Murty went on, "that I won't be
wantin' you after this week."
"You won't?"
"No."
"Oh?"
"Bill will be home by then, an' th' two of us will be able to
manage," Murty explained.
"An' what are you supposed to be?" Humphrey Hodge inquired.
"I'm in charge 'ere," Murty told him.
"Oh! Are yer?"
"Yes, I am!" Murty's eyes began to flash. "An', see here, Humpy,
I don't want any of your insolence. If I've put up with your
peculiarities so far, it's because I thought you was some poor
crank as was hard up. But let it end there."
Humpy planted the heels of his palms on the table, and leaned
towards him, speaking deliberately. "Mr. Tarkalson is the owner of
this estate?"
"I ain't disputin' it," said Murty.
"He engaged me?"
"Well, what about it?"
"He'll sack me."
Saying which, Humpy turned to his own corner with a triumphant
stride.
Murty was chagrined, but he wouldn't admit that he was beaten.
He sat back and thought. He smoked a couple of pipes over the
disagreeable subject. Gradually the hard cast of his countenance
relaxed; and when, presently, he put on his hat and went out, he
seemed to be trying hard to keep from laughing.
"Think you're mighty smart, Humphrey, don't you?" he said, 'when
Humphrey couldn't hear. A few steps further on he looked round and
spoke again.﹃Think you can do as you like in this establishment,
don't you?﹄Still a little further on, he flung back with
increasing vim: "Think I'm a darned fool, don't you?"
Next day was Sunday. Murty was quite cheerful over breakfast,
but soon afterwards his face assumed a drawn worried aspect. In
this state he went through the house like a man walking in his
sleep, searching the drawers and boxes, and stopping often to
think; while his fingers went mechanically to his vest pockets. He
examined his wardrobe, and felt along the shelves, coming to a
standstill at last alongside Humphrey.
"Now, what th' deuce did I do with it!" he remarked
meditatively. Humphrey took no notice; he was sewing a button on
his spare shirt.
"Didn't see a watch about anywhere, did you, Humpy?"
Humphrey sewed on for a few seconds as though he hadn't heard
him, then looked up with a jerk.
"Were you addressin' me?" he inquired with mocking
politeness.
"Was I addressin' 'ell!" said Murty, turning disdainfully
away.
He was gazing at the rafters, holding his chin between his thumb
and forefinger, when Tom Muddle and Don Garry stepped in. He asked
them if they had seen a watch in their travels. They hadn't.
"Strange where it could 'a' got to!" said Murty.﹃'Tain't th'
first thing that disappeared lately,﹄he added, looking momentarily
at the needle, which Humphrey was now jerking about in a way that
threatened to break the cotton.
"I missed Bill's meerschaum pipe first," he continued. "Then my
pocket-knife went an' a gold pin, an' other odds an' ends. All
in th' last fortnight!"
Humphrey left off sewing, and measured him slowly with his
eyes.
"D' yer mean to insinuate that I stole 'em?" he demanded.
"I ain't accusin' anybody," said Murty. "All I say is, there's
only been you an' me in th' house, an' th' things couldn't
walk."
"Which means that I'm a thief!" cried Humphrey, jumping up, and
throwing the cotton reel on the floor so that it bounced. He threw
the shirt after it, and commenced to tuck his sleeves up.
"Call me a thief!" he repeated, spitting on his hands and
shuffling his feet about in an agitated manner. "Come on!"
He shaped up, making feints and flourishes, while Murty stood
with his hands on his hips, quiet, but expectant.
"Let me at him!" cried Humphrey, still exercising. His face was
sickly white, his breath short. Nobody was stopping him; there was
nothing in his way. He hitched his pants up, then threw his arms
out like a man swimming. "Stand back!" he said. "Let me get at
him!"
He spat on his hands again, bounded into a fighting attitude,
stood on the cotton reel, did a rapid skate on one leg, and landed
heavily on his back. The other men laughed boisterously.
The fallen gladiator got up slowly, directing vivisecting
glances at the audience as he did so.
"Got a dashed lot to laugh at!" he remarked sulkily.
"You ought to be in a pantomime, Humpy," said Murty.
"You look out, or I'll put you somewhere," growled H. Hodge.
"You don't call me a thief for nothing. I've got me faults like
other people; but I'm honest."
"What d'yer strap your swag up every mornin' for, when you're in
a house?" asked Murty.
"What's that got to do with you?" Humphrey demanded.
"If a policeman was lookin' for missin' property," said Murty,
"'twould be th' first thing he'd want to overhaul."
"Well," said Muddle, pacifically, as the pantomime threatened to
break loose again, "an honest man courts investigation if only to
allay suspicion."
Hodge was considerably mollified by this. He drummed his fingers
on the table for a moment, meditating. Then he straightened up and
said: "Come an' search it," with the air of one who was conceding a
great point.
He threw the swag on the bed and left it to Murty to open and
overhaul. Murty accomplished this task with alacrity.
Among the contents was a small hag. This he turned bottom up,
and out dropped the watch, pocket-knife, Bill's meerschaum pipe and
other items.
He gathered them into his hands, glancing at Humphrey as he
picked up each article.
"Might 'ave his faults, like you an' me an' other folks," he
said, exhibiting them all round as he passed out, "but he's
honest."
Humphrey looked dumbfounded. He was still staring at the swag,
as if fascinated, when the other three left the room.
He came out presently with the swag rolled up.﹃It's a dirty,
mean, put-up job, an' you know it; all of you!﹄he said, speaking
in low jerks.
"Enough o' that!" said Muddle, holding up his finger. "The less
you say the better."
Murty slapped two one-pound notes on the table.
"There's your wages for th' two weeks you've been 'ere," he
said. "Now emigrate like Ven'rable Henry. An' let it be a lesson to
you to live sociable if you do miss your dinner sometimes."
Humphrey put the money in his pocket and walked away without
another word.
When Tarkalson came back Murty briefly informed him that he had
sacked Hodge because he was an insolent old pig, and Tarkalson
called him a chuckle-headed chump for doing so.
"Why, darn your eyes!" he said, "that man was puttin' in a month
here to work off a dead horse. He owed me five pounds!"
"Why didn't you say so before?" gasped Murty. "That's finished
me; I'm off!"
CHAPTER XX. A BAG OF BONES.
Murty left his job without notice, and leaving his pack and
spare horses at Lankey's Hut, rode on to Wyangaree to see Mat
Conyers.
"I thought you might like to pick up two or three hundred
pounds, Mat," he remarked as they sat together in the latter's room
that night.
Conyers' head jerked up with sudden interest.
"If you've got that ambition," continued Murty, "you can join me
as workin' partner. I'm off in a few days to Koponey's Island."
"Oh," said Conyers, with an air of disappointment. "Another wild
goose chase!"
"No, Matthew; it's the dinkum oil this time. I've located the
famous atoll, so we'll make for it direct."
"An' strike another duffer like you an' Jim did," said Conyers,
still dubious.
"We had the wrong address that time," Murty returned. "An' what
Jim told you in regard to that failure, was only a mere side issue.
He didn't know what I was lookin' for. I've never told anybody yet.
But you can take it from me, there's a big divvy in it."
"All right," said Conyers. "I'll be with you at Lankey's Hut at
the end of the week."
"There's one condition," Murty added, crossing his legs and
looking steadily at the elevated boot, whilst Conyers eyed him
expectantly. "I'd want you to scrape and pack some bones."
Conyers stared.
"What bones?"
"A Chinaman's," said Murty. "He's been dead a long time, so I
don't expect he'll be too bad after he's been resurrected an' aired
awhile."
Conyers stared harder, his lips slightly parted.
"What's the strength of this caper you're on?" he asked at
last.
"Lend's a match," said Murty, "an' I'll let you into the
secret."
After lighting his pipe, he went on: "You know that Koponey hid
on that island when the police were after him. Ile had some
jewell'ry with him that he didn't want to be carryin' till the
storm blew over; so he buried it there, as well as some letters an'
papers in a pickle bottle. After he got smashed up in that minin'
accident, you recollect, an' knew he was done for, he gave me a
rough map o' the island, an' asked me if I ever bumped that speck
to get the documents an' send 'em to a brother of his in Brisbane,
whose name an' address I'd find in the bottle. The jewell'ry, he
said, I could keep in remembrance of him. As I didn't know its
antecedents, the plant didn't interest me; and, anyhow, he shut off
before I had got the bearin's of the place."
"If that's all that's there," said Conyers, "you can have it on
your own."
"You're a bit too previous, Mr. Conyers," said Murty. He made a
soft place on Conyers' bunk for his elbow before he resumed. "When
Koponey landed on that islet he discovered a dead Chinaman in
possession. Deceased was lyin' on his back, claspin' a little black
god as if he, loved it: an' alongside him was a wallet with a
letter in it addressed in English an' Chinese to Hop Long, a rich
merchant in Brisbane. The dead Chow was over ripe, which made him
extra inconvenient to have, about the premises; so Koponey buried
him with his little black god. The letter he took away with him,
thinkin' he might collect something if he delivered it later to Hop
Long. It was written in Chinese, an' when Koponey handed it over to
me with the map, he didn't know any more than I did what it was
about, otherwise, I reckon, his career would 'aye been shaped very
different.
"'T any rate, I got to Brisbane with cattle from the Logan.
While there I delivered the letter to Hop Long—an' 'twasn't
long before half a dozen of the family were jabberin' at me an' at
one another. No mistake, it made, a stir in that camp. Turned out
that the writer was Hop Long's father, an old fossicker named Sam
Yik. The pull o' the goldfields 'ad been too strong for him to
anchor himself in a store. He came in once or twice a year for a
blowout o' birds' nest soup, chop suey, an' other mysteries; an' I
heard he took a swag of opium back with him, though he never smoked
it himself. His speciality in vices was rum.
"He was makin' in the last time with £600 worth of gold on him,
when he took sick. A couple of blokes were trampin' close, behind,
an' he got it into his head that they were trailin' him for his
pile. To shake 'em off, an' have a safe camp till he got better, he
roped some floating logs together an' shipped to Koponey's Island.
He buried his pile at once for safe custody, an' when he knew he
was done for he wrote the letter to Hop Long, tellin' him
everything, an' commandin' him to collect his bones an' send 'em to
the Flowery Land, where they could rest among their ancestors. If
Hop Long neglected that filial duty to his old father, he would
never have any rest himself, an' the little black god would play up
like forty imps of Satan.
"When I mentioned that nobody knew where the island was, Hop
Long was fair flummoxed. The black god, it seemed, had been in the
family for unknown generations, an' they had a tradition that if it
got lost all sorts of calamities would happen to those responsible.
Hop Long, as next of kin, was the proper owner an' custodian of the
buried image; an' he recollected that business 'ad been fallin' off
an' he hadn't been feelin' very well of late. I gathered from the
questions that were fired at me, an' the general excitement, that
the god would be vastly offended at bein' buried with a corpse.
"'T any rate, Hop Long offered me all the buried gold to find
the island an' bring the god an' what was left of Sam Yik to
Brisbane. I accepted the contract; an' for two years I searched for
that blinded speck without gettin' a hint as to its whereabouts. I
informed Hop Long that I was only accumulatin' expenses, an' he,
wrote that he would give me a thousand pounds, besides Sam Yik's
gold, if I recovered the treasures. A fire had destroyed a shed of
his in the meantime, an' a cyclone had taken the roof off his
store, an' Hop Long, I suppose, was gettin' desperate.
"So I kept on lookin' for Sam. By a lucky chance I got on to his
track, an' in about two months the job will be through. The little
black god, of course, an' a ring on the third finger of Sam's right
hand, will be, the proofs that we've got the right remains. You'll
'ave to be careful when you're tidyin' up the old party, not to
dislocate that finger or dislodge the ring."
"What do I get out of the swag? asked Conyers.
"You get half Sam Yik's gold," answered Murty.
"You're very generous," said Conyers. "What about the thousand?
Half an' half's a fair thing."
"By cripes, Conyers, you're pure!" cried Murty. "What about all
the years I've spent lookin' for the island? You're just goin' out,
direct to the spot, to clean an' pack Sam Yik, an' you've got the
cool cheek—"
"I forgot for the moment," Conyers broke in, waving his hand to
stem the threatened flood of compliments. "We'll let it go at
that."
"I'll get things ready while, I'm waitin' for you," Murty
concluded. "We go from here to Jondoey, on the Macintyre. I left
two horses there when I finished with Professor De Quinlan, an'
they'll come in nicely for a half-way change on this
expedition."
* * * * *
A week later the pair set out from Lankey's Hut, and after three
weeks travelling they reached the lake in which their treasure
island was situated. The lake was full from recent rains, so they
pitched camp on the mainland, where they put together a canvas
dinghy that Murty had packed in pieces. In that they crossed,
taking with them only tools and bags.
The island was a narrow strip about 30 yards long, with a small
rise in the centre, and surrounded with a thick fringe of lignum.
The grave was conspicuous at the foot of the rise. A few feet from
it was a big ants' nest, the sight of which made Conyers pause and
smile. He had been rather reluctant to tackle his unpleasant job,
but after a brief study of the ants he set to work quite
cheerfully.
The grave was shallow, the digging soft; and in half an hour
they had the grinning skeleton on the surface. The little black god
was still clutched in the bony hands. Murty took possession, spat
noisily two or three, times, and rushed down to the water to wash
the hideous thing.
When he returned Conyers was sitting on the slope, smoking a
cigarette, and the remains of Sam Yik were spread across the centre
of the ants' nest. A multitude of excited ants were rushing over
them.
"That colony can't have, too much to eat here when it's high
water," Conyers remarked. "We'll leave Sam with them for two or
three days. He won't be so beastly unpleasant then, an' there'll be
less of him to clean."
Murty, with the aid of the map and Sam Yik's directions, went
after the treasure. That, too, was easily located. Sam's gold being
at one, side of a bushy tree and Koponey's plant on the opposite
side.
Among Koponey's bottled papers Murty made a discovery. One was
the deeds of the bit of land on which stood Lankey's hut. Others
revealed that the late Mr. Koponey was Tom Lankey, the owner, whose
whereabouts had been long unknown.
"By tripes," said Murty, "I'm right on it. That estate's goin'
to be mine."
"But he's willed it to his brother Jack," said Conyers, who was
perusing another document.
"Well, can't I buy it?" Murty insisted. "Taint worth much to
him, an' it's the only home I've got. When I've been paid for Sam,
I'll be able to make it a real sumptuous residence."
With their spoil they returned to camp, and two days were
allowed to lapse before they shifted the skeleton. The gold in the
meantime was carefully divided and buried in the tent, whilst
Koponey's jewellery and papers were parcelled and addressed to Jack
Lankey.
Next day Murty went after the horses. On his way back he was
whistling happily and dreaming of a cosy little shack down east.
Suddenly he stopped whistling, and his hair bristled with alarm.
Two mounted troopers were at the camp, and Conyers, a
disgusted-looking bone-cleaner, was under arrest. One of the
troopers was inquiring about Sam, while the other was examining
things about the tent.
Murty clutched his reins, pulled his hat down hard, and in a few
seconds arrived with a clatter of bells and hoofs. He explained and
expostulated; he produced his maps and letters; but the law was
obdurate. He was arrested too.
"You'll have to come to Toowoomba, both of you," said the senior
trooper. "So roll up your swags now."
"What about Sam Yik?" cried Murty, anxiously. "I can't leave him
behind. The goannas will be spoilin' him."
"H'm!" said the trooper. "There'll have to be an inquest on him;
so you can pack him too. I'll want to have a look at the place
where you disinterred him, One of you can row me across while the
other packs up."
"You're the best liar, Conyers," Murty whispered. "I want to
keep an eye on the cosherman that's stoppin' here to watch me."
Much against his will, Conyers took the trooper over, and having
pointed out the grave, he explained that the two holes under the
tree were dug to get the parcel for Jack Lankey, the first having
been sunk in the wrong place. He was subjected to a long,
embarrassing catechism concerning the island and everything and
everybody connected with it, including himself and his private
affairs, what he did for a living, where he lived when he was home,
and what he expected to get for Sain Yik. Conyers didn't know much
about anything; he was merely engaged as Murty Brown's
assistant.
"Hm!" said the trooper in conclusion. "The corpse was buried
without a permit, and you removed it from the grave without
license. You'll have to come to Toowoomba."
"D—— Toowoomba!" Conyers muttered under his
breath.
When they got back to camp, everything was packed on the horses
including Sam Yik, who had been tightly rolled in an old blanket
and securely tied in a chaff bag. Murty took charge of him, and the
troopers took charge of Murty and his mate. To avoid further
embarrassments, the gold was left buried where the tent had stood.
That was the main thing that worried Conyers as they rode away. He
had been planning to take up a nice little selection with the
money, and was very dejected at having to leave it behind.
"You can come back for it when you've served your sentence for
murder," whispered Murty, viciously.
So they growled in undertone along the road. The midday sun
intensified their bitterness, as it had a steaming effect on the
bag of bones. The senior trooper edged a little farther away and
remarked that Sam appeared to be getting up a sweat. The more his
bones were rattled over the uneven tracks the more unpleasant his
company became.
Conyers wore the aspect of chief mourner, except that he smoked
numerous cigarettes as the funeral procession moved drearily
towards Toowoomba.
Once there, Murty got busy. Being released on bail, he picked up
some spirits in a double sense at the nearest bar, and having
further complimented Conyers on his perfunctory methods of cleaning
dead Chinamen, sent urgent wires to Hop Long and Jack Lankey.
Both gentlemen arrived by the first train, and when Hop Long
produced Sam Yik's letter, and identified the bag of bones by the
little black god and the ring as his lamented parent, bcsides
testifying as to Murty's authority to dig up the remains, the
police case broke down. At the conclusion of the inquest Hop Long
was given possession of the exhibits, and Murty collected his
reward.
Conyers was then despatched with caustic instructions to recover
the two parcels of gold; and when they met later at Lankey's Hut,
Murty had the legal documents in his pocket that made that little
homestead selection his own.
THE END
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