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Title: The Haunted Shanty and Other
Stories
Author: Thomas E. Spencer
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Language: English
Date first posted: July 2023
Most recent update: July 2023
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The Haunted Shanty and Other Stories
Thomas E. Spencer
With Four full-page Illustrations by Harry J. Weston
N.S.W. Bookstall .Co., Sydney
Published 1910
CONTENTS
1. By the Camp Fire
2. The Haunted Shanty
3. The Yankee Skipper
4. Captain Comet
5. The Naturalisation of Stuntze
6. Packham's Pride
7. Almost a Millionaire
8. Peter's Luck
9. Clancy on Gambling
10. Old Barker
11. Piebald Jim
12. Josephine Mcginty
13. Commercial Competition
14. Lou's Young Man
15. The Half-way House
16. A Week End at Walker's
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Ghosts
2. "Hulloa, Boulder!"
3. Beauty Saves The Situation
4. Cooling Otto's Ardour
1. BY THE CAMP FIRE.
Reminiscences.
WHEN the sun of one's prosperity is at its meridian, it is not
always pleasant to be reminded of the time when we shivered, cold
and miserable, in the chill shades of adversity. It is not kind,
when a man is living on his rent roll, supplemented, by a little
interest on funded stock, to remind him of the time when he tossed
his last sixpence and, upon the uncertain contingency of heads or
tails, hazarded the question whether it were better to invest it in
a good square feed, or to tighten his belt and barter the coin for
the privilege of sleeping away his hunger in a sixpenny bed.
I am an alderman, and a prospective mayor. I also have a vague
ambition that, as time rolls on, I may be called upon to represent
my fellow citizens in the Parliament of my country, when I shall
loll comfortably on the well-stuffed benches in Macquarie Street,
with a gold pass on my watch-chain, and a special tram to take me
home at night.
It is, I say, not pleasant, for a man of my position and
prospects, to be suddenly reminded, in two words, of the time when,
poor and penniless, he was glad to accept a subordinate position in
a camp of surveyors, being lured thereto by the promise of fifteen
shillings per week and his tucker.
It came about thus.
A few weeks ago, I was chosen one of an influential deputation
to wait upon a Minister of the Crown, to bring under his notice
several matters of local importance, the most urgent of which, in
my opinion, was the necessity that existed for laying a new drain
past a terrace of houses that I had recently purchased, and which I
had obtained at a very low figure on account of their insanitary
condition. I was, at my own request, deputed to address the
Minister on the important matter of the drain; and had prepared a
speech, bristling with points, and overflowing with statistics. In
the company of a number of my fellow aldermen, and the member for
our electorate, I was waiting outside the office of the Minister,
when I was rudely startled by receiving a heavy slap on the
shoulder, and was greeted with the two words previously alluded to.
They were, "Hulloa, Boulder!"
I turned and beheld a face and form I had not seen for years,
but which, alas! I know too well. It was that of Flanagan, the
principal chain-man in the gang of railway surveyors with which I
had been associated some years ago on the Murrumbidgee.
"Hulloa, Boulder!"
I pretended, at first, that I did not recognise him, but it was
no use. Flanagan was remorseless. He had an atrociously good memory
for faces, and was, as I could remember, a violent and a dangerous
man when contradicted.
Judging by his appearance, he had sunk as much in the social
scale as I had risen. My feelings may be imagined when he
hiccupped.
"It's no use me bhoy. It's no use. Ye're a bigger swell than ye
were when ye were choppin' pegs for me on the Murrumbidgee. Ye've
filled out a bit. Yer nose is redder, and yer long-tailed banger
and yer top hat althers yer appearance, but I'd know ye, me bhoy,
if ye were boiled."
He grasped my hand with the grip of a giant, and exclaimed,
affectionately, "And how are ye, me bhoy? How are ye, afther all
this time?"
It took me some minutes to get rid of Mr. Flanagan, and when he
departed, there went with him, half my loose silver, and all my
points, and statistics. My speech to the Minister fell flat, and
the question of the drain is shelved.
My name is not "Boulder," and it never was. "Boulder" was
simply a vulgar nickname given to me without my consent, and in
contradiction to my expressed wish. When I first became associated
with the camp of surveyors before mentioned, and while I was new in
my position, and only partially acquainted with its duties, I was
deputed one day to make a damper. It is not necessary for me to
explain, minutely, the manner in which I executed my commission, it
is sufficient to observe, that, as it was the first damper I was
commissioned to make, so also, was it the last. It was preserved
for a long time as a relic. It was noted for its density and its
high specific gravity. They hung it to a tree, where it resisted
for months the denuding effects of the atmosphere, the ruthless
tooth of the marauding opossum, and the destroying influence of
time. As a result the camp was called, and is known to this day, as
Damper Gully. It was at this time that I acquired the nickname of
"Boulder." And it stuck to me as long as I formed one of Mr.
McTavish's retinue.
My accidental rencontre with Flanagan brought vividly to my
mind's eye this remote period of the existence. As I sat in my
study that evening, the name of "Boulder" seemed once again to be
echoing through the valley of the Murrumbidgee, and many forgotten
events flashed across my mind. I saw once again the bronzed faces
of the men who were then my companions. Once more I inhaled the
incense from the burning pine, the perfume from the peppermint, and
the scent of the healrth-giving eucalyptus. I saw again the ruddy
glow of the camp fire, the sparks flying upward in the still, pure
air, the impenetrable darkness of the surrounding bush, and the
glorious canopy of stars above. I listened to the crackling of the
twigs, as the sleek opossum started on his nocturnal ramble. I
heard the mournful cry of the curlew, and the distant tinkle,
tinkle of the bell, which, growing fainter and still more faint,
reminded us that the horses were feeding their way towards the
grassy flat at the foot of Fern Gully.
Whence comes the magic charm of the Australian Bush? Why is it
that those who have felt its call are eager to respond? Is it that
a closer acquaintance with the works of Nature leads to a more just
appreciation of the Great Designer of those works? It is hard to
say, but this we know, that once a man has felt its subtle spell,
its influence lives while life and reason last.
Thus I thought, as I sat in my room. The faces of my old
companions seemed to pass in view before me, as they used to appear
in the glow of the camp fire when, with many a story, we relieved
the hour between the evening meal and bed time. When quips and
cranks and merry jests flew sparkling around us, even as the sparks
flew upward from the camp fire.
First came McTavish, the head of our party. In his presence, we
called him "Mr. McTavish," in his absence, "Old Dryasdust." He was
a typical Scotchman, shrewd, yet kindly, with a good-humoured
twinkle in his benevolent grey eye, but a power of resolution in
his square chin and firm-set mouth. His assistant, Charlie
Falconer, was an intelligent bright young fellow, so devoted to his
work that he would frequently sit in his tent half the night,
checking the work done during the day. Flanagan was head chainman
and general factotum. He was, at that time, a genial, light-hearted
Irishman. He was full of mischief, but the life and soul of the
camp, especially when free from the influence of the restraining
eye of Mr. McTavish.
Joe Millner, another chainman, was of a more stolid disposition,
He loved, sometimes, to talk of the departed glories of the old
digging days.
Then there was a youth named Arthur. Where he had come from, no
one seemed to know. He was pale and delicate, and had been well
brought up. His modest unassuming behaviour, and his large, dreamy
eyes, made him a general favourite. I was only a casual hand, and
our party was completed by Otto, the cook.
Otto Von Stuntze was a German. According to his own account,
Otto was of ancient and noble lineage. He was cross-eyed, and had a
huge scar across one side of his forehead. He wore a sheath knife
at his belt and, winter or summer, his well-worn flannel shirt was
open at the breast. While we spun our yarns, he would sit on his
haunches by the fire, with one eye on the fire and the other fixed
with a contemptuous expression on the speaker. He was supposed to
have been a sailor, and boasted the possession of a mate's
certificate, which, however, we never saw. He had been everywhere
and seen everything, and no problem was so hard that Otto could not
solve it. Joe Millner used to call him "Otto the Liar." But Otto
had one redeeming feature, he was a good cook; and, in a rough
country, where appetites are keen, flies plentiful, and delicacies
scarce, good cookery covers a multitude of sins.
As my fancy recalled the faces of my friends, so did my memory
recall the tales they used to tell, and I resolved to commit some
of then to writing. I know that they will lose half their charm by
reason of the absence of the surroundings. I may, perhaps,
reproduce the words, but not the flashing light, the ruddy faces,
the scent of the wattle, nor the sights and sounds that met our
eyes and ears as we sat in the gloaming, spinning our
yarns—by the camp fire.
One night, after tea, the conversation turned on ghosts.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" asked Joe.
"I always pelieves in vat I sees," said Otto. "I remember, vhen
I vas pearl fishin' in Vestern Australia—"
"We don't want to hear about Western Australia now," said Joe,
"Mr. McTavish is in his tent and is perhaps trying to go to
sleep."
"Nay mon," said a cheery voice from the tent, "Dinna fret for
me. I can maistly succeed in extracting a little wheat from the
chaff. Even the strings of lies that Otto tells convey a moral, if
it is only to teach us to avoid lies, lest in time we become, like
him, unconscious and habitual perverters of the truth. Go on, lads.
Tell your yarns, but try to let them have a semblance of truth.
Dinna mind me."
"I have never seen a ghost," said Charlie Falconer, "but I once
spent a night in a haunted shanty."
"I vas vonce in a ship dhat vas haunted," remarked Otto. "It
vos—"
"The devil's cure to you," said Flanagan. "'Tis like an ould hin
ye are wid ye're cluckin'. Give it a rest, man, or I'll trow the
billy at ye."
"Ach," said Otto, as he spat in the fire.
"Tell us about the haunted shanty, Mr. Falconer," said Joe.
"There is not much to tell," said Charlie, "but, if Mr. McTavish
does not mind—"
"Go on," shouted Mr. McTavish, "but remember that when you
approach the supernatural, you are treading on dangerous ground. In
such cases the human mind seems to have a tendency to spread
itself, as it were, and we sometimes drift, unconsciously and
imperceptibly, from the main road of fact into the by-paths of
fiction."
"I will tell the tale exactly as it occurred," said Charlie.
Thus encouraged and admonished, Charlie proceeded with his
story:—
Charlie Falconer
2. THE HAUNTED SHANTY. Charlie's
Story.
"THE large bank of clouds looming in the southwest was
occasionally split by streaks of lightning. I urged my horse
forward, because the river at the foot of the mountains was in the
habit of rising quickly. A smart thunder shower in the hills would
sometimes make it impassable for hours. If once I could get across
I should be all right, for McMahon's comfortable hostelry was near
the opposite bank, and it was there that I proposed to spend the
night.
Before I arrived at the last descent the sky had grown black,
and a few large, drops of rain were falling. I hurried along, and
just as the grey dusk was deepening into premature darkness I came
within sight of the river.
To my great disappointment it was running a banker, and I knew
that it would be impossible to cross before morning.
The outlook was not a pleasant one. The ominous roll of thunder
in the distance gave warning of the impending storm. Before me, in
McMahon's comfortable sitting-room, distant only a few hundred
yards, were warmth and shelter but the seething river rushing
between made that shelter inaccessible. The only refuge from the
storm was in the ruins of the old 'Diggers' Arms.' This was an old
'shanty,' which had long since been deserted, even by the least
fastidious tramp. At one period of its history it had flourished,
but that was in the old bushranging days. Its name was associated
with evil deeds, and it was said that there was blood upon its
walls. It had succeeded, in a very early period of its history, in
gaining an unenviable notoriety. So bad did its reputation become,
that even its friends found it too warm, and deserted it, and it
then became a camping place for tramps, who used its rude fittings
to boil the billy.
For some years prior to the date of the adventure I am about to
relate, it had been shunned, even by the tramps. The tide of its
depravity had reached its lowest ebb, for it was said to be
haunted. Now, ruined in appearance, usefulness and reputation, it
merely existed as an awful example to all shanties which may be
tempted to stray from the paths of strict rectitude.
One end of it remained fairly weatherproof, and this fag end of
a deserted shanty, with an evil history, and an uncanny reputation,
was the only spot within five miles that was accessible, where one
might hope to keep reasonably dry.
I had no belief in ghosts, so I led my horse to the doorway,
removed the saddle and bridle, and entered.
As I remarked, I did not believe in ghosts, but, except for the
brilliant flashes of the lightning, the night promised to be very
dark, and although one may, under normal conditions, laugh at the
supernatural, that is no reason why one should absolutely prefer a
lodging that has the reputation of being haunted.
I must confess that my heart beat faster as I entered, but,
smiling at my own groundless fears, I struck a match and, putting
the saddle and bridle in the driest corner of the room, whose walls
had once echoed the noisy revelry of the bushrangers, I sat down to
wait patiently for the storm to pass.
I lit my pipe and, spreading my saddle-cloth on the ground, I
sat on it with my back against the rough slabs of the wall. By this
time the rain was falling in torrents, Frequent flashes of blinding
lightning lit up the cracks in the crumbling walls, and illuminated
the gaping apertures where doors and windows had once been.
I thought of the ridiculous stories that were current about the
place. How rough, hardened sinners, who feared neither God nor man,
had arrived, pallid and trembling at McMahon's, declaring that they
had heard voices in the ruins of the old 'Diggers' Arms.' How one
man had offered to sleep there for a wager, and had arrived at
McMahon's, just after the family had retired to bed, declaring that
a ghostly voice had commanded him to go to sleep. I thought of
these things, and many more about as cheerful, until I found myself
listening, with a creepy sensation, for the faintest unusual
sound.
The thunder grew more distant, and the lightping less vivid, but
the rain fell in a steady stream; and I could hear the boiling
river rumbling between its banks.
My pipe had gone out, and once or twice I found myself nodding.
Suddenly I started and became very wide awake, for I could have
sworn I heard a dismal wailing voice, close to my ear.
For some moments my heart beat wildly. I felt a curious
sensation in the region of the spine, as though drops of cold water
were slowly following each other down my back. Then I tried to
laugh my fears away. I said to myself 'What nonsense! It is the
wind playing among the chinks in the walls, or swaying a loose
shingle on the roof.' But I could not help listening intently. I
tried to compose myself to sleep, and had almost succeeded, when,
after a brilliant flash of lightning, I heard, louder, plainer and
more distintly than before, the same dismal cry. It commenced lowly
and faintly, increased gradually in intensity, rose in pitch, and
died away in a sobbing, heartrending wail. And without a doubt, the
voice was within the room.
I sat bolt upright, and perspiration stood in great beads upon
my forehead. I fumbled for my match-box with trembling fingers,
when, just as I had them on a match, another voice, plainer and
more distinct than the former said, 'Don't be afraid. The storm is
passing. Go to sleep.'
I shall never forget the shock. I was never considered be a
coward, yet I confess that my limbs shook as though I had the
palsy. In my fright I dropped my matches.
Ghosts
The man who knows no fear is not necessarily the bravest. The
brave man is he, who, feeling afraid, can yet overcome his fear in
the presence of awful impending danger. I expected every moment to
feel skeleton fingers closing round my throat, or some other
indefinable horror; and yet, in spite of my fear, I did not lose my
head. I groped for my match-box and found it. I struck a match, but
a gust from the gaping window opening blew it out.
I struck another, and another, and, at length I succeeded in
keeping one alight long enough to examine the room. There was
nothing there but my saddle and bridle, and the debris that is
usually found in a disused, crumbling building.
Making a determined effort to master my fear, I sat down again
on the saddle-cloth, and tried to persuade myself that the whole
was a dream, or some curious fantasy of an over-wrought brain. In
this I was so successful that I began to be amused at my former
fears.
For some time all was quiet, except the swish of the falling
rain, for the thunder had ceased.
At length, as sleep seemed out of the question, I decided to
smoke. Slowly and deliberately, for I was in no hurry—my
object was to kill time—I cut up some tobacco, and filled my
pipe. I put away the knife and tobacco, struck a match and lit my
Pipe, and then, holding the match high above my head, I made
another careful survey of my surroundings. All was the same as
before, and I laughed at my fears. I felt inclined to chaff the
ghost, and I had just began to quote 'Be thou spirit of earth or
goblin damned—' when a gruff voice, louder, sharper, more
distinct than ever, said sternly: Put out that light, and go to
Sleep.'
I tried to call out but my tongue was frozen. The match dropped
from from my hand. A chill crept through me from my brain to the
tips of my fingers and my toes. I was like a man paralysed, and
must have fainted, for I remember no more until I awoke, chilled to
the marrow, and shaking in every limb.
The rain had ceased and the moon was shining through the
openings of the ruined building.
I went outside and walked in the moonlight, for my nerves were
shattered. The river had fallen a tittle, but was still
impassable.
The trees were dropping moisture and everything was sodden.
I have seen the dawn break in many places, but I never welcomed
it with greater pleasure.
When the light was sufficient to distinguish the objects around
me, I carefilly examined the ground round the the old builing. I
thought I might have been the victim of a trick but I could find no
traces of a human being. My horse, which was grazing peacefully
some distance away, was the only living thing in sight.
Gradually the bush began to wake. A magpie sounded his welcome
to the dawn, a laughing jackass replied, and the bush became alive
with sweet familiar sounds.
As the dawn grew brighter, my fears left me, but I was still
nervous and weak. I judged that it yet take some hours before the
river would be safe to cross, so I entered the old building
again—it was the only dry spot—and flung myself down
upon the saddle cloth.
I was weary, and upset with nervous tension. I was ashamed of my
fears, and, although entirely unable to explain my night's
experience, I was unwilling to attribute it to supernatural
causes.
I sat, watching the daylight brighten, and feeling inclined to
doze, yet I was awake. I could see every corner of the room. I had
recently inspected the outside of the place.
With a heart filled with gratitude, I saw through the window
opening the first ray of the rising sun glint on a distant hill,
when, with startling suddenness, a voice shouted in my ear, 'Now
then. Jump up. It's time to be moving.'
I did jump up. Then, and not till then, did I believe that the
place was accursed. I seized my saddle and bridle, and ran outside.
I called aloud, but the echo of my own voice was my only answer.
Again I searched the vicinity, and again I found nothing.
I caught and saddled my horse, and rode round the place, but
could find no sign. I was in a frenzy, so I rode quickly down to
the river, and plunged my horse into the swollen stream. I crossed
somehow, and arrived at McMahon's just as that worthy came out on
to the verandah to stretch himself.
'Hulloa!' he exclaimed. 'Why man, what's up? Have you seen a
ghost? Why, your face is like a plaster of Paris image.'
I tumbled somehow off the horse, and he took me in and gave me
some brandy. He asked me what ailed me, and, like a fool, I told
him.
He eyed me carefully from head to foot and, with a smile of
incredulity upon his face, he said:
'I've heard these yarns before, but I did not expect them from
you. I'd advise you to go to bed and, for the future, to take more
water with it.'
He thought I had been drinking, but he was wrong. I could not
argue with him, so I went to bed, conscious of having fallen
several degrees in McMahon's estimation.
But I had received a serious, shock, and I was in a state of
complete nervous prostration for weeks. I decided to go to town for
a change. When I got there I met young Joe McMahon, who was a
student at the Technical College. In a moment of weakness, I told
him my story.
He laughed.
'What did the ghost say?' he asked.
'I did not say it was a ghost,' I replied indignantly. 'I told
you that I saw nothing, and that I don't believe in ghosts.'
'Never mind,' said Joe. 'What did the voice say?'
'Well! the first sound I heard was a low, wailing cry, as of a
lost spirit in pain.'
'That was the baby,' said Joe, chuckling.
I took no notice of his irrelevant remark, but continued. 'Then
a voice said, 'Don't be afraid, the storm is passing. Go to
sleep.'
'That was mum,' said Joe.
'If you don't want to hear,' said I, why did you ask?'
'Go on,' he said, grinning. He did not seem to realise the awful
gravity of the situation.
'Well!' I continued, seriously, 'When I was lighting my pipe, a
voice said, 'Put out that light, and go to sleep.'
'Yes!' said Joe.
'And in the morning, when it was daylight, the voice said, 'Now
then, jump up.' I heard it distinctly. I'll swear it.'
'Yes,' interrupted Joe, 'that was Dad. He always has to tell Jim
to put his candle out at night, and he always rouses him out at
daylight in the morning.'
'But,' said I angrily, 'I told you I was at the 'Diggers' Arms.'
If you doubt my word, be good enough to say so.'
'But,' he said, 'I don't doubt your word, old man. I know it's
all as true as Gospel.' Then he explained.
'You know,' he said, 'that they always said I was a clever
child. And I was pretty smart. I was fond of reading and
experimenting. That was how Dad came to send me to the Technical
College. I read a book once about 'How to make a telephone,' and I
got some old jars, and jam tins, and some copper wire and things,
and I made one. I connected it with the telegraph wire that passes
our house and the old shanty across the river. But it would only
talk one way. The transmitter is in Dad's bedroom, and the receiver
in the chimney of the old shanty. Many a time I have sat in the old
shanty, and heard dad and mum talking secrets in the bedroom. I
learnt a lot of things they thought I didn't know. I remember the
first tramp that got scared. He was a sight to look at. His hair
was all bristled up, and he had a face like a plaster of Paris
image. He was—'
'But I suddenly remembered that I had an appointment, and I bade
Joe 'Good-day.'"
* * *
"Der Teffil fly avay mit you, Yoe Milnner. Vhat for you boomps
me oop against like dhat "' shouted Otto, as Joe touched Otto, who,
sitting as usual upon his haunches, and delicately poised upon his
toes, was nearly precipitated into the fire.
"What's the matter, Ananias?" said Joe, innocently.
"Ananias yourself," answered Otto, "you creat big awkvordncss.
Yeerusalem! you vas make me purn der fryin'-pan mit mine
fingers."
"Why don't ye serve him as ye did the Yankee shkipper, Otto?"
said Flanagan.
At this Otto only said "Ach!"
"What about the Yankee skipper?" said Joe, "I haven't heard that
yarn."
"Ach," said Otto, "I suppose you tink a fool's a man pecause he
cook for you fellows. Ach!"
But Joe apologised until Otto threw an extra log on the fire and
thus began:—
3. THE YANKEE SKIPPER. Otto's
Story.
"Shoost tventy years ago, more or less, I vas chief mate of a
Yankee prig. She sailed from New York to Melpourne, mit a cargo of
proom handles, and a Yankee shkipper, apout seven feet high. Dhat
vas der time for hard vork und short commons if you like. Vhen der
sailors used to lif hard, die hard, und go to der teffil at last.
Der shkipper he reckoned he vas der pully poy mit der glass eye and
no mistake. He used to roar and rafe, and knock down effery man
vhat look at him. He neffer knock me down, pecause I neffer look at
him, till ve gets near Melpourne. Dhen, von night it cooms on to
plow. Py shenks! how it did plow! Der vind it plow vest-sou'-east,
and it plow apout nine-eighths of a gale. Der vater vas coom ofer
der pows in pucketfuls. I though dat effery hour vas pe our last
minute. Der shkipper, he roosh on deck, und cuss and shvear, und
knock his head against der combin' of der hatch, und he shout, 'All
hands on deck, to man der main prace.'
Und der shticks vas flyin' out of her, and tings vas goin'
crash, pang, poom, like efferytings. Und der shkipper he runs round
himself, and as I look at him, he seems apout nine feet high. Dhen
he shouts, 'Vhere vas dhat lazy Dutch lubber?'
Dhat vas me.
I say nottings, but py shenks, I grind mine teeth and say to
minself, 'Shoost vait avhile, und I coom down on you directly
pefore long like a donder polt, mit a tousand of bricks.'
Dhen he shouts, Sphlice der main prace! Let go der flyin' chib
town all! Trow der main deck ofer poard!
Shoost dhen der lookout man he say, 'Preakers ahead!'
Und der shkipper he say, Vhere away?' und he look only apout
eight feet high.
'Ond der weadher pow,' says der man.
Dhen says der Shkipper, 'Ve vas lost!' Und he look round and
say, 'Vhere vas Stuntze?' und he look about seffen feet high.
I keep mine mout shut but I say not a word. I only grind mine
teeth mit mine gums, und hold on to der hencoop like grim death to
a dead nigger.
Und der shticks go crash! pang! poom!
'Land on, der weadher pow,' shouted der man at der mast
head.
'Vill nooody pring Mr. Stuntze?' cried der shkipper, und he look
apout six feet high.
But I only vink at der man at der mast-head und say nottings,
und der shticks go crash! pang! poom! all ofer der shop.
Dhen der shkipper he cry, shoost like a leetle child, and he
tear his hands mit his hair, und he say, 'Oh Mr. Von Stuntze, vhere
are you?'
Dhen, vhen he he call me be mine proper name, Mr. Von Stuntze, I
valk oop to him, and in a voice apout ten times as loud as der
shtorm, I say, 'I am here,' and he look apout five feet six high,
as I look him straight in der face.
'Oh! Mr. Von Stuntze,' he say, 'can't you do nottings to safe
us. Vhere are ve goin' from?'
'Vell,' I says, 'I tink dhat in apout fife minutes, or an hour
or two, ve all go to Dafy Yones's locker.' Und he turned vhiter
dhan he vas look afterwards, and look apout fife feet high.
'Safe us, Mr. Stuntze,' he says, 'and—'
'Von Stuntze!' I shouted, in a voice like forty tousand claps of
donder.
'I peg your pardon, Mr. Von Stuntze,' he says, 'safe us and I
vill do anytings for you.' Und he looked apout four feet twelve
high.
So I looks at him, mit both mine eyes, and says, 'Vill you
promise to pehave mit yourself, mud not knock no more mens down mit
your fist?'
'Yah,' he says, and he look apout four feet six high, as I look
town at him.
'Dhen,' says I, as I kick him pehind and pull his nose in front
at der same time, mit von eye on him and der odher on der rock, 'Go
pelow mit yourself, and don't show your ugly face on deck again
mithout I calls for you.' Und I hit him anodher kick mit my foot
pehind as he tank me, und as he toombled down der hatchway, he look
apout four feet high.
Dhen I shouts to der men, 'Loosen her stays! Keep her head apout
three sheets in the vind! Take a reef in der shpanker poom und
belay der pinnacle! Let go der fore-top-gallant mizzen—mast!
and clew opp der capstan!' It vas all done as qvick as you could go
from here to some odher place. Pefore you could sing Der Vacht
on der Rhine ve go svish past dhat rock. It schrape all
parnicles off us and neffer touch our pottom. Der shkipper he
neffer look pig soom more.
Der next day, ve gets to Melpourne, und two men on der vharf,
dhey hold a publick meetin' ud dhey say ve vas der tenth ship in a
veek vhat coom past dhat same rock mithout touchin' it. Vhat you
call dhat for seamanship? Ach!"
* * *
When Otto had finished, there was a dead silence for about two
minutes. At length Joe Millner heaved a sigh, and, with an
appealing glance at Otto he said, "You don't expect us to believe
that yarn, de you Otto?"
"Do, you tink I would shpoke you a lie?" demanded Otto.
"Well," said Joe, reflectively, "I wouldn't like to call it by a
hard name, but don't you think you may have made a mistake? About
that man at the masthead for instance, that you winked at, in the
middle of a storm on a dark night, he must have been pretty
uncomfortable, when the sticks were flying, crash, bang, boom, all
over the place."
"Dhat vas nottings," replied Otto, warmly. "I remember, vhen I
vas in der Pay of Piscay—"
"No thanks, not just now," said Joe, quickly, "We'll believe it;
it will be easier."
"That will do for to-night, boys," chimed in the voice of Mr.
McTavish. And so, after a drink of tea, we went to bed.
* * *
Some time after this, we were sitting round the fire as usual,
when someone mentioned bushrangers. This brought Otto to the
front.
"I vas vonce travelling from der Lachlan to der Bogan, vhen I
coomed to a—"
"Wait a bit, Otto," said Charlie, "Wait until we hear that yarn
that Joe promised us about bushrangers."
"I vas told you apout der push. Yumping! yehoshaphat!"
The last exclamation was caused by the fact that a wet towel
struck Otto a smart thwack on the side of the head, and coiled
itself lovingly round his neck. Who threw that towel is a mystery
to this day. It could not have been me, nor Arthur, nor Joe, nor
Charlie; we were all sitting in front of him. Mr. McTavish was in
his tent, but as Mr. McTavish never indulged in practical jokes, it
could not have been he, so the occurrence is to this day a complete
mystery.
"I know vhat you vill soom day do," shouted Otto, "You vas soom
day play mit der horns till You get der bull shtickin' in you. You
can't keep on playing mit your fingers mithout burnin' der fire.
You see if you don't."
"Keep quiet, Otto," cried Mr. McTavish, "and let Joe tell his
story."
As the voice of Mr. McTavish was the voice of authority, Otto
collapsed and Joe Millner proceeded as follows:—
4. CAPTAIN COMET. Joe's Story.
"In the summer of 186- I had been assisting to drive a mob of
cattle from the Lachlan to Goulburn. Having delivered the cattle, I
started one morning to make my way back to the Lachlan alone.
During my first day's journey I left the road, to take a short cut
through the bush, which I thought would save me a mile or two, and
bring me out on to the Burrowa road, somewhere near Wheeo. For some
hours I rode contentedly onward, until I noticed with surprise that
the sun was getting low, and that the road was not yet in sight. I
shook up the old horse I was riding and continued on for some time
longer, when the uncomfortable feeling began to dawn upon me that I
had, at some part of the journey, taken the wrong gully, and that I
was lost.
I was not very much troubled at this fact, as the weather was
fine, and I was well used to sleeping with the stars for a canopy.
So I resolved to jog along until sundown, and then, if I did not
strike the road, to hobble my horse and camp until daylight. I knew
that I could then, by riding in a straight line, strike either a
road or a fence, and find out my position.
While thus making my resolutions I heard in the distance the
sound of an axe. I rode in the direction of the sound and in about
ten minutes I came to a small clearing in the midst of which a man
was mortising some posts. He paused in his work at the sound of my
horse's footsteps, and when I approached him he rested, leaning in
a careless attitude upon his axe. He stood with one foot resting
upon a fallen log, upon which the head of the axe was also resting.
His hands were clasped over the end of the axe-handle, and his chin
rested on his hands.
Like most Australian natives he was tall and rather slim for his
height, and although he displayed no superfluity of flesh, there
was no lack of bone, muscle and sinew. His hat was pushed back from
his forehead and displayed to full advantage the sunburnt features
of a man about thirty years of age. His hair was light and curly,
and as I gazed at his face and form, his close-cropped beard and
drooping moustache, his frank expression, keen grey eyes, and
muscular form, I thought that an artist, with this man for a model,
could have drawn a faithful portrait of a Saxon chief.
He bade me a polite 'good-evening' as I approached, and in
answer to my enquiries he said that the nearest point of the road
was three miles away, and that from there to Brady's was about four
miles. 'But,' he added, quickly, 'it is nearly sundown. Come up to
my place and stay for the night. You are welcome to a cup of tea
and a shakedown; there is plenty of feed for your horse, and in the
morning I will direct you to the road.'
I accepted his hospitality as frankly as it was offered, and as
he was thinking, he said, of knocking of work as he heard me
approach, he led the way to the house, which was about a quarter of
a mile away. During our short journey he pointed with pride to the
various improvements he had made. There were paddocks under
cultivation, enclosed with substantial fences; the cottage was
almost surrounded with fruit trees, a neat pallisading fence
enclosed the vegetable garden, cows were lying on the
grass—so fat and lazy that they refused to stir at our
approach, and a flock of sheep were feeding upon a distant
slope.
'It has taken me five years,' remarked my host, 'to make these
improvements. I was courting my wife nearly the whole of that time,
for I could not ask her to come and share my home until it was
ready for her. But now,' he added, 'I have some of the best-bred
horses in the district; I have a sheep-dog that they cannot match
for fifty miles round, and I have been married six months to the
best little woman in the world. All I have is my own, and I
wouldn't change places with the Governor, would I, Jip,' he added,
as he patted the head of a faithful collie that ran to meet him.
'All right, old girl,' he continued to a handsome bay mare that
trotted, whinnying to the fence at the sound of his voice, 'All
right; you shall have your oats.'
I removed the saddle from my horse, and he gave the poor brute a
feed of oaten hay, and then invited me into the house.
The interior of the dwelling, though rude, was a. picture of
comfort and cleanliness. There was a large table, on which a snowy
cloth was ready laid for supper, a few chairs, a couch covered with
an opossum skin rug, and a rough stool or two.
This was all the furniture; but there were gay prints on the
walls, and the cool breeze that wafted through the open windows,
laden with the perfume of roses and lilac, gave to the room an air
of delightful repose.
'Are you there, Kate?' he shouted, as we entered.
'I am here,' responded a pleasant voice from the kitchen; and a
moment later she entered the apartment.
'My wife,' said he, as he imprinted a kiss upon her lips. Then
added: 'This gentleman is going to stay with us to-night.'
She laughingly scolded him for being so foolish before
strangers, bade me make myself at home, and promising that supper
would be ready in five minutes, disappeared into the kitchen.
As we sat at our evening meal, I learned that the name of my
host was Benjamin Powell. He did full justice to his wife's
excellent cookery, and the manner in which he stowed away corned
beef and pumpkin, and topped it off with some peach pie and a dish
of stewed quinces, was a sight to behold.
Mrs. Powell seemed in every way qualified to act as a fitting
helpmate to her husband. She was above the medium height, straight
as a rush, with a handsome countenance, dark, piercing eyes, and a
profusion of glossy black hair. Her well-rounded arms were bare to
the elbows, and her closely-fitting, clean print dress displayed to
perfection the undulating motions of her faultless figure.
As I watched her face, I speculated upon the price that some
fine ladies would cheerfully pay for a cosmetic that would
faithfully imitate the healthy bloom upon her cheeks. If one were
inclined to have found fault with her beauty, it would have been
because the aquiline nose was a trifle too long, and the cheek
bones were slightly too high but he who would go out of his way to
notice such slight blemishes upon an otherwise faultless face would
be hypercritical indeed.
Supper ended, we entered into an animated conversation. We
discovered that Ben and I had some mutual acquaintances on the
Lachlan, and so a bond of friendship was quickly established
between us.
During a pause in the conversation, I was attracted by a slight
motion on the part of my hostess. It was scarcely perceptible, but
subsequent events brought it vividly to my mind. She seemed to hold
her breath for a moment, and to listen intently, and then the
colour seemed to deepen upon her cheek.
She rose quietly, took a rapid glance at a small mirror that
hung above the fireplace, arranged with a quick movement the collar
of her dress and a stray curl upon her forehead, and left the
room.
In about ten minutes she returned, and said, 'Here's Mr. Gordon,
Ben.'
'Hullo! Hughie,' said Ben, rising; 'glad to see you.' Then he
added to me: 'This is Mr. Hugh Gordon, the eldest son of Mr.
Gordon, the squatter. He drops in for a yarn occasionally.'
Mr. Gordon did not have much to say, and Ben soon proposed a
game at euchre. He and I played Mrs. Powell and Mr. Gordon, and we
passed a pleasant evening. About half-past nine Ben told me to put
down my hand as he was going alone.
'Do you think we can euchre him, Mr. Gordon?' said Mrs.
Powell.
'We'll try,' said Gordon.
They did euchre him. Ben threw down his hand laughing, and said:
'Well, you know, the game's euchre; those that play the game must
take the chances.'
We soon after retired for the night, and the next morning Ben
insisted on riding with me far enough to point out the road. I
thanked him for his kindness, as I bade him good-bye and went on my
way, envying him his sturdy independent peace and happiness.
I arrived at my destination without further incident worth
mentioning, and soon afterwards left for Queensland.
Two years elapsed before I found myself once more in Forbes.
When I returned I found the whole country in a state of terror
and excitement, owing to the exploits of a gang of bushrangers,
who, under the leadership of a determined character known as
'Captain Comet,' had been committing all sorts of depredations.
Banks had been robbed, mail coaches stuck up; and, although
hundreds of police were scouring the bush in all directions, the
gang defied them and laughed at the majesty of the law.
The leader, whose name had become a terror to the neighbourhood,
seemed to be ubiquitous. Today, with his accomplices, he would
stick up a station, keeping the inoffensive inhabitants bailed up
at the muzzle of a revolver for hours together, and by the time the
report reached the police, and they had started in pursuit, a mail
coach would be robbed fifty miles away.
Several encounters had taken place between the police and the
bushrangers, but always with advantage to the latter. Two troopers
had lost their lives, and several had been slightly wounded. For
two hundred miles around, the country was in a state of ferment,
for none could tell where the next raid would be.
Whilst the movements of the gang were involved in mystery and
uncertainty, it was evident that a system of bush telegraphy was in
existence, by means of which the bushrangers were accurately posted
in the movements of the police.
This state of things had prevailed with increasing intensity for
about eighteen months when I returned to Forbes.
The police were in a state of perpetual anxiety. Sometimes they
would scour the wild country between Forbes and the Weddin
Mountains for days, each moment, by night and day, liable to become
targets for the revolvers or carbines of the gang, and then they
would return, dispirited and worn out, to Forbes.
They would scarcely have the saddles from their horses, when an
alarm would reach them that the bushrangers had stuck up a
public-house twenty-five miles away, and were murdering the people
of the inn.
They would start again in hot pursuit, and after a ride of
twenty-five miles, would find that nothing had occurred more
serious than a fight between two drunken shearers.
Returning again to town, jaded, weary, and dispirited, they
would learn that during their absence, the gang had visited a store
on the outskirts of the town; bailed up those on the premises, and
all who happened to enter, and after helping themselves to cash,
jewellery, clothes, and anything else to which their fancy prompted
them, had disappeared, no one knew whither.
The bushrangers had been quiet for about a fortnight, when I had
occasion to book my passage the mail coach that ran from Forbes to
Molong.
It was a beautiful morning when I took my seat upon the box by
the driver. There were four other passengers, of whom two were
females. The latter, together with a well-known stock and station
agent, were inside the coach, and by my side, on the box, Was an
individual who, from his conversation, delivered with a drawl and a
peculiar nasal twang, I took to be an American citizen. The ladies
were sisters. One was single, and the other the wife of a local
doctor, and they were going to Sydney to visit some friends.
The roads were fairly good—but dusty, and for the first
few miles all went well.
The stock and station agent, who was acquainted with the doctor,
was chatting freely with the ladies, and between the jolting of the
coach I could hear scraps of their conversation.
'Do you think, Mr. Jago,' said the doctor's wife, 'that there is
any danger of the coach being stuck up by those horrid
bushrangers?'
'Well, we have to chance it, you know,' said Mr. Jago, 'but I
have travelled this road scores of times and have never been stuck
up yet.'
'I suppose,' said the single lady, 'that the tales of the
bushrangers are very much exaggerated?'
'Well, Miss Millsop,' answered Mr. Jago, 'I dare say some of
them are; and I have heard say that people have found it convenient
to pretend to be robbed who were never robbed at all. But still
that fact remains, that the country is kept in a continual state of
unrest by a band of determined armed men, who are apparently
prepared to go to any extreme to accomplish their ends. But you
have little to fear. I suppose you do not carry the Bank of England
in your pockets, and your sex is a sufficient protection against
personal violence. I will do the blackguards the justice of saying
that it has never yet been reported that they have acted with
unnecessary violence towards a female.'
'Is it true,' asked the doctor's wife, 'that Captain Comet was
driven to his present evil course by his wife?'
'Well,' answered the stock and station agent, 'there are many
rumours about; but the most authentic seems to be this: They but
that, a few years ago, he was a hard-working respectable man. He
married a handsome wife, upon whom he lavished the whole love of a
strong and passionate nature. She requited his love by running away
with a young squatter with whom her husband had long been on terms
of intimacy. The blow came suddenly. He went out, unsuspectingly,
one morning, to his work, and returned at night to find his
dove-cote empty, and the bird flown.
'The sudden catastrophe seems to have changed the very nature of
the man. He became gloomy and morose. His farm was neglected, and
he rode round the country with a rifle, ostensibly for the purpose
of shooting dingoes and kangaroos, but really, it is supposed, in
search of the fugitives. He gradually got mixed up with some bad
characters—horse and cattle stealers—and, by force of
character, soon became their leader. Since then his assumed name
has been in everybody's mouth.'
'How long was he married when his wife left him?'
'About six months, I think.'
'How many men are supposed to be in the gang?'
'Only three or four.'
'And do you mean to tell me,' said the American citizen, turning
to me—'Do you mean to tell me that three or four men can set
the law at defiance, and rob peaceful citizens in a civilized
country in the nineteenth century?'
I replied that I had told him nothing but that I was afraid that
what Mr. Jago had stated was about true.
'Then, sir,' said he, 'I can tell you that if these men were in
my country, sir, they would be shot at sight. We would not stand
this nonsense. I guess they would not stick up an American citizen
twice.'
'What would you do,' said I, 'if we were to meet them?'
'What would I do?' he replied, indignantly. 'I guess I'd make it
warm for them. I always carry a six-shooter, sir. I can tell you,
that when Ezekial Rasmus gets a sight on a six-shooter suthin's got
to drop. I didn't spend five years in California for nothing, you
bet your bottom dollar; and there'll have to be more than three or
four bushrangers, or bush whackers, or whatever you call them,
before they stick up a coach with me on board. You bet.'
We were at this time passing through a dense pine scrub, and
just before us was a sudden bend in the road. The leaders were
driven smartly round the bend with a sharp crack of the whip when
the driver suddenly pulled at the reins, for across the road, about
ten yards ahead, a small tree had apparently fallen.
The horses wore pulled on to their haunches, and we were nearly
jerked off the box. At the same moment a sharp voice rang through
the clear morning air—
'Bail up!'
I glanced in the direction of the voice, and saw a tall man
standing near the stump from which the log had fallen. He was
dressed in riding boots and pants, a red Crimean shirt, and a
cabbage-tree hat. In his belt were a couple of revolvers, and in
his hand, pointing directly at the coach, was a short carbine, such
as is usually carried by the mounted troopers.
I ducked my head instinctively, for I expected to hear the
report of the American citizen's six-shooter, but I heard nothing
but a short scream from the ladies, and the voice of Mr. Jago as he
exclaimed:
'Don't shoot; there are ladies in the coach.'
'It will be your own fault if the ladies get hurt,' replied the
tall man. 'Jump out and put up your hands; and no tricks, or, by
thunder, you will have shooting enough.'
I then perceived that, in addition to the tall man, who was
evidently the leader of the gang, there was another man on each
side of the coach, each armed with a revolver in his hand, and
another in his belt.
'Jump out, all of you!' said the leader; and be quick, for we
have no time to lose.'
I glanced at my American friend and saw that he was in
considerable difficulty, for he found it no easy task to climb down
from the box seat of the coach, and to hold up his hands at the
same time.
He was endeavouring to fulfil his instructions literally, and at
length solved the problem by faaling off the coach andand rolling
in the dust.
As soon as we were off the coach, one of the rob bers took the
harness from the coach horses, and sent then scampering off into
the bush. We were then ordered to stand in line, with our hands up,
and and while one man covered us with a loaded revolver, the leader
satisfied himself that we were unarmed. I noticed by this time that
a mounted man, armed, like the leader, with a carbine, sat upon a
well-bred dark chestnut horse, just in the bend of the road that we
had passed, and as soon as the leader was satisfied that we were
without weapons, another man went to a clump of bushes near at
hand, led out a superb grey horse, mounted it, and rode leisurely
along the road in the direction of Molong.
We were then ordered in turn to produce our money and valuables.
The ladies were the first to produce their purses, but the leader,
with a careless wave of the hand, bade them not to trouble
themselves.
'Dr. Lancet set a broken collarbone for me once,' said he, and I
want nothing from his wife or her sister.'
'You seem to know me,' said Mrs. Lancet, who had, after the
first shock, admirably retained her self-possession.
'It is my business, madam, to know everybody.'
He took possession of a watch and small roll of notes that Mr.
Jago reluctantly produced, and then, addressing me gruffly, he
said:
'You need not trouble. We don't expect anything from a poor
devil of a drover.'
I then for the first time looked straight into his bright grey
eyes, and in an instant the idea flashed acress my mind that I had
seen that face before.
'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'Mr. Powell.'
'Put up your hands, and don't be an ass,' he retorted, angrily.
'Put up your hands, and keep them up. This isn't a game of euchre,
and we don't take any chances.'
The coachman he ignored, and the only passenger remaining to be
dealt with was the American citizen. He had been standing all the
time with his hands stretched above his head, and looked as though
he were ready to drop with fatigue.
'Now, sir,' said Captain Comet, 'hand out your spondulicks.'
'May I put my hands down, sir?' said Ezekial, humbly.
'Yes, you may,' said the captain; 'but no tricks.'
'No tricks, sir,' answered Ezekial; 'no tricks—on the
honour of an American Citizen.'
He then produced his purse and watch, a pocket knife, and a plug
of tobacco, an old wooden pipe, and a toothpick.
'That's all, sir,' said he, as he once more put up his
hands.
'Where's your six-shooter?' asked the captain. 'It's in my brown
leather portmanteau, under the driver's seat, sir,' he
answered—'the one with the straps, sir.'
The captain then leaving us under the close surveillance of the
remaining member of the gang, made a minute and systematic
examination of the coach. He ripped open the mail-bag, read some
letters, and tossed them aside with contemptuous coolness, and was
just putting a packet of selected letters into his pocket when he
was startled by a sharp ringing report which came from the
direction of Molong.
This was immediately followed by the clattering of horses'
hoofs, and the member of the gang who had ridden off on the grey
came galloping up to the coach.
'Quick!' said he; 'troopers are coming.'
'Mount, Steve!' said the captain. 'Towards Forbes. I will catch
you.'
The man whom he had called Steve ran to the clump of bushes and
mounted his horse, and he and his companion disappeared into the
bush, the leader meanwhile walking slowly backwards in the same
direction, with his carbine in the hollow of his arm.
At this moment two troopers appeared, galloping towards us at
breakneck speed. There was a crack—a puff of smoke—and
the horse of the leading trooper reared, stumbled, and fell, the
rider just managing to escape being crushed by the falling
steed.
The captain was swinging himself into the saddle as the
remaining trooper, a middle-aged grey-bearded man, came galloping
up to the fallen log.
'Surrender, You scoundrel!' he shouted, in the Queen's name; or
I'll fire.'
A short, mocking laugh was the only reply he received, and then
there was another report, and the left arm of the captain fell
powerless to his side.
He uttered a wild exclamation of rage and pain, drew a revolver
from his belt, and firing point blank at the trooper, wheeled his
horse and disappeared after his companions.
The trooper gave a short, sharp cry, which seemed to be stifled
as he uttered it, his weapon fell from his grasp, and throwing up
his arms, he reeled from the saddle.
He made one attempt to regain his feet, but rolled back. He drew
up his legs convulsively, and by the time we reached him, blood was
streaming from his mouth. He had been struck in the breast. The
ball had evidently penetrated his lung, and in five minutes he was
a corpse.
The trooper who had been thrown from his horse arrived just as
his comrade breathed his last, and the whole tragedy had been
enacted so suddenly and quickly that we could scarcely realise what
had happened.
The surviving trooper was a fair young fellow of about two and
twenty years of age. His grief at the loss of his companion was
excessive, and he insisted on mounting his dead comrade's horse,
and pursuing the gang alone.
'But, my dear fellow,' said Mr. Jago, 'it would be madness for
you to do so. You could never overtake them, and if you did you
would be surely shot for your pains.'
'Let me go!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'Let me go; is it not ten
times better to be shot doing one's duty than to go back, and be
the butt of all the boys and girls in the township? To be pointed
at as the trooper who was afraid to follow the scoundrels who
murdered the poor sergeant? How can I face his wife, and her bonny
daughter? Let me go.' And he struggled wildly to get away from Mr.
Jago, who held him tightly.
He broke away at last, and limped towards the horse, then
staggered, and would have fallen if we had not caught him in our
arms.
'You are hurt?' said Mrs. Lancet. 'No!' he answered. 'It is
nothing. I shall be all right in a minute. I think my ankle is
slightly hurt, but it is nothing. Let me go.' And he made h another
attempt to rise from the log on which he had seated himself.
But he could not stand, and he let his face drop into his hands
and sobbed. Sobbed like a child because he was physically unable to
ride forward and die, in the discharge of his duty.
We removed his boot, and found that one of his ankles was
terribly black and swollen and that the horse had evidently
partially rolled on it when it had been shot under him.
We left Mrs. Lancet and her sister to bathe and bandage his
ankle, and succeeded in catching the horses and harnessing them.
The dead body of the Sergeant was wrapped in his overcoat, and
placed in the coach. The ladies, with the disabled trooper between
them, were accommodated with seats on the box and Mr. Jago was
preparing to mount the Sergeant's horse, when he exclaimed, 'Where
is our other passenge?'
I looked around but the representative of the Stars and Stripes
was nowhere to be seen. I searched for him, and, happening to walk
round a hollow log, I saw a pair of boots sticking out at the end.
Looking as far into the log as I could, In saw there were a pair of
legs sticking out at the end of the boots, and the legs were
suspiciously like those of Ezekial Rasmus.
'Here! What are you doing there?' said I, as I pulled at one of
the boots.
Then a voice replied from the log in a sepulchral
tone—
'Let me alone, sir; I have got my hands up. No tricks, sir, upon
the honour of an American citizen.'
We partly persuaded him, and partly pulled him, out of the log,
and when he sat on the ground, exposed to the full light of day,
with his face and clothes covered with charcoal, he presented a
ludicrous appearance.
'Come, get up,' said Mr. Jago, impatiently, 'The bushrangers
have gone.'
'And is the firing over?' enquired Ezekial.
'It is,' said Jago. 'And we are ready to start.'
Mr. Rasmus rose cautiously and approached the coach.
Upon seeing the trooper he exclaimed—
'What does this mean, sir'? What sort of a guardian of Law and
Order are you? Are peaceful citizens of a friendly nation to be
maltreated and robbed of their purses, watches, toothpicks and
things, while the paid minions of the Law are riding between women
on the box seats of coaches? I demand, sir, that you shall do your
duty. Follow the miscreants instantly, sir. Shoot them down at
sight, and avoid international complications by restoring me my
property.'
Look here, sir,' exclaimed Mr. Jago, 'of the two troopers who
came to our assistance, one is dead, and the other disabled. I am a
peaceful citizen, sir, but if you speak another word in that
strain, sir, there'll be another fight before we leave this spot,
and there'll be war between those friendly nations you mention,
before you are two minutes older.'
We resumed our sorrowful journey. Mr. Rasmus, now silent and
gloomy, and I, riding inside the coach with its grim burden. We
returned to Forbes, and upon receipt of our startling intelligence,
the country was again scoured by bands of armed and determined men,
but with no result.
The necessity of staying to the inquest made me forego my
proposed visit to Molong.
* * *
About two months after the above events I was standing near the
front of the Albion Hotel, talking to an old acquaintance, when who
should pass but Mr. Ezekiel Rasmus. I pointed him out to my friend,
as the American citizen who had exhibited such conspicuous bravery
upon the occasion of the coach robbery.
My friend laughed and said, 'Why, I've known that fraud for
years. He an American citizen! Why, he used to sell pills in
Paddy's Market, and the nearest that he ever was to America was
Woolloomooloo.'
A day or two after this, excitement was again at fever heat, for
the news was brought to town that the leader of the gang of
bushrangers had been shot by the police, and that his dead body was
being brought into Forbes.
They brought him in, and I was called to identify him.
In spite of the blood, and the dirt, and the wounds, I could not
be mistaken in the fair curly hair, the sandy heard, and the
drooping moustache. The keen grey eyes were closed, but the once
athletic form was there, although whether so many bullet holes were
necessary was a moot question.
I could not help thinking as I stood beside his corpse, that
with him life was a game of euchre—that he had taken his
chances—and lost.
I Saw in my mind's eye a peaceful home, with the Scent of the
roses and the lilac pervading it. I saw a handsome face with
piercing black eyes. I remember the start and the heightened colour
and the hasty glance at the mirror, and I thought I heard again the
question—
'Do you think we can euchre him, Mr. Gordon?' And the
answer—
'We will try.'"
* * *
Joe's story had rather a saddening effect upon the camp, and we
were all glad when Otto broke silence by saying:
"I votes—"
"You have not got a vote," retorted Joe. "You a re not a British
subject."
"Who told you so?" answered Otto, warmly. "I vas a full plown
Pritisher, since I vas got naturalised."
"When did you get naturalised?" asked Joe.
"I vas get naturalised a long time ago," answereded Otto,
proudly. Then he added, reflectively, "Der first time I vas
naturalised, I vas unnaturalised."
"How did that happen?" said Charley.
"A man," said Otto, "is like an apple. He is green pefore he get
ripe. I vas green. Ach! So green as von leetle gooseberry."
"That must have been a long time ago," remarked Joe, "you are
getting a bit withered now."
"Vhen you go to der places I go to, and see vhat I see, und go
trough vhat I go trough, py shenks! but you vas get withered too,"
said Otto. He shook his head, as he reflected, and then he said,
"Put anodher log on der fire and I vas tell you all apout it."
So Joe threw another log on the fire, and Otto began—
5. THE NATURALISATION OF STUNTZE.
Otto's Story.
"Der 'lections vas coomin' apout for der houses of parliament,
und I vas not haf a vote pecause I vas a Dutchman. Dhat vos not
nice. I vas vorkin' apout der vharves, und I hear der chaps all
talkin' und sayin' dey votes for dhis von und dhey votes for dhat
von, und dhey say to me, 'Who you votes for, Stuntze?'
Und I say, 'I vas not pe let to vote at all. I vas
unnaturalised,' I vas say dhat von day, vhen a man dhat vas sit on
my right hand, in a billy-cock hat mit a red nose, he say to me,
'Vhy for you not get yourself naturalised?'
I say, 'I don't know der right vay to get apout it.'
He say it vas as easy as fallin' off der post office tower.
'Why,' he say, 'It vas only to get yourself soom naturalised papers
und you vas a full-plown Pritish subyect of Australia. You get your
name rolled out, und dhen you votes for free peer und no vork
petween meals.'
So I tells him, What must you haf to do to get mineself rolled
out und naturalised?'
Und he say, 'Can you read der English?'
Und I say, 'No. I talks him like a pook, put all I read of him
vas mine own name, Stuntze.'
So he say, 'Dhat vas goot enough. It vas cost you a pound.'
I tell him dhat vas all right.
Dhen he say, 'Coom along mit me, and I get you naturalised
pefore you say Yack Robinson.'
So he took me along to der police station. He tells me to gif
him der pound and to sit me town on a chair vhile he gets me der
form. I tells him I don't vant no form, dhat der chair vas goot
enough for me. Put he say it vas a paper form, and I gifs him der
pound. Vhen he prings me der form, it vas not a form, it vas a pit
of paper. Hee showed me mine name on it, 'Stuntze,' and I say dhat
vas all right. Dhen he go avay again and he pring me anodher pit of
paper, and tells me to put it avay till 'lection day, and vhen I
goes to vote to take it mit me, and to vote as mine mates tell me.
It seemed it vas as easy to get naturalised as to shlip down on a
banana shkin.
I shout him for a drink and he shout me for von. I vas so
pleased to get naturalised, I cock up mine head like a new member
of der Parliament House, and he vas so pleased, dhat he get drunk
and shtop drunk for the rest of der veek.
You pet I vas proud. Vhen der time coomed for der 'lections, I
takes mine naturalised papers, and I goes to der place dhey calls a
pole. I say to a man mit soom papers in front of him, that I vant
to vote.
He say, 'Vhat your name vas?'
I say, 'Otto Von Stuntze.'
He say, 'Vas you naturalised?'
Und I say, 'You pet your poots I vas. Look at him.' Und I
outpulls mine paper.
He laughs, and says, 'What vas you giffin' us, Mr. Stuntze?'
Und I say, 'Dhat vas mine naturalusation papers, don't it?'
He laughs again, like as if he vas crack himself, and he say,
'Dhis vas not a naturalisation paper, dhis paper vas only register
Stuntze as a dog.'
Vhat? Py tonder! You vait till I gets hold of dhat man dhat
vears der billycock hat mit der red nose. I vas unnaturalise him,
till dhey register him among der funeral notices. Eh! Vhat you
tink?
"Well," remarked Mr. McTavish, "the man who took such an
advantage of your ignorance, must have been an unprincipled
scoundrel."
"Ach!" said Otto.
"I reckon," said Flanagan, "that ye were disappointed, when ye
were not allowed to vote."
"Who said I vas not allowed to vote?" said Otto.
"You said that your papers were not right," said Flanagan.
"I know that," replied Otto; "but I goes avay and cooms back
soom more in a leetle vhile, and I says mine name was Yoe Yinkens,
dhat vas der name of der man vhat register me, and as his name vas
rolled out all right, I vas vote for him, and I vote for der man he
didn't vant, and he get him by von vote. You can't play no dricks
mit Otto."
"I hae ma doubts," said Mr. McTavish, "whether that was strictly
honourable."
"It vas all right," said Otto, "I see der man aftervords, and he
gifs me ten bob to say nottings apout it."
"It was purty hard 'on the man that got beat," remarked
Flanagan. "It was a close shave, as the dog said when the train ran
over his tail."
"Talking of elections," said Mr. McTavish, "reminds me of an
occurrence that happened not a hundred miles from here. In that
case a man lost his seat in a manner that was somewhat
remarkable."
"Tell us about it, Mr. McTavish," we all said, in unison.
"Well," said he, "I will try," and Mr. McTavish, clearing his
throat, thus began.
We will not try to tell the story in Mr. McTavish's exact words,
because, although his words might be reproduced, his accent was
one, the full flavour of which could only be communicated
orally.
6. PACKHAM'S PRIDE. Mr. McTavish's
Story.
"Packhaln was a hard-headed, close-fisted man, yet it always
seemed to me that he was mad upon one point. He had a most insane
affection for his old red cow. She was an ugly, mischievous brute,
continually getting him into trouble, while, as a milker, she was
not worth the grass she ate. Yet Packham adored her, and he has
been heard to say that there was not a bank in Australia that
possessed money enough to buy her.
The last time I saw Packham, he was sitting on a log near the
bank of the creek. A week previously the creek had been flooded,
and Packham now sat, with his head on his hands, moodily
contemplating its muddy banks. I bade him good-day, but he sighed,
and, drawing the back of his hand across his eyes, said, in a voice
tremulous with emotion: 'That's the place, sir, near the bend. Just
under the big willow.'
'What place?' said I.
'The place where it happened. That's where she got bogged durin'
the flood. That's where I found her last Sunday, stone dead and
swelled as big as a balloon. My poor old cow, sir, as I wouldn't'
have parted with for her weight in gold. My heart's fair busted,
when I hear her calf, now a motherless orphan, calling for her up
near the A-callin in vain. Not that she was an extry good mother,
but she was the only one he had, and she's gone.'
A tear glistened in Packham's eye, then ran down one of the
furrows in his cheek, and finally lost itself in a tangled mass of
grey whiskers.
'Was that the red cow,' said I, 'that used to eat the blankets
off the clothes line?'
'The same, sir. It was her only fault. At the same time it was
her one redeeming feature.'
Ignoring the paradox, I said: 'I could never see the qualities
that cow that caused you to set such value on her.'
'No sir, probably not. It was, perhaps, her misfortune to be
misunderstood. Maybe you didn't know her history. She was the most
remarkable cow in the country, sir, bar none. She was a cow, sir,
that had intellect and patriotism. I prized that cow, sir, for the
service she had rendeted to the State. That cow was loyal to her
country. She saved the State from ruin; not by makin'
blather-skitin' speeches, and throwin' dust in the eyes of the
electors, but by doin' of her obvious duty in a time of emergency.
She saw her opportunity, sir, and she seized it, the same as she
used to do the the blankets, and by seizin' of it, she altered the
history of Australia. How many cows can boast of doin that, sir?
Tell me of one.'
I confessed that I could not, and I asked him to explain.
'Well, sir,' said Packham, as he made room for me beside him on
the log, 'it was like this. You, remember the last general
election? How close it was between the parties? How the fate of the
Government hung in the balance until the last moment? How the
country was going to destruction, and how it would have got there,
if the Government had not been beaten? You know that they were only
beaten by one vote in the House, but that vote did it, sir, and
Beauty (that was her name, sir), she gave them that vote.
'We had two candidates in this district. One was the old member.
He was a lawyer and a great swell. He was a strong supporter of the
Government and in return for his support, they spent a lot of money
in the district. They spent two thousand pounds on scrub cuttin'.
The scrub's all grown again now, but that don't signify. The money
was spent, and it gave him a strong holt. He was a moral certainty,
and would have waltzed in if it had not been for Beauty. His name
was Primrose, and he was a great talker, but he was not clever
enough for Beauty.
'His opponent was old Bloggs. Not a brilliant man,
sir—nobody ever accused Bloggs of bein' brilliant—but
as solid a man, sir, as this log on which we're sittin'. There was
plenty of people supporten' him, but very few of them intended to
vote for him. Primrose used to poke fun at Bloggs, and everybody
thought it was all over, barrin' the shoutin'. But they didn't
reckon on Beauty.
'A lot of Bloggs's friends advised him to retire, and I believe
he would have done, only there were some who wanted an election for
the fun of the thing, and others who wanted it for the sake of
trade, so they persuaded old Bloggs to keep on pegging away. And so
he did. I went into town the day before the nomination. I took the
missus with me, and left the four girls at home in charge of the
house. It so happened that Primrose, havin' nothin' better to do
that afternoon, made up his mind to run out and do a bit of
canvassing. It is just three miles from my place to the post office
and vice versa, and he rode out by hisself. It was about three
o'clock when he arrived, and the girls told him that they expected
me back about half-past three or four. Of course they knew that I
was dead agin him and his party, but, of course, they had to be
civil, and they asked Mr. Primrose would he wait, and he said he
would. So they put his horse in the stable and gave it a feed.
Beauty was lookin' over the fence' near the stable.
'Is this one of your cows?' said Mr. Primrose to Selina (that's
the eldest).
She said it was.
'What a pretty cow,' he says.
He was the first and last man that ever called Beauty a pretty
cow. Selina says he must have been a first-grade liar, or a mighty
poor judge of cows.
'Poor cow!' he says; tryin' to rub her nose, which was restin'
on the fence.
But he couldn't smoodge Beauty, not even by appealin' to her
vanity, and praisin' her good looks which, seein' that Beauty was a
female, is most convincin' evidence of her remarkable reasonin'
faculties.
Mr. Primrose chatted for a few minutes with the girls, and then,
lookin' at his watch, he says, 'How far is it from here to Brodie's
place?'
'It depends on the way you go,' says Selina. 'If you go round
the road it's two miles, but if you walk across the paddocks you
can do it easy in a quarter of an hour. We always take the short
cut and walk.'
'Which way do you go?' says he.
She went to the corner of the stockyard fence and showed him.
'Follow this track across the flat till you come to the creek.
Cross the creek by the log, and keep along the bank till you come
to the water-hole. Then you'll see a track up between two big
rocks. Follow that to the top of the ridge, and you'll see Brodie's
place on the flat below.'
'I'll be back by four at the latest,' he said, 'and if your
father is not back then I cannot wait. I must be in town by five.
My nomination paper must be in the hands f the returning-officer by
six, and I have not signed it yet.'
'Why didn't you put it in this morning?' said Selina.
'Well,' said Mr. Primrose, 'I have had a legal training, and I
take no risks. A nomination to be legal must be signed by six
electors and the candidate. Now, if I had lodged my nomination this
morning, and one of my nominators had broken his neck this
afternoon, it is plain that, as the law says the nomination must be
in by six, it would not recognise, as legal, a nomination signed by
a man who became physically, and, consequently legally, defunct at
five. No. I take no risks.'
So off he went to Brodie's, but as Brodie's were all out, he
started to walk back. It was a hot day, and as he had plenty of
time, he sat down after he had crossed the creek to cool off. He
sat and smoked for a while, and then, seein' the pool of water, so
cool and invitin' under the willows, he decided to have a dip. And
he did. How little he thought, as he undid his clothes, of how he
was a undoin' of hisself.
The girls prepared some afternoon tea and waited. Four o'clock
came, but no Mr. Primrose.
'It's strange he isn't back,' said Selina, 'he said he couldn't
wait after four.'
They all took their fancy work out, and sat under a hickory
tree, where they could watch right across the flat, and they waited
for him to come.
'I think he's coming,' said Polly (that's the youngest').
'Where?' says Selina, lookin' across the flat. I don't see
him.'
'I thought I saw his head, over that briar bush,' said Polly,
'but just as I looked he bobbed down.'
'What would he be hiding behind the briar bush for?' said
Selina. 'You must have been mistaken.'
So they went on with their work and waited. Then Polly, who had
been keepin' her eye on the briar hush, says, 'There he is again!'
But when they looked at the bush they couldn't see him, and they
said that Polly was mad.
'But I'll swear I saw him,' says Polly.
'Well, anyhow,' says Selina, 'it don't signify. I ain't goin'
down to fetch him. Perhaps he's up to some lark. Anyway, it's
half-past four, I suppose he's got a watch?'
And they worked away again, keepin' one eye on the bush and
another on their work. At last the clock struck five.
'He isbehind the briar bush,' exclaimed Selina suddenly.
'I saw his head then, as plain as a pumpkin on a gate post.
I wish Dad and Mum would come. I begin to feel quite creepy.'
Just then they heard the front garden gate rattle.
'See if that's Dad and Mum,' said Selina, and Ada (that's the
youngest but one) went to the front door to look.
'Oh!' she screamed, 'come here and look. Selina! come and look
at Beauty' (that's the cow as was, sir).
Selina went, and there stood Beauty, lookin' over the front
gate, with a look of triumph in her eyes, and, hangin' on her
horns, was a pair of garments, without which, sir, no civilised man
but a Scotch-man would dare to appear in the presence of ladies.
They were of a peculiar check pattern, and the girls recognised
them at once.
My girls had been well brought up, sir, but, like all girls,
they has their instincts, and I suppose it was their natural
instincts that made 'em laugh.
When their natural laughter had wore itself out, they tried to
catch Beauty. But Beauty was a knowin' beast, sir, and I believe
she knew exactly what o'clock it was, for she refused to be
caught.
They tried to drive her into the stockyard, but she wouldn't go.
She jumped the fence into the wheat paddock, doubled back through
the potatoes, went four times through the flower garden, and twice
through the tomatoes; and all the time she never went out of sight
of the briar bush.
Then she trotted across the flat towards the creek and then
round the briar bush and up to the house again; and all the time
the girls after her, yellin' and laughin' and callin' on Beauty to
stop. She, instead of stoppin', kept repeatin' the performance and
Mr. Primrose kept circumnavigatin' that briar bush.
When I got home at a quarter to six, Beauty was cavortin'
around, with her tail stuck straight out, a look of triumph in her
eyes, and flyin' from her horns was 'a banner with a strange
device,' as the song says, which was the signal that heralded the
return of peace and prosperity to our beloved country. It was a
touchin' picture, sir, to them as could see the moral of it. There
was Beauty, trottin' across the flat near the creek, with the check
pattern garments on her horns; there was the girls all flushed and
out of breath, a chasin' of her, and laughin' fit to kill
theirselves, and there, on the near side of the briar bush, was Mr.
Primrose, his white garments flutterin' in the breeze, watchin' the
performance, usin' most unparliamentary language, and catchin'
rheumatics in his lower extremities.
Beauty Saves the Situation
I sent the missus into the house, and I went down and caught
Beauty and restored the dilapidated but still useful garments to
their rightful but unhappy owner.
He never stopped to thank me, or to say goodbye to the girls. He
didn't even fasten his braces, but he rushed for his horse and
started for town as if Beauty herself had been a chasin' of
him.
I believe he covered the three miles in less than fifteen
minutes, but he was too late. He had lost his seat in more ways
than one.
The next day, old Wilcox, the returnin'-officer, announced that
there was only one candidate, and that Mr. Bloggs had been returned
unopposed.
The friends of Mr. Primrose, who had been workin' for him for
weeks, all said that he had been bribed to throw them over, and
when he tried to explain, somebody hit him in the mouth with a too
ripe tomato.
You know what happened, sir, the vote of censure was carried by
one vote. That vote was Bloggs's. The country was saved and Beauty
was triumphant.
Don't tell me it was an accident, sir, I know better. That cow
knew what she was about.
Do you believe in the trans—what-d'you-call-it—of
souls, sir? I do. Hangin' in my front room is the portrait of a
late distinguished statesman. He died the day Beauty was born. I
noticed that there was a strikin' likeness and I believe that the
cow was inhabited by the the spirit of that statesman. Likehim, she
did her duty to her country; like him, she couldn't be smoodged;
like him, she got bogged in her old age; and like him, sir, she
shall have moniment to her memory, if I have to erect ti with my on
hands. Have you such a thing as a match?"
* * *
"Dat vas not a bad yarn," said Otto, "It reminds me of der time
I vas on der Pogan."
"I think we'll be afther getting some rain tomorrow," said
Flanagan.
"Dhat vas more as likely," said Otto. "But as I vas coomin' to
say—Vhen I vas' on der Pogan—"
"What time is it?" enquired Charley.
"I vas apout eight o'clock," replied Otto. "But as I vas sayin',
Vhen I vas' on der Pogan—"
"What have we for breakfast?" asked Mr. McTavish.
"Ve haf soom corned beef and I vill make soom yohnny cakes. It
vas apout two years ago, vhen I vas on—"
"Pass the billy, please," said Arthur.
Otto passed the billy, as requested and began again, "Vhen I vas
on der Pogan—"
"To, the divel wid you and the Bogan," shouted Flanagan.
"Bouldher has a story he promised to tell us. Don't you see he's
just burstin' to begin. Give it lip, Bouldher."
"I don't know that I promised to tell a story," said I, with my
usual modesty.
"Well, you did then," said Flanagan, "and anyway ye'll have
to."
I knew that the easiest way out of the difficulty was to
comply.
ALMOST A MILLIONAIRE. Boulder's
Story.
"'You've missed her this morning, sir.'
The speaker was my old acquaintance, the pensive fisherman.
He sat, as was his daily custom, on the head of the Watson's Bay
wharf, fishing patiently, but apparently catching nothing. He
looked at me in a sympathetic manner from beneath the ragged brim
of his old straw hat, while I, with some annoyance, watched the
fast-receding boat I had hoped to catch.
'I thought you'd miss her when I seen yer comin' down the hill,'
said the fisherman.
Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, as he fixed a fresh
bait on his hook: 'Many a man misses more than that, sir, in his
lifetime. Why, Lor' bless yer, sir, some on us has missed being
millionaires.'
I told him that I was afraid a great many of us had missed being
millionaires. And then, seeing that the boat was gone, that I
should have to wait half an hour for another, and feeling,
moreover, that my pensive friend was inclined to be communicative,
I sat down on the step of the wharf, and watched him as he
fished.
The morning was balmy, the sun not too hot, and the sound of the
water as it lapped idly against the timbers of the wharf had a
soothing influence. For some time we sat in silence, but at length
the disciple of Izaak Walton shook his head suddenly, spat
energetically into the water, and said:
'Yes, sir, yer mightn't believe it, but I missed being a
millionaire—just missed by the skin of my teeth.'
'Indeed?' said I, interrogatively. 'How was that?'
'Well,' he said, 'if you don't mind listening, I'll tell you the
whole yarn.' And, spitting once more into the water, he commenced
as follows:—
'Fifteen year ago, come next shearin' time, I got married. I was
knocking about at that time, doing all sorts of work, driving
bullocks, shearing, and so on.
My wife, she was supposed to be great at farming and milking and
all that sort of thing, so, after-shearing was over, I selected
eighty acres of land. It was on a nice-looking flat, with a
frontage to a creek, and with a big ironstone ridge behind it. But
it was in a God-forsaken part of the country about forty miles from
anywhere.
Well, I tried to grow maize and wheat and a bit of barley for
the horse, but there was only about six inches of soil on the flat
and the rest was stones. Nothin' would grow to any extent.
Once a year I used to go shearin', and what I earned shearin'
used to pretty well have to keep us. My wife, she got dissatisfied,
and so I used to spend half my time sittin' up on top of the
ironstone ridge, where I was out of the sound of her voice, and
where I could admire the prospect and cuss without
interruption.
The prospect wasn't much—just a chain of waterholes in the
bed of the creek, and a fiat, swampy-looking plain beyond, with the
bullock track leading as far as the eye could reach, right away to
the very middle of the setting sun. The only sign of life, when
there was a sign of life, was a flock of crows stripping the bones
of a dead horse.
Well, I completed the conditions, and I got my title to the
land—eighty acres of as barren a piece of wilderness as you
could find in New South Wales. Then I went shearin' again. The
missus and I we didn't part none too friendly. She objected to be
left alone, and one word brought up another, and so our parting was
not quite as affectionate as it might have been.
When I got back, about two months later, she was gone. So was
big George, the stockman from Maguire's station, the other side of
the mountain. And there was I left by myself, with no company but
my horse and a cow, and eighty acres of wilderness.
After sittin' on the ridge for about a week, vowing vengeance
and lookin' at the prospect, I made up my mind to sell the farm and
the cow, just as it was, as a goin' concern, to the first bidder.
But the difficulty was to find a bidder. I used to ride ten miles
to the Squatters' Arms, where the track joins the main road, and
where the coach stopped; if there was any passengers, I used to ask
'em did they want to buy a farm.
Three times a week, regular, for six weeks I met the coach, but
couldn't get a purchaser, although I offered to sell the whole
blooming lot for forty pounds.
Each day when the coach druv up, flash Jerry, the driver, would
say, 'Well, Jimmy, sold yer farm yet?' And then I'd speak to the
passengers, if there were any, and they'd say: No, they didn't want
to buy no bloomin' farm; they only wanted to get away out of that
God-forsaken hole as quick as possible. And the coach 'ud go on,
and I'd have a drink, or, maybe, a couple, and I'd mount my horse
and get back to my home again.
Home, sweet home! I used to cuss it every time I set eyes on
it.
Well, as I said, this went on for six weeks. One day the coach
came bowling up as usual, and there was only one passenger. He was
a man about thirty, dressed very neat, and wore gloves and a white
collar. I hadn't seen a man with gloves on for years, and he sort
of took my attention.
He got, out of the coach and looked about him, curious-like, as
he stretched his limbs. Then, seein' me a-leanin' up agin the
verandy-post, he says: 'Good-day,' says he.
'Good-day to you, sir,' says I, and I was just a-goin' to ask
him did he want to buy a farm when he interrupted me.
'Nice farming district, this,' he said as he looked across at
the broken fence the other side of the road.
'Exceedin' nice,' says I. 'The finest in the country—only
wants' cultivating,' says I.
'The crops look well,' says he, as he looks at a splendid
assortment of sweet-briars and thistles in the paddock behind the
pub.
Well, I looked at him, and I thought he was the greenest thing
I'd seen for many a long day. It was quite refreshin' to look at
him. The briars looked quite brown alongside of him.
I got a-talking to him, and I reckoned he was a commercial or
something of that kind. I joined him in a drink, and I found that
he couldn't tell the difference between a colt and a filly. He was
the most verdant production I ever struck.
I changed the subject, and talked about stock, but with him,
cows was bulls, steers was sealed envelopes, and heifers was Greek.
I tried sheep; but merinos, crossbreds, ewes, lambs, hoggets, and
wethers was just sheep, and nothin' more.
I asked him did he want to buy a farm—not a bally
jumped-up heap of boulders, but a farm—a real farm—on a
flat, with a permanent water supply; that only wanted cultivatin'
to produce anything in the world, from tobacco to cornflour; with
an ironstone ridge behind it that commanded extensive views.
'Well,' he says, 'I couldn't say till I sees it,' says he.
'Will you come and see it?' says I.
He asked me how far it was, and I told him how far within a mile
or two. Then he asked if I could borrow him a horse, and I said
yes; and the upshot was I took him home with me that very
night.
As we went along the road my conscience reproached me, and I
wondered what that young man's parents would say if they knew where
I was taking their unsophisticated offspring. And then I thought of
Amelia, and the voice of conscience grew silent.
Next morning he said that I could get on with my work (as if I
had any work), and he would look round the farm alone. He looked
round, just about once, from where he stood, and then he went and
climbed up the ironstone ridge, and he stayed up there until dinner
time.
In the afternoon he said he would have another look round, and
he went up the ironstone ridge again.
In the evening I asked him how he liked the farm, and he said
'Middlin'. So I produced a bottle of schnapps and two pannikins,
and we tallied it over again. Before we went to bed I had sold my
farm to that young man for two hundred sovereigns. We caught the
coach next day, and went to Cowra where we completed the business.
His name was Ivins and when Mr. Ivins went to Sydney to make
arrangements, as he said, for stocking the farm, I went to look for
Amelia.
It was a long search, but I found her at last. I tracked her to
a small mining township in Queensland. I located her and him in a
bark hut on the outskirts of the town, and I crept up to it one
night, intending to do something—I don't know what.
When I got to the hut I heard a voice within. It was Amelia's
voice. She was a-slatin' of him, and she was a-givin' of him
'ell-for-leather she was. I listened, and as I heered her familiar
voice a-runnin' up and down the gamut, I puts a question to myself:
'What am I here for?' says I to myself. 'Is it to punish him?' I
says. And as her voice rose higher, and was borne on the night wind
in tones about as soothin' as the howlin' of a dingo, I says to
myself: 'Could the devil and all his imps punish him more than
that?' says I.
'Then I repeats the question: 'What the 'ell am I here for?'
says I. 'Is it to take her back?' I says, 'God forbid!' I says.
'Not if I knows it.' So I crept away, and I crept away and they
never knowed I was near 'em. And I knocked about here and there,
and, of course, the money I got from the farm soon went.
Some years afterwards I came back to Sydney and started 'awkin'
fish. One day, as I was carrying my basket along a street, out near
Potts Point, who should I meet, in a tall hat and kid gloves and a
silver-knobbed walking-stick, but Mr. Ivins.\ I gammoned at first I
didn't know him, but he knowed me.
'Hulloa, Jimmy!' he says. 'Hawkin' fish?'
'Yes,' says I. 'Got to do somethin' for a livin'.'
'I suppose so,' says he. Then he says: 'Have you been up to
Hampdenville lately?'
'Don't know where it is,' says I.
'Why, you know,' he says, laughin', 'the farm.'
'Oh!' I says, 'you've christened it, have you? I should think
that a real nice name for it,' says I. 'Have you growed any tobacco
there yet?'
'No,' he says, 'but I've growed somethin' better. Do you know
the ironstone ridge?' he says.
'The ironstone ridge?' says I. 'Rather! I knew every inch of it.
I spent months—years—on it, meditatin'. There ain't a
stone on it I don't know; and there ain't a boulder on it I ain't
sat on,' says I.
'Well,' he says, 'perhaps you don't know that that ironstone
ridge was full of copper?'
'What? says I.
'Clopper,' says he. 'I pegged it all out when I was up there,'
he says, 'and when I came back to Sydney,' says he, 'I took up a
lease of it. Then I went back and developed it. Twelve months after
that I floated it,' says he. 'I got thirty thousand pounds cash and
twenty thousand shares for my interest,' he says. 'There are twelve
hundred men working there now, not counting horses and carts.'
'Then,' says Mr. Ivins, 'I built an hotel where Your house used
to stand, and I let it for ten pound a week,' says he. 'Then I sold
the block next to it for a store, and the one on the other side for
a wheelwright's shop. Then I sold several more blocks for more
stores. Then the Bank of New South Wales bought the piece opposite
to the hotel for ten pound a foot,' he says. Then I leased a lot,'
he says. 'I gave away your old stockyard,' he says, 'for a Wesleyan
Church. Where your cow bail was is a billiard saloon,' he says,
'and on the site of your pig-sty is the Mechanics' Institoot, where
they have a Debatin' Society. And now,' says he, 'I have a thousand
a year comin' in from rents,' says he, 'and forty pounds a week
from the mine,' he says.
'And then,' he says, smiling, 'this is my house,' and he opened
an iron gate in a long fence with iron railin's on a stone wall.
'If your fish is good,' he says, 'and fresh,' he says, 'and the
price is reasonable,' says he, 'you may call round at the back and
see the cook,' he says.
And he went in and shut the gate, and left me outside a-lookin'
at the railin's. All picked out with gold, they was.
And that was how I missed bein' a millionaire.
Here's your boat coming, sir, and I wish you good-mornin', sir,
and I thank you kindly.'
And I left the pensive fisherman putting a fresh bait upon his
hook, and protesting mildly against the wash of the steamer which
was disturbing his meditations and frightening the fish away."
* * *
As we were sitting round the fire one evening, Flanagan made a
startling announcement. He said he had a new idea.
"What is the new idea, Flanagan?" enquired Charley.
"It was one that struck me this afternoon," said Flanagan.
"Vas it hurt you very mooch vhen it shtrike you," enquired
Otto.
"'Tis a sinsation that you'll never experience," said Flanagan.
Then he added, "Sit down bhoys and draw up to the fire, till I tell
you my idea. It is this. We have been telling all sorts of yarns,
and Arthur has been listening as hard as ever he could, with both
his ears, but he has never yet opened his mouth to tell us a yarn
himself. Now I believe he could tell us one if he liked. So I
propose that he be called on for a story to-night."
This suggestion was received with great applause, but Arthur
blushed, and said he knew no stories.
"Tell us about your sweethearts," said Flanagan, "a smart young
fellow like you must have had plenty of sweethearts."
But this Only made Arthur blush more vividly.
"Don't tease the young fellow," said Mr. McTavish, "Arthur will
tell us a story, but let him tell his own story, and let him tell
it in his own way."
After a little more coaxing, Arthur said that he once knew a
young fellow at Parramatta, but there was nothing particular in his
story, although it made an impression on him at the time,
but—
"Go on," said Flanagan. "I knew you could tell us one if you
liked."
"Vonce I knew a man at Parramatta," said Otto. "If you like I
vill tell you about him."
"If you open your mouth again I'll put a fire-stick in it," said
Flanagan. "Go on Arthur."
And Arthur hesitatingly proceeded.
Arthur
8. PETER'S LUCK. Arthur's
Story.
"Peter Paton was twenty-five years of age, and the possessor of
a most unenviable reputation.
So bad was it that his society was shunned. It was not that
Peter was immoral, dishonest, or quarrelsome. He was not lazy. He
was neither a murderer, a thief, a bigamist, a swindler, a gambler,
nor a blackguard. Neither was he a drunkard. Yet, so bad was his
reputation, that had he been all these, had he committed every
crime in the criminal code and invented a few original ones, he
could not have inspired a greater degree of aversion in the mind of
the average dweller at Geebung Flat.
The blot on Peter's escutcheon was Peter's luck. He was
universally known as an unlucky man. His bad luck was proverbial,
and followed him as faithfully as his shadow. It had dogged him
consistently for a quarter of a century; that is to say, from the
hour of his birth, when a careless exposure of his infantile
anatomy had planted the seeds of an intermittent influenza, which,
like his shadow and his luck, had never entirely deserted him.
His mere presence was sufficient to impress the stamp of failure
upon the most promising enterprise. Many a digger, who would have
indignantly repudiated any imputation of superstition, has been
known to abandon a half-sunk shaft, merely because Peter Paton had
chanced to look down it.
If a new rush broke out, and it was reported that Peter Paton
had gone to it, it was without further investigation at once voted
"a duffer." His arrival at a township or a camp was tolerated with
subdued mutterings, whilst his departure was celebrated with lively
manifestations of joy. When a digger bottomed a shaft and was asked
'What luck?' if he replied 'Peter's luck,' all further interest in
the locality was lost.
Peter was perfectly cognisant of the reputation he had acquired,
and did not dispute its correctness; in fact, he frequently
confirmed it. Yet, Peter thought it necessary to live; not because
it really was necessary, but because it was natural for him to
think so.
And so he kept plodding on. He dug and delved in claim after
claim without success. Sometimes a perfect stranger would be
induced to go mates with Peter. Then, for a brief period Peter
would be almost happy. He and his partner would work early and late
without success, until his mate, becoming disgusted, would curse
his own and Peter's luck and bid Peter good-bye.
Then Peter would get lonely, and mope, and sell out his claim
for a pound or two, if he could find a purchaser; or abandon it, if
unable to sell; and before Peter had struck his tent, the newcomer
would strike the lead, and when Peter left would be raising
washdirt going an ounce to the ton.
This was Peter's luck.
A pretty little girl at Parramatta had promised Peter that she
would marry him as soon as he was out of debt, and could provide a
home for her. He had been working hard for four years—and at
the moment our story opens he was sitting on a log near his tent at
Geebung Flat taking stock. After summing up the position, he came
to the conclusion that his zssets during that time had not
materially increased, while his liabilities had doubled. So Peter
was despondent.
'Just my luck,' he exclaimed, with a sigh. 'It was always the
same. Luck such as mine would break the Bank of England. No wonder
the boys keep out of my way, for I bring bad luck wherever I come.
The only being who knows me and don't shun me is Boodle. Poor old
faithful Boodle. 'Here Boodle,' he added, 'Why don't you call me an
unlucky beggar, eh?'
Boodle looked wistfully at Peter out of the only eye the native
bears had left him, wagged his stumpy tail vigorously, ran round
two or three times in a vain endeavour to bite the end of it, said
'Bow-wow,' and then stretched himself on the ground, with his
shaggy head resting on his master's foot, and his one good eye
peering with trustful confidence into his master's face.
'It's all up, Boodle,' said Peter, dolefully, as he rested his
chin on his horny hands, 'the flour bag is nearly empty, the meat
is done, and the tea and sugar have been finished these three days.
I've bottomed another duffer, and the storekeeper says, 'no more
tick.' I have decided that there is just one man too many in this
world, and his name is, Peter Paton. And so he is going to leave
it, Boodle, and you must fossick for yourself. You will find
another master' (Peter's voice quivered as he said this) 'and no
one else will miss me.'
He patted Boodle's shaggy head, and went into his tent. A
sheath-knife was lying on a sheet of bark, and Peter took the knife
into his hand. 'It's only one short, quick stroke,' he muttered,
'and then—'
Here Peter paused, and sat down on his bunk. 'And then?' he
repeated. 'Then what?' He sat for some minutes deep in thought and
then, starting to his feet, he exclaimed, 'Surely the Great
Governor of the Universe will not be hard on a poor beggar, who,
having tried his best, has failed.' He ran his thumb along the edge
of the knife, and found that it was dull. 'I might as well have a
decent edge on it,' he thought.
And, going outside, he whetted the knife on a boulder, and
re-entered the tent.
He grasped the weapon firmly in his right hand, and raising his
eyes towards the ridge-pole of the tent he said
reverently—
'Oh, good Lord, I have tried to do my best, but bad luck has got
me down and worried me. I am going to do now what I believe is for
the best. If it is wrong in Your sight, forgive me, oh, Lord, and
don't let my had luck follow me beyond the grave. Let
me—'
But just then he was interrupted, for a voice outside his tent
said—
'Hulloa there. Is there anybody in?'
Peter flung the knife into the corner of the tent, and muttering
'Just my luck,' he went to the entrance.
He there saw an old man on a grey horse, which, in addition to
its rider, was carrying a large swag, a billy, a small pick and
shovel, and a prospector's dish.
'Can you tell me the nearest way to Sawpit Gully? I've got off
the track somehow.'
Peter gave the required direction, and the rider, thanking him,
explained that he was going to the new rush at Sawpit Gully, where
good gold had been struck.
'If you are not on anything good,' he added, 'you ought to go
too. I hear that it's all right, and shallow sinking.' And the
rider, a stranger to Peter, rode away.
Peter dropped the flap of the tent and sat down to think.
At length he muttered, 'A new rush at Sawpit Gully. Good gold
and shallow sinking. It's onlyfifteen miles. I must have a change
of luck. I'll go.'
So he struck his tent, folded his belongings into a swag, which,
with his tools and cooking utensils, weighed about 50lb. and
started to walk the fifteen miles to Sawpit Gully.
He camped in the bush at night, and arriving at the new rush
early in the morning, he selected a likely spot, pitched his tent,
and commenced to sink a shaft.
He had nothing but flour in his bag, and not much of that; but
in the evening he took his old muzzle-loading gun, and managed to
secure a wallaby. So, with some stewed wallaby and Johnny cake,
washed down with clean water from the creek, he made a tolerable
meal.
It took him three days to bottom the shaft, but, alas, it was a
duffer. After he had satisfied himself that it was a duffer, he
made the last of his flour into a Johnny cake and ate it. Then,
taking the old muzzle-loader, he started off into the bush. Having
reached a spot where he was out of sight of the camp, he stopped
and began to load the gun.
Boodle, upon seeing this, poised himself upon three legs, and
keeping the other raised, stood watching Peter with an expectant
air.
'Yon need not trouble yourself Boodle,' said Peter sadly, 'I'm
not going to shoot a wallaby; I'm going to shoot a calf.'
And he laughed spasmodically at his own ghastly joke.
'Ah, Boodle, I wish I had done it at Geebung Flat. You see it
has got to be done.' And he savagely rammed home the wadding.
'Another duffer, Boodle, and all the flour gone.' And he banged the
ramrod down on a double charge of shot. 'There will be no mistake
this time, Boodle. Nobody will interrupt us here.' And he felt in
his pockets for his caps.
'Where did I put the caps, Boodle?' he said, as he searched his
pockets in vain. He felt inside his shirt, he looked on the ground,
then dashing his hat on the grass he exclaimed, in a tone of bitter
disappointment—
'Just my blamed luck, Boodle, I've forgotten the caps.' Boodle
gave two short barks, made a strenuous but ineffectual attempt to
catch his tail, barked again, and then poised himself in readiness
as before.
'Come on, Boodle,' said Peter, 'we must go back to the tent for
the caps.'
Upon reaching the vicinity of the tent Boodle began to bark
furiously, and Peter, being thus roused from his melancholy
reverie, saw a queer little man sitting by the side of the fire,
which he had evidently replenished.
As Peter approached, the old man was softly whistling 'Way Down
Upon the Swanee River.'
'Good evening,' said the little old man. 'Is this your
tent?'
'It is,' said Peter gruffly.
'Are you alone?' said the little old man.
'Yes,' answered Peter. 'At least, I was before you came.'
'Yes, of course,' said the stranger, whose only luggage appeared
to be an old grey blanket, which lay at his side. 'I meant was you
living alone. Because if you was, I was going to ask you a favour.
It looks like rain to-night, and I was going to ask if you'd mind
me spreading my blanket in your tent, as I'm subject to
rheumatics.'
'You may sleep in the tent, and welcome,' said Peter, gloomily;
'but I've nothing to offer you to eat.'
'That's all right,' said the stranger. 'That will be a fair
deal. I've got plenty,' and he pointed to a bag lying near the
tent, which Peter had not noticed before. 'You find the tent, and
I'll find the tucker. And now, if you'll lend me your billy, I'll
make some tea.'
The old man then took from the bag two loaves of bread, a lump
of corned beef, cooked; another lump of corned beef, raw; and two
smaller bags, the one containing tea and the other sugar.
Peter's eyes sparkled as he saw the food, and, throwing the gun
upon his bunk he assisted his visitor in the cooking, thinking at
the same time how near the latter had been to the enjoyment of both
'tent and tucker undisturbed.
The meal over, they sat by the fire and talked. The little
stranger was very communicative, and told Peter in confidence that
he was known amongst his friends by the name of 'Bandicoot.'
'It ain't my name, you know,' he said, 'but it's the one as I
answers to. You see, I've been almost everything in my time, and
amongst others a jockey. Many's the winner I've rode in some of the
big races years ago, and many a stiff'un, if it comes to that. A
jockey that rides to live can't always pick his horses, but I
always did my best, and if I didn't win it was the fault of the
horse, and not of Jimmy Coote. That's the name I was christened,
but constant riding made me a trifle bandy, so the boys put that
and my name together, and called me 'Bandicoot,' and sich is the
force of habit, that it comes as natural to me now as if my
godfather and mother had given it to me. I was always pretty lucky
on the course, and the boys used to follow me. I've heard 'em
asking, just before a race, 'Who's up on Sandfly?' and if they said
'Bandicoot,' the money used to go on, and the odds 'ud shorten. I'm
getting too old to ride now, but my luck sticks to me. I generally
fall on my feet. Look at me to-night. There's a lot of big clouds
a-banking up to the southward, and me a-dreading the rheumatics,
when what should I see but a tent, and who should be the owner of
the tent but an agreeable young fellow, who don't say much, but
looks as if, like the parson's parrot, he could think a lot.'
Peter remarked that he was much afraid that he was bad company.
He was dull to-night, and not much of a talker at any time.
'That's just it. That's exactly where it comes in. The right
number for a pleasant conversation is two. One to talk and the
other to listen. Then you have all the essentials of a pleasant and
profitable chat. Now I'm fond of talking, and you're a demon at
listening. Well, what more do you want? What are you doing
here—digging?'
'I was,' said Peter, 'but I think I must knock it off. I get no
luck.'
'Well,' said Bandicoot, 'I shouldn't expect to get any luck if I
was digging here. I always prefer a gully, for alluvial, as runs
towards the east. This one runs towards the west. I passed a real,
likely looking spot about a half a mile from here, that's never
been tried. I should have tried it, but I had no tools. What do you
say if we try it to-morrow? There's a grand water-hole just at the
bottom of the gully.'
Peter said that he was 'dead broke,' but expressed his
willingness to provide the tools and tent, if his new acquaintance
was prepared to find the tucker. He warned Bandicoot, however, that
he was a most unlucky beggar.
'Why,' exclaimed Bandicoot, slapping his thigh in ecstasy, 'look
at that now. You've got a tent and tools, and no tucker. I've got
no tools, but I've got some tucker and a bob or two in my pocket. I
can talk the leg off an 'orse, you can listen like
a—a—goanna. You're an unlucky cove. I'm a cove as
always drops on my feet. Why, we're made for mates by Nature, and a
wonderful Providence has throwed us together. And now, suppose we
turn in?'
The next day they shifted their camp to the place indicated by
Bandicoot, and by dinner time had pitched their tent and were ready
to commence digging.
They dug a hole about four feet by two, and as it was only about
six feet to the rock, they were not long in reaching bottom. Just
as the sun was sinking, Bandicoot, who was in the hole,
said—
'Hand me down the dish, and I'll give you a prospect. I think
this is the washdirt.'
Peter handed the dish to Bandicoot, who filled it with yellow
gravel and passed it back to him.
'Go and wash it,' said he, 'and if there's not gold in that,
call me an 'orse instead of 'a jockey.'
To the surprise and delight of Peter, the dish of dirt, when
washed, yielded about a half a pennyweight of coarse shotty
gold.
Bandicoot was jubilant. 'By gosh!' he exclaimed, 'we're struck
it. There is not much chance of interruption here, but we'll put in
some pegs to make sure, and then we'll have tea.'
They pegged out a claim and had tea, and that night Peter's
sleep was disturbed by visions of a sweet girl at Parramatta, and
the realisation of his long-cherished hopes.
The following morning they washed the remainder of the dirt from
the bottom of the shaft. The result was about a half an ounce of
gold. This, at Bandicoot's request, Peter carried to the store,
about a mile distant, and sold, converting the proceeds into
food.'
Next they cleared, a paddock about 20 feet square, and in three
weeks, by working from daylight until dark, they had secured from
it over sixteen ounces of gold, and Peter felt at last his luck had
turned. But when they proceeded to extend the paddock they found
that the gold they had won was only a patch, and that the patch was
worked out. They tried in all directions, until their provisions
were completely exhausted, and then they held a consultation.
'Never say die,' said Bandicoot, who, as usual, was optimistic.
'Where there's one patch there's bound to be more. We'll sink
another shaft or two, and we'll strike it again. In the meantime,
I'll run up to the store, sell the gold, and get a new stock for
the larder. Don't you get down-hearted. I always drops on my
feet.'
So Bandicoot took the gold and started, whistling, for the
store, and Peter commenced another shaft.
He bottomed it by sundown, but it was a duffer. He put on the
billy and waited for Bandicoot, but no Bandicoot came. He went to
his bunk, and lay for a long time listening for footsteps, but the
only sound that broke the silence of the night was the hoarse
croaking of the frogs in the waterhole below the tent. He fell
asleep at length, and when he awoke the sun was shining through,
the tent. Still there were no signs of Bandicoot.
He sank another shaft, which was a duffer, and at midday, hungry
and weary, and unable to bear the suspense any longer, he started
for the store. There he was told that Bandicoot had not been seen
since he called there to buy some provisions nearly a month before.
'And did he not call here yesterday to sell some gold?' said Peter,
in dismay.
'No,' replied the storekeeper. 'The only gold I bought yesterday
was from a Chinaman, from whom I purchased two pennyweights.'
Then Peter smelt a rat. 'Just my luck,' he exclaimed; 'just my
luck.'
And the names he called Bandicoot as he wended his way to his
solitary camp will not bear repetition.
He had left Boodle tied up to the tent pole, and in reply to
Boodle's demonstrative welcome Peter said, 'It's all up, old
fellow. Our luck has caught us again. Bandicoot's gone, the gold's
gone, the tucker's gone, and I'm going. I can stand it no longer.
Good-bye, old boy.'
At the foot of the gully was a still deep pool, and Peter
resolved to seek in its cold embrace the peace he could not find on
earth.
He started swiftly down the hill and reached its brink. Round
about were a number of smooth stones, and picking up several of
these Peter put them inside his shirt.
'Now,' said he, as he buttoned his shirt over the stones, 'there
will be no mistake this time. A splash, a few bubbles, and all will
be over, The parrots will scream as loudly as ever, and Peter's
luck will be buried with Peter in the depths of the silent
pool.'
At that moment a sound reached his ear which caused him to
pause. It was Boodle's bark. 'Good heavens,' exclaimed Peter, I
forgot poor Boodle. He is tied up. He has not had a drink all the
morning, nor a bite to eat. If I leave him like that he will hot be
able to fossick, and he will starve.'
A tear glistened in Peter's eye, but it was not for himself he
shed it. It was for his poor dumb, faithful friend. He looked
around and the world seemed wondrous fair. The bright foliage of a
silver wattle was reflected in the glassy waters of the pool. On
the farther bank grew an immense willow, and among its graceful,
pendant branches parrakeets with gorgeous plumage were flitting. A
white cockatoo lifted its golden crest proudly on the topmost
bough, and all nature, animate and inanimate, seemed rejoicing.
Fair as it was, however, Peter would willingly have exchanged the
beauty of the world for the peace and tranquility of the silent
pool. But the mental vision of his poor dumb companion, doomed to
die a lingering death from hunger and thirst, was more than Peter
could bear. Reluctantly taking the stones from his shirt, he
murmured 'Just my luck,' and returned towards his tent.
He had traversed about half the distance from the pool to his
camp when he heard a sound which, though weird, was evidently
human. Somebody was whistling in a doleful minor key; something
which bore a faint resemblance to 'Home, Sweet Home.'
At the same moment, the gentle breeze that swayed the graceful
fronds of a grass tree at his side, brought to Peter a faint odour,
peculiarly gratifying to his olfactory nerves. It was the odour of
steak and onions. He hastened to the camp, and then the saw no less
a personage than Bandicoot, who was bending over a fryingpan, and
softly whistling 'Home, Sweet Home.'
'Come on,' said Bandicoot, 'you are just in time for dinner. Did
you think I was lost? Just hold the pan for a minute while I get
the salt.'
And Peter, feeling faint and giddy, held the pan, while
Bandicoot, in a shaky treble warbled softly, 'A hexile from 'ome
splendour da-hazles in vain' Oh, give me my—. Did you think I
was lost? Eh? There's no darned fear of Bandicoot getting lost. I
was doctoring the rheumatics. You was up at the store this morning,
wasn't you?'
'Yes,' answered Peter. 'I went to look for you.'
'Did you see a tent about a quarter of a mile this side of the
store?'
'With some old bags for a fly?' asked Peter.
'With some old bags for a fly. Right. Well, if You had looked in
that tent as you passed, You would have seen me a sleepin' as
peacefully as a possum, in a hollow log. Passing that tent
yesterday I saw my old pal Billy Bumper a sittin' at the entrance.
I sat down to have a yarn, and the conversation, somehow, turned
upon rum.
'Billy,' says I, 'I feels a touch of my old complaint. Is there
any place handy where a man could get a toothful of the right
sort?'
Billy shook his head sadly and said—
'No nearer than the bridge, and that's eight mile away.'
'Oh,' says I, 'if: a man only had a horse.'
'I can lend you a horse,' says he.
So the long and short of it was I borrowed Billy's horse and
went to the township, sold the gold, and laid in a stock, which
included two bottles of rum. One we emptied last night. The other
is in the tent It must have been near daylight when we turned in so
we took it out this morning. You must know, Peter,' continued
Bandicoot, dropping his voice to a whisper, 'Billy Bumper's a man
in a thousand. He gave me some wrinkles. He says that what we have
struck is only a floater, and that if we sink at the bottom of the
gully, under the floater, we may strike the bar. And if we do that
we shall strike it heavy. We'll tackle it to-mororrow.'
And they did 'tackle it.' And what was more important, Billy
Bumper's prediction was correct.
They struck the bar and they struck it so rich that every
shovelful of earth glistened like a jeweller's window with the
precious metal. From this circumstance and the extreme richness of
the claim the spot became known as 'the jeeweller's shop,' and is
so designated at the present day.
Three months afterwards, Peter started by the coach to fulfil a
long-standing engagment with a little girl at Parramatta. Peter was
now a man of importance and a bank draft of some thousands of
pounds was in his pocket. The day was fine, the coachman genial,
and the passengers in a state of wonderful good humour.
For some hours all went 'merry as a marriage bell.' The coach
was descending a steep hill towards the crossing of a creek. The
coachman was relating his experiences of the old hushranging days
when, in turning a bend in the road, the off wheel of the coach
struck a stump, and in a moment the vehicle was overturned, and the
passengers were scattered broadcast among the ferns.
There was shout, a scream, and then some laughter, mingled with
much swearing, as those who had been oso suddenly ejected gathered
themselves together, to which a laughing-jackass, from a perch on a
withered gum tree, addressed a discordant note.
There was no one injured but Peter. His neck was broken. It was
Peter's 'luck.'"
* * *
"Ach!" said Otto, "Peter's luck vas vhat you call luck oopside
down. But py shenks! it vas cold sittin' here mit der fire nearly
out. I talk I vas pe gettin' vhat you call it, der influency, dhen
vhat vould you fellows do if you hafe no cook and I lie in mine ped
mit mnine toes htickin' oop und mine head all pound oop mit a
mustard plaster. Yoe Millner, put soom vood on der fire."
"When did they make you boss?" said Flanagan.
"If I vas der poss it vas not pe der first time," answered Otto,
"I vas der poss of a whole ship's crew."
"How many were on board?" asked Flanagan.
"Dhere vas me and der rest of der crew," said Otto.
"Who were the rest?" asked Joe.
"Der crew vas a Chinaman," said Otto. "Und py shenks! I vas make
him sit oop, you pet. Eh, vhat you tink?"
Jee Millner threw some wood on the fire, and by its genial blaze
Otto thawed.
"I vas tell you a yarn apout dhat Chinaman," he, said.
"I think," said Joe, "that as I mach up the fire, I have the
first call. Mr. Falconer promised us last night, that he would tell
us a story."
"Vait till I tell you apout dhat Chinaman," persisted Otto.
"You let the Chinaman wait," replied Joe.
"I'll pet you ten bob mine yarn vas petter dhan Sharley's."
"How often have I said that I would have no gambling in the
camp?" said Mr. McTavish.
"Vas it gambling to pet ten bob?" asked Otto.
"Did ye ever hear what Clancy said about gambling?" enquired
Flanagan.
"I'll tell you you while Charley is getting ready. It will not
take long." As there was nothing said against this, he
proceeded:—
Flanagan
CLANCY ON GAMBLING. Flanagan's
Story.
"'I see," said Clancy, as he lit his pipe and fastened up the
line for another course of brickwork, 'that the Guv'mint are
thryin' to put down gaulblin'.'
'They are,' said his mate, 'And they'll do it too.'
'Will they?' said Clancy. 'They might as well thry to lift
themselves in a baskit. Put down gamblin', is it? I tell you,
Payther, that before they put down gamblin' they'll have to put
down human nature, so they will. Show me the man or woman who is
not a gambler, and I'll show you a corpse or a looney.
'The papers mustn't publish the odds on the races; but they
publish 'em on everything else. Look at this mornin's paper, and
you'll see the shtock and share list, which contains the odds of
the biggest gamblin' institution in the wurruld.
'We're all gamblers and we're all givin' or talin' the odds,
from the cradle to the grave, and the Guv'mint publish the odds
themselves. If you turn up phwat they call the shtitastics ye'll
find that when you were born the odds were two to one that you'd
never live till ye'd be able to walk, and you won, or you wouldn't
be layin' bricks wid me now.
'When your wife was born, the odds were six to four that she'd
never get married, and she won—if you can call it winnin'
when it would have paid her bether to lose. When she got married
the odds were seven to four that she'd live to be a widow, and two
to nine that she'd get married again. On your weddin' day the odds
were tin to two that you'd married the wrong woman, and nine to one
that she'd married the wrong man.
'Phwat buildin' are we wurrukin' on this minit? Ain't it an
insurance office? 'Tis for an institution that will make a book on
the lingth of a man's loife. They have different odds on different
min, accoedin' to their pedigree and their performances, and they
make their book so that if they lose on one the other bets 'ull
shquare it.
'If you build a house they'll bet you three hundred to one that
it won't be burnt down in a year. Whin you've been tippin' 'em up
on Saturday night, and go home and leather the ould woman, and
smash the furniture, and raise Cain phwat are you doin'? You are
bettin' your immortal soul that, there's no such place as hell. And
whin, owin' to the Liquor Act, you're sober on Sunday, yo maybe to
church and hedge a little. You put threepence in the collection on
the off chance of drawin' a harp and a pair of wings. I bought a
ticket for the Eight-hour Demonsthration. Phwat does that mane? It
manes that I wagered a shilling that I'll live to see it. I tell
you, Payther, that our whole life is a gamble, and death is the
biggest gamble of the lot.
'Bedad! There's the whistle for dinner! I'll bet you drinks I'll
be down first.'
With this Clancy and his mate raced for the ladder. Clancy tried
to cut off a corner by jumping the well-hole. He won his bet, but
never collected the stake. Clancy was down first, but when they
lifted him from among bricks and timber in the basement, sixty feet
below, they knew that Clancy's last race was over. The post was
passed, and Clancy was being weighed in. And of those who knew
Clancy, there was not one who doubted that he would stand the
test.
They covered him reverently with some bags until the ambulance
could come. They then proved the truth of Clancy's axioms by
tossing a coin to see who should be compelled to be the first to
face that smiling, bright-eyed little woman, who, with Claney's
curly-headed boy, was sitting on a stack of timber in front of the
building with Clancy dinner."
* * *
"Dhat vas shoost like an Irishman," said Otto, "to yump vhere he
vas not lookin'. I vas always look der vay I vas goin'."
"Well, you don't always go the way you are looking," said
Flanagan, "for if you did, you would have to go two ways at
once."
"Ach!" said Otto, as he spat in the fire, with an air of
disgust. "Soom people open dhere mouths and let 'em say vhat dhey
likes. If you vas in mine country dhey vas make you sit oop mighty
gvick. Vhy, it was a Yerman dhat vas discovered by Ireland."
"The Germans were as wild as bandicoots until we sent some
missionaries over from Ireland to civilise them," said
Flanagan.
"When you have quite finished exchanging amenities," said Mr.
McTavish, "I think we will call upon Charley to reedeem his promise
and tell his story. It is foolish to abuse a man on account of his
birthplace. No man Can choose the place of his birth. And I think
that it is perhaps a wise dispensation of of Providence. We could
not all be born in Scotland. And We never miss what we never had.
Some people, born in other places, think they are quite as good as
if they had been born in the heart of Midlothian. Puir things, they
know no better. It is a wise dispensation of Providence."
"Do you mind reading of the time," said Flanagan, "when Owen Roe
O'Neill, at Benburb, in Tyrone, in the year 1646, at the head of
four thousand men, made twice the number of Scots run, and killed
so many of them in their flight, that a man could walk on their
dead bodies over the River Blackwater dryshod?"
"That is merely a matter of profane history," said Mr. McTavish.
"I have always been of opinion that there is a slight inaccuracy. I
think that O'Neill should be spelt McNeill. But let Charlie proceed
with his story."
The discussion being ended, Charley at once began:—
10. OLD BARKER. Charlie's
Story.
It was not Barker's fault that he had to sweep his own verandah
and cook his meals. It was his misfortune. And yet, in our little
bush township, where excitement was rare, the young men, and even
the girls, used to find a mild amusement in ridiculing Barker for
what they knew was the consequence of his misfortune.
He had married a sickly wife, and not being a rich man, when she
became unable to perform her household duties, Barker performed
them for her. He was kind to her, and, as far as his means allowed,
supplied her wants. When at length she died he gave her a quiet
funeral, and went on cooking his own meals and sweeping his own
verandah.
As soon as a decent period had elapsed he seriously considered
the advisability of filling the gap left by the decease of the late
Mrs. Barker; but, being of a shy disposition, not particularly
handsome, not very rich, and nearer forty than thirty, his progross
was slow. So, when Barker was seen sweeping his verandah, attending
to his darning, mending, or cooking, the young men and maidens of
the township, instead of sympathising with his loneliness, made him
a butt for their ridicule, and a target for their unfledged
witticisms.
'I saw old Barker sweeping his verandah as I passed,' was a
remark frequently heard down at the store. The same remark had been
made in the presence of the same people, hundreds of times, but it
always provoked a laugh. Nothing makes people laugh as readily as
an allusion to the misfortunes of somebody else.
So 'Old Barker,' as they called him, became the stock joke among
the two Or three hundred people who inhabited our township. They
were never so merry as when they were making imaginary matches for
'Old Barker.'
If a young man met a girl of his acquaintance going up the
street, he would say, 'Hulloa, Kate! (or Mary, as the case might
be). Going up to see old Barker?' Then there would be a laugh and
an indignamt blushing denial.
Our township was almost unbearably dull. Without old Barker it
would have been dead. He was our salvation, and deserved a gold
medal from the Humane Society.
When Barker was not engaged in his domestic duties he spent the
bulk of is spare time sinking a well. The urgent need of a well was
not apparent because his tank was never empty, and the running
creek was within a hundred yards of his house; but it was assumed
that he was providing for the future expansion of his household. So
the well was added to the stock-in-trade of the jokers.
'Expect to have a big family some day. Eh, Barker?'
And Barker would smile in his quiet, good-humoured way, and go
on digging.
His cottage faced the end of the main street, and stood on a
freehold block of five acres, most of which was devoted to the
cultivation of briars.
Adjoining Barker's place was a snug hotel, kept by Mrs.
Macalister. She was a buxom young widow of about thirty-five, and,
of course, many a discussion had taken place in her bar as to a
possible union between the widow and Old Barker, to the great
amusement and substantial profit of Mrs. Macalister.
One day in early November the coach, as was its daily custom,
stopped in front of Mrs. Macalister's door, and found the usual
crowd of idlers awaiting its arrival.
On the box seat, chatting merrily with the driver, sat a young
lady, who was dressed in a neat tailor-made dress. Almost before
the coach stopped was on the ground, and she was scarcely on the
ground when she was clasped to the ample bosom of Mrs. Macalister.
It was then noticed that, though she was some years younger, and
considerably slimmer, she bore a striking resemblance to that lady.
When at length the younger woman was released, with her hat awry
and one escaping curl glinting in the morning sunshine, the
bystanders were not surprised to be told that this was Mrs.
Macalister's sister from Sydney.
The blacksmith wiped his face on his leather apron, and bowed
awkwardly; The saddler said it was a fine morning. William, the
schoolmaster's son, said it was warm; old Joe, the widow's
handyman, stood with his hat in his hand, at the imminent risk of
sunstroke; and the boy from the post-office, who had come for the
mail, forgot his errand, and stood with his mouth wide open.
And Mrs. Macalister's sister stood bowing, and smiling just
sufficiently to show a row of pearly teeth between her cherry lips.
When she extended a small, though plump, gloved hand to the
blacksmith, he looked at his own dirty paw, and felt that it would
be sacrilege for him to touch it. We all breathed more freely when,
with her sister, she disappeared into the house.
The blacksmith was the first to recover his powers of
speech.
'By gum!' he said, 'What price that? Did you ever see a smarter
little filly than that?'
'I wonder does she play tennis?' said the schoolmaster's
son.
'My word,' said the saddler, 'she's a real plum. Did you notice
her eyes?'
'What price that fer Old Barker?' said the mail-boy, as he threw
back his head and grinned.
But the blacksmith said, 'Garn, yer rip,' and threw his hat at
him. The mail-boy ducked, and the hat hit old Joe's dog, who picked
it up and ran away with it. As the blacksmith had to follow the dog
to recover his hat, that broke up our conference.
Mrs. Macalister received more than her usual amount of patronage
that evening, but her patrons were doomed to disappointment, for
Mrs. Macalister's sister, being somewhat fatigued after her coach
journey, had retired early.
'Is your sister going to stay long, Mrs. Macalister?' inquired
William, the schoolmaster's son.
'About a month or six weeks,' replied Mrs. Macalister, as she
beamed across the bar.
'Does she play tennis?'
'I think so. Anyway she would be pleased to learn.'
'She can come to our court, if she likes.'
The blacksmith and the saddler cast looks of envy on the
school'master's son.
'Vas she like gooseperries? said Peter the Dutchman, who had a
selection about two miles out, and had come in to get his horse
shod.
'I think so,' said Mrs. Macalister.
'Den, if she cooms out to mine place she shall hafe all der
gooseperries she can't carry. Let her coom, and I fill her oop mit
gooseperries like efferytings, till she don't know where she
vasn't.' And he struck a match and lit his pipe, gazing with an air
of triumph at the schoolmaster's son. Then he added, impressively,
'Fill 'em oop again.'
'What might your sister's 'name be, Mrs. Macalister?' said the
blacksmith, as he wiped the froth from his moustache.
'Mrs. Atkins,' said. Mrs. Macalister.
'Vhat!' exclaimed Peter. 'Vas she married?'
'Oh, yes,' replied the genial hostess.
'Did you say water with yours?'
And Peter and the blacksmith and the saddler and the
schoolmaster's son gazed at each other in blank dismay.
But Mrs. Macalister put her finger on her lips and said, in a
tone of mystery, 'Don't say a word about it. I am only telling you
in confidence. I'm thinking of having some fun. I want to have a
lark with old Barker.'
Here the boys began to look interested.
'I'm going to make old Barker believe that she's a widow. That
her husband was killed in the Boer war. I have not spoken to her
about Barker, but she's awfully fond of a joke. She'll help us. In
the meantime say nothing, but watch the fun. Of course, if he comes
round making up to her, you must all pretend that she's a widow,
and to be awfully jealous of him. Oh, it will be fun!'
And the blacksmith and Peter and the saddler and the
schoolmaster's son nudged each other and laughed, and Peter
said:
'Py Shenks! Dat was goin' to pe der pest yoke vat never was.
Bring dem poth oot to mine place. I'll fill old Barker oot mit
gooseperries, too. Py shenks! I vas make him bust mineself.'
Barker went to his little garden plot the nex morning to pick
some tomatoes for his breakfast. The garden plot was near the
fence, and the fence was not far from Mrs. Macalister's hotel. He
picked as many tomatoes as he required, and was upon the point of
returning to his house when he raised his eyes to the back verandah
of the hotel and then he dropped some of his tomatoes, for he had
seen a vision. It was early morning, and the rising sun flung a
golden beam into the corner of Mrs. Macalister's verandah. The beam
was reflected from a mass of auburn curls, and the curls formed a
fitting crown to the bonniest face that Barker had ever seen.
Mrs. Atkins was sitting on a rocking-chair. She was so absorbed
in her book that she was quite unaware of the proximity of Barker.
Barker was spellbound. How long he gazed he knew not. Suddenly the
book closed with a snap, the eyelashes were lifted, and a pair of
laughing blue eyes looked into his. Barker at once dropped his own
eyes, blushed, and sighed, and went in to cook his chops and
tomatoes, and to cat his breakfast in lonely solitude.
He was sweeping his veraldah after breakfast when the
schoolmaster's son sauntered by.
'Good morning, Barker.'
'Good morning,' said Barker.
After some remarks about the weather William said:
'Did you see Mrs. Macalister's sister?'
'Yes.' said Barker. 'I saw her this morning on the
verandah.'
'She is a widow,' remarked William. 'Her husband was killed in
the Boer war. They had only been married a week when he started.
Sad, wasn't it?'
'Very sad,' said Barker.
'By the way,' said William, 'you didn't have those khaki
trousers on when she saw you, did you?'
'Yes,' said Barker. 'I always wear them, you know, except on
Sundays.'
'That's a pity,' said the other, 'and you living so close. Since
her husband was killed she can't bear the sight of khaki. It makes
her ill for days.'
William chuckled as he repeated this conversation in the
evening, and still more when Johnson, the storekeeper's assistant
related how Barker had been to the store in the morning and bought
a pair of tweed trousers to work in.
The following day as Barker, in his new tweed trousers, was
weeding his front garden, who should pass by but Mrs. Macalister
and her sister. Mrs. Atkins was introduced to Barker and he,
covered with confusion, asked the ladies to step inside. They did
so, and Mrs. Macalister was so jolly, and Mrs. Atkins so charming
and so kind, that Barker lost some of his shyness, and surprised
himself. In the course of conversation Mrs. Macalister expressed
her regret that her horse was lame, and that she was thus prevented
from taking her sister for a drive.
The same evening Barker was seen leading his mare home from the
paddock. He fed her and groomed her, and on the next day he took
Mrs. Macalister and her sister for a drive, and the first place
they drove to was Peter's. They sampled his gooseberries, and drove
home in the gathering twilight.
Events progressed rapidly during the next month, and the boys
chuckled, and Mrs. Macalister smiled when they exchanged
confidences; and they pictured the disappointment of Barker when
the time would come for Mrs. Atkins to return to her husband in
Sydney.
At this time Mrs. Atkins used to go for a drive every day.
Sometimes Mrs. Macalister went, too; but it often happened that she
was too busy, and at these times Barker would drive Mrs.
Atkins.
The boys gnashed their teeth, but consoled themselves with the
comforting thought that the time was fast approaching when Barker's
illusion would be ended.
'It would be good to get home on her, too,' said the blacksmith,
'for her earryin' on. Her flirtin's outrageous.'
'So it would,' said William.
There was great and unexpected excitement that evening in Mrs
Macalister's parlour.
Just before sundown the boys were assembled, but Mrs.
Maealister's sister was nowhere to be seen. The worthy hostess
herself, who was in a state of great excitement, explained that an
awful thing had happened.
I don't know what to do,' she exclaimed. 'I'm so sorry I allowed
this joke to go so far. Ada has got a telegram to say her husband
is coming. He is on his way now, and will be here in the morning,
or perhaps to-night. I don't know what Mr. Barker will say or do. I
wish I had had nothing to do with it. Isnn't it dreadful?'
But the boys laughed, and said it was the funniest thing in the
world.
'Won't old Barker buck?' said William.
I don't know who will tell him,' said Mrs. Macalister.
'I'll go and tell him, if you like,' said William.
'You'll break it to him as gently as you can, won't you?' said
Mrs. Macalister. 'And make it as light as you can for Ada. Oh,
dear. I'm afraid there'll be trouble.'
'I think we'd better all go,' said the blacksmith. 'He might cut
up rough. Besides, we're all entitled to see the fun. I wouldn't
miss seeing the look on his face for anything.'
So they all strolled along to Barker's place. He was just
sitting down to tea, and the blacksmith nudged William when he
noticed that Barker had been indulging in the luxury of a clean
shave.
William had promised to break it gently to Barker, so he said:
'Good evening, Barker.'
'Good evening, William,' said Barker, as he sugared his tea.
'Any news?'
'Nothing much,' said William, 'except that Mrs. Atkins will be
able to take a drive with her husband to-morrow.'
'What.' said Barker, as he dropped the sugar spoon, and turned
very red in the face. 'What do you What do you mean?'
'I mean that it was all a fake about her husband being killed in
the war. He'll be with her to-morrow. He's on the road now. Mrs.
Macalister and her sister have been deceiving us.'
But Barker simply said:
'Great Scott!' and dropped his face on his hands, while his
whole body shook with emotion.
They watched him for some time in silence. At length he
murmured:
'He'll he with her to-morrow. Great Scott! Can this be
true?'
He raised his head, and they saw that there were tears in his
eyes. With trembling lips he said:
'Excuse me, boys, but I'd rather not talk about it.'
'Don't be too hard on her,' said the blacksmith. 'She's only
young.'
'I won't be hard on her,' said Barker.
'I suppose,' said William, maliciously, 'that if she and her
husband want your mare to-morrow, you'll let them have her?'
'Oh! yes,' said Barker, quietly. 'They can have her altogether
if they want to. They can have all I have after to-morrow.'
Then, waving his hand in token of appeal, he said:
'Good night, boys; I want to be alone.'
So they filed out, and, to tell the truth, they felt sorry for
Barker. When they got outside they strolled to the corner of the
paddock and sat on the fence. After some discussion, they agreed to
punish Mrs. Atkins for her heartless flirtation, and they
separated, after arranging to meet at Mrs. Macalister's in an
hour.
The first to make his appearance was the blacksmith, and he
noticed as he passed Barker's place that it was in darkness, from
which he drew the inference that Barker was in bed.
'Well?' said Mrs. Macalister. 'How did he take it?'
'Dashed bad,' said the blacksmith. 'He carried on dreadful. I
shouldn't wonder if he does something to himself before
mornin'.'
'I hope he won't do anything dreadful,' 'said widow.
Then came the saddler and young Johnson, until they were all
there except William, the schoolmaster's son. The saddler was just
describing the wild look that Barker had in his eye, when they left
him, and the the widow was listening intently, when were all
startled by the loud report of a gun in the direction of Barker's
house.
'Struth!' exclaimed the blacksmith. 'He's gone and done it.'
The landlady screamed.
'Oh!' she cried. 'Go, for heaven's sake, and see what is the
matter.'
'Not me,' said the blacksmith. 'I don't want to be summoned to
no inquests.
'Nor I.' said the saddler.
'If he has shot himself,' said young Johnson, 'it will all come
out now. And what led him tomdo it?' What will Mrs. Atkins's
husband say?'
Just then a hurried footstep was heard on the verandah. A moment
later, in rushed Willam, the schoolmaster's son.
'Give me a drink, quickly!' he ssaid. I'm fainting. Oh, here's
the dreadful thing. Old Barker's shot himself.'
'You don't say so,' said the landlady.
'Yes; police will will be coming along directly, and they'll
carry the body in here. It's lying alongside the fence in pools of
blood.' There'll be an inquest to-morrow, and Mrs. Atkins will be
called as a witness. I'm off. I don't want to be here when they
bring the corpse in.' And he departed. He was quickly followed by
the others, and the landlady was left alone.
The boys went up the road, nudging each other as they went, and
they sat on the fence talking in low tones for half all hour. Then
they began to wonder how Mrs. Atkins received the news, and they
drew lots to see who should go and reconnoitre. The lot fell upon
William, and the others promised to wait for him.
Ina quarter of an hour he returned, looking seared and
troubled.
'Look here, boys,' he said, 'Barker's shot sure enough.'
In answer to frightened inquiries from his mates, he
eontiuued:
'It's a fact; and there's worse than that. I asked Mrs.
Macalistcr whether the police had brought the body in, and how Mrs.
Atkins was, and what do you think she told me? She said that Mrs.
Atkins was no more. The shock had gone to her heart, and she was no
more. They are in awful trouble up there. I saw the Methodist
parson on the stairs, and they've wired for a doctor, but it is all
no use. When Mrs. Macalister went upstairs after the shot was fired
it was all over with Mrs. Atkins. And then she told me that, to
save the disgrace of the thing, she paid old Joe a pound to go and
bury old Barker down his own well, and that he'd done it. So he
must have shot himself after all.'
'But there was only one report,' said the blacksmith. 'Why, you
must have shot him in the dark when you fired the gun.'
'Oh, good gracious! Don't say that,' said William, 'or we shall
all be run in as murderers and accessories and things. Let us get
home out of this.'
The next morning William had such a severe headache that he was
unable to come to breakfast. But, through the window blind he could
see Mrs. Macalister's, and the coach in front of the door. The
mails were on board, and the coach about to start, but the usual
idlers were absent.
The coachman stowed some luggage into the coach, and when the
last package had been arranged to his satisfaction, he went into
the hotel, and, after a brief interval, came out wiping his
lips.
Suddenly William shuddered, and ducked away from the window, for
he saw the local policeman coming up the street. With a throbbing
heart, and with beads of cold perspiration on his clammy forehead,
he sat on the side of his bed and waited. But he could not wait
long. He could not restrain his curiosity, and so, 'screwing up his
courage to the sticking point,' he peeped again. And the sight he
saw nearly took his breath away. For there, on the doorstep, in her
tailor-made suit, and looking more bewitching than ever, was Mrs.
Macalister's sister; and close behind her, in a new tweed suit,
with a bandbox in his hand, a flower in his coat, and a real cigar
in his mouth, was old Barker.
William thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes, and looked
again. And now old Barker had the cigar out of his mouth, and he
was actually kissing Mrs. Macalister. Then William rushed for his
waistcoat, and his coat, and his hat, but before he could find them
he heard the whip crack, and when he looked again the coach was
gone. There was nothing to be seen but Mrs. Macalister, standing on
the doorstep waving her handkerchief, with a tear glistening in her
eye, but with a roguish smile upon her lips.
Curiosity is a sensation not confined to women, notwithstanding
rumours to the contrary; and so it came about that shortly after
eleven o'clock that morning a party of shame-faced young men
sneaked into Mrs. Macalister's bar.
As they entered that lady placed her elbows on the bar, rested
her chubby chin upon her hands, and smiled benignly upon them.
'Well!' she said. 'None of you came to see my sister off.'
'Tell us all about it, Mrs. Macalister,' said the blacksmith.
'Didn't you tell William that your sister was dead?'
'No,' she said.
'Oh, Mrs. Macalister!' exclaimed the unhappy William, 'you said
she was no more.'
'I said,' replied Mrs. Macalister, 'that Mrs. Atkins was no
more. And it was true. She was Mrs. Barker then. The ceremony was
concluded just before William fired the gun.'
'Me?' said William.
But Mrs. Macalister only smiled.
'And are they married?' inquired Johnson, plaintively.
'They are, God bless them,' said Mrs. llacalister.
'And what about her husband?'
'He was killed in the Boer war. Barker was with him when he
died. Did Barker never show you his Victoria Cross?'
'No.'
'Oh! Just like him. He is too modest. He got it for rescuing Mr.
Atkins under a murderous fire at Modder River. And Atkins got shot
a week afterwards in a skirmish. But what will you take? Mr. Barker
left a sovereign for his friends to drink the health of his wife
and himself. You must want a drink, William. You look paler, now
than you did after seeing all those pools Of blood last night.'
So our standing joke was gone, and the township was left without
its one redeeming feature. It was as dull as a neglected cemetery
until Mr. and Mrs. Barker returned from their honeymoon. Barker
brought back the news that he was a rich man, and what had enriched
Barker subsequently enriched the township. His well was a
prospecting shaft. At the bottom of the well lay, not Barker's
corpse, but Barker's fortune. He had floated his five acres into a
company, and our days of dullness were gone for ever."
* * *
"I tink," remarked Otto, reflectively, "dhat I vas not mind to
pe old Parker, mineself. He vas haf better luck dhan Peter."
"Fancy Otto getting married," said Flanagan.
"Und vhy for vouldn't I tink of gettin' married?" asked
Otto.
"Wather will be running up hill when you get married, wid that
face," said Flanagan. "The girl that would tie herself to that face
for life, ud be a fit subject for an asylum. Her life 'ud be one
long-drawn-out nightmare."
"Ach!" said Otto, "your face vas not too good. I neffer had but
der von face, but dhere vas a girl vonce dhat vas vaht you call
gone on it. Ah, she vas der girl. Vas I effer told you apout
der girl I vonce go courtin' along of? Her name vas Yosephine. Und
she vas a fine girl und no mistake."
"She must have been a little bit dotty," said Flanagan.
"I don't know," said Joe. "I once knew an extremely pretty girl
who married a worse looking man that Otto."
"I should not have thought that possible," said Mr. McTavish,
"but women are curious creatures, and you do not always know what
they will do nor why they do it."
"If Flanagan vas try to keep a civil head in his tongue, I vas
told you apout Yosephine McGinty der girl dhat vas vhat you call
'gone on me."
"Well," said Flanagan, "I should like to hear it, because it
must be a strange story, but I think we had better have Joe's
first. It might prepare us. If we hear about one man that was
uglier than Otto, and who got married, it might at least make
Otto's yarn seem possible."
"I think we'll have Joe's tale first," said Mr. McTavish. Mr.
McTavish's word was law, so Otto had to subside while Joe told his
story.
Joe Millner
11. PIEBALD JIM. Joe's Story.
"'Did you ever hear of Piebald Jim?' asked the coachman.
'No; what was Piebald Jim—a horse or a man?'
'Oh, it was a man,' he answered, as he flicked a fly off the ear
of the near leader; 'You see, Piebald Jim was a nickname given to
him by the boys at the Muckerawa. He was about as ugly a chap as
you would meet in a hundred mile drive. One half of his face was
not so bad, and if you caught a glimpse of his profile on that side
it was passable. The other side, taking his nose as a dividing
line, was like the ground about the Muckerawa—patchy. It
varied in colour from rose pink to lead colour. He had neither
eyebrows nor lashes on the variegated side of his face, and his
mouth was twisted up at the corners like that of a bull pup when
he's aggravated. When he tried to laugh, which wasn't often, he
used to laugh with one side of his face only, while the other side
remained fixed, with a snarling expression, as if it was rebuking
the side that laughed, for its levity.
He lived in a tent along the Macquarie, near the Muckerawa, and
worked as a hatter. He never spoke unless he was spoken to, and
then it was never more than a quiet 'good day' as he passed the
camp. His name was Jim, and owing to his peculiar physiogonomy the
boys nicknamed him 'Piebald Jim.'
He had been living on the river about a year, when an event
happened which caused quite an excitement among the boys in the
district. This was the arrival of the new governess at Harper's
Flat.
Old Harper had struck it pretty rich on the Muckerawa, and had
been known to clean up as much as two pannikins full of gold in a
day. He then invested in sheep and did pretty well; and so as he
had been made a J.P., he engaged a governess from Sydney to teach
his children.
Before the new governess had been a month at Harper's all the
young fellows for miles around were going mad about her. There were
not many women about there in those days, in proportion to the men,
and what there were, were a mixed lot; but this new governess was a
beauty, and no mistake. I've knocked about a bit and seen a few.
I've been in Bathurst three times, and I once spent a fortnight in
Sydney; but Miss Kingsmill was about as fine a specimen as I ever
struck.
She was tall and straight, with a colour that always reminded me
of a bunch of red and white roses. She had brown eyes, as tender in
expression as those of a kangaroo, while the clustering curls of
her wavy brown hair seemed to be always inviting you to caress
them. Her mouth and lips, with the rows of pearly teeth within,
were simply perfect. I'm not good at describing females; I could
tell you the points of a horse better, but you can take my tip she
was a gem.
Well, the boys wanted to do the polite thing, you know, and they
talked it over at night around the camp fire. Jack Carson wanted to
serenade her, but we howled him down. He only suggested that
because he thought he could sing. He knew the first five or six
verses of 'The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington,' but I never knew
him to get beyond the third verse. When he got to the place where
it says:
'When all the maids of Islington,
Went forth to sport and play'
somebody was bound to hit him on the head with a wet soogee bag,
and that stopped him.
After several meetings it was carried unanimously that we should
invite the new governess-to a ball. We got the use of Harper's
woolshed, and each of the boys tried to outdo the other in making
the preparations. When the night arrived, it was a treat to see
them roll up. They each had on a new suit of clothes, and as there
was only one store at 'The Barks' in those days, there was a
certain amount of uniformity about the dress, but there wasn't a
pair of moleskins among them.
They had rounded up all the eligible females in the district,
and two or three came from 'The Barks.' We were all there before
sundown, and while the ladies were having a cup of tea in the house
we were all sitting round, smoking, on the grass, when who should
come cantering across the flat and through the slip-rails but
Piebald Jim.
Now; he had never been to any of the meetings, and nobody had
thought of asking him, because the idea of Piebald Jim coming to a
ball was too funny for anything. I should as soon have thought of
entering my near wheeler for the Melbourne Cup. What girl would be
seen dancing with Piebald Jim? The boys all started laughing when
they saw him coming, and I thought some of them would take a
fit.
'Coming to the ball, Jimmy?' said Jack Carson.
'Yes,' drawled Jimmy in his quiet way, 'I thought I'd come in
honour of Miss Kingsmill.'
Then there was another laugh, but he took no notice; and turned
his horse into the yard.
Soon after that the ladies came down from the house, and the
boys all got excited. There was an agreement among them that there
was to be a fair start. Nobody was to engage Miss Kingsmill for a
dance until the M.C. gave the signal. Sullivan from 'The Barks' was
M.C., and when he sang out 'Take your partners for the first
quadrille,' you may bet there was a rush for her. Amongst the rest,
who should walk forward, but Piebald Jim. The moment she saw him
she left off laughing and turned pale, and several of us were going
to remonstrate with him, for we thought that she was frightened at
his ugly physiognomy, when he said quietly, 'Miss Bessie,' and his
voice seemed to quiver and shake a bit, as if it had got over the
traces, and he had a job to manage it.
She started forward, and we might as well have been a lot of
sheep waiting in that shed to be shorn, as I'd often seen them, for
all the notice she took of us.
She seized his two hands in hers, and looked him straight in the
face. There was a tear glistening like a dewdrop in each of her
eyes, as she said in a soft tone, 'Is that you, Mr. Haydon?'
And then came the most curious part of the whole performance,
for she threw her two pretty arms round his neck and—kissed
him! actually kissed him! kissed Piebald Jim! in front of all the
company! kissed him twice! once on the good cheek and once on the
patchy one. And then the colour spread like a sunset all over her
face, neck and shoulders, right up among the curls that clustered
on her forehead. All the roses were turned to red ones. Then she
covered her face with her hands and sobbed as if her heart would
break.
Mrs. Harper took her outside, and we stopped the music. Of
course we couldn't open the ball without her, and about
half-a-dozen young fellows got into a group at the lower end of the
shed and talked the matter over.
Dan Fitzgibbons, a young giant from the Yahoo, wanted to take
Jim outside and 'stouch' him.
'Ain't he got a blinded cheek,' said he, 'to let the handsomest
girl in the country put her arms round his neck and kiss him?'
But just then Harper came in and got up on a table at the other
end of the room. Now, Harper, although he was a J.P., wasn't a bad
sort, an and the boys all respected him, and so they listened to
hear what he had to say.
'Boys,' he commenced, 'we are going to start the first
quadrille, and Miss Kingsmill and our esteemed friend, Mr. Hayden
(here he pointed to Piebald Jim), are going to take tops. Before we
start the music, however, and so that there will be no
misunderstanding among us, I am going to tell you a little
story.'
And then he told us the following yarn:—
'Eight years ago,' said he, 'there was a small rush at Cawley's
Creek. Miss Kingsmill's father kept a store there. Down the creek
there was a young fellow working named James Haydon, who was known
among his friends as 'Handsonne Jim.' You needn't laugh, Carson,
it's a fact, and any man who don't believe what I say, or who don't
want to listen, can leave my woolshed.'
They were all quiet after this, and he went on:—
'Well, Jim Haydon used to call at the store as he passed, and
never called without some little present in his pocket for
Kingsmill's daughter, Bessie, then a golden-haired little lassie of
ten. One night, while Kingsnnill was away, the store caught fire.
Mrs. Kingsmill had barely time to drag the two Younger children out
in their night dresses, when the whole of the frail structure was a
mass of flame. A crowd soon collected, but the people felt that
they could do nothing except watch the flames as they leapt
upwards, licking with tongues of fire, weatherboards, and studs,
tie beams and rafters, right up to the ridge-pole.
Suddenly Jim Haydon came running up, and his first words were,
'Where's Bessie?'
'My God!' exclaimed Mrs. Kingsmill, 'my child, where is my
child? She is not here, she must still be sleeping, or suffocated.
For Heaven's sake, save my child.'
Jim Haydon at once ran forward, but for a man to attempt to
enter that burning building seemed insanity itself. The roof was
likely to fall at any moment.
'Come back!' shouted a dozen voices, but Jim took no notice and
went steadily forward. 'Come back Jim you can't do any good,' said
several of his mates. Still Jim, with his arm before his face to
protect it from the heat, continued his advance.
Then a voice, louder than the rest, and in a tone which sent a
thrill of horror through every heart in the crowd said:—
'For God's sake, Jim, come back. There's powder in the
store.'
But even this did not make Jim come back. On the contrary, he
redoubled his efforts and his speed. He made a wild dash forward,
and disappeared\ into the burning building. For a few moments
everybody held their breath. Not a sound was heard but the roaring
and crackling of the flames as they cast a lurid light upon the
horrific faces of the spectators. Even Mrs. Kingsmill's sobs were
stifled.
Suddenly Jim was seen at a side window, groping his way, with a
bundle in his arms. He had taken off his coat and thrown it round
the sleeping child, and now, with his shirt ablaze, he handed his
precious burden through the window to a sturdy miner who, bolder
than the rest, had sprung forward to receive her, and who quickly
ran with her to a place of safety.
Jim attempted to follow, but at that moment two burning rafters
from the roof fell across the window and barred his pasage. A cry
of horror burst from every throat as Jim was seen to tug for a
moment at the blazing timber, and then, before the cry had ceased
there was heard a dull report. Burning pieces of timber, sheets of
hot iron, and myriads of glowing embers were scattered in all
directions. Like a fiery fountain a mass of sparks flew upwards
towards the sky, eclipsing fora moment the light of the stars, and
then, scarcely ten minutes from the first alarm, what had before
been a mass of fire, was nothing but a smouldering heap of
ruins.
And where was Jim?
Among the debris they found him, blackened, bleeding, scorched,
and perfectly unconscious, but still alive. Tenderly they bore him
to the nearest hospital, and for weeks the spark of life flickered
in his poor, wounded body, threatening every moment to expire.
He mended, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, for Jim had
wonderful endurance and vitality, as well as splendid courage, and
in six months he was discharged, He was cured as well as surgical
skill could cure him, but all the surgical skill could not restore
his good looks, and he was terribly and permanently disfigured.
Immediately after the fire Kingsmill sent his family to Sydney,
and when Jim was out of danger, followed himself. Since the night
of the fire Bessie and Jim had never met until this evening, 'but
now,' concluded Harper, with a determined glance at the company,
'now, at my special request, they are going to take tops.'
Every man in the room pressed forward to shake hands with
Piebald Jim.
When Dan Fitzgibbons had shaken hands with him, he said solemnly
to those around him: 'Look here, boys, ten minutes ago I was
talking like a blinded fool, about stouching Mr. Haydon, and I beg
his pardon. I never begged a man's pardon in my life, but I beg his
pardon, and if any man in the room objects to me begging his
pardon, if that man will step outside, by ghost, I'll stouch him.'
There was no objection, however, and we went on with the music.
That was five years ago.
Do you see that little cottage under the hill yonder—the
one with the baby roses and wistaria growing up the verandah?
That's where Mr. and Mrs. Haydon live. As she remarked to Mrs.
Harper: 'She gave into his keeping the life he had risked his own
to save.'
The two little dots you can see moving about among the peach
trees are the sun-bonnets of their two little girls. They both take
after their mother; they are neither of them like 'Piebald
Jim'."
* * *
"I am glad," said Arthur, "that Bessie married the man who saved
her life. Most women would have forgotten their debt of gratitude,
and married a man for his good looks."
"I don't think so," said Charlie, "you know the most beautiful
of the Goddesses married the ugliest of the Gods."
"Yes," remarked Mr. McTavish, "but she was na faithful to him.
All other things being equal, no woman would prefer an ugly man to
a handsome one."
"If they did," said Flanagan, "what a lady-killer Otto would
be."
"If ugliness were a passport to the female heart," said Charley,
"Otto would be first and the rest of us nowhere."
"Fancy Otto having a sweetheart," said Arthur.
"He did have one," said Charley. "He is going to tell us all
about her."
We waited for sonic time while Otto ruminated.﹃What are you
thinking about, Otto?﹄said Joe.
"Mine mind vas lookin' forvards a long time into der past. I vas
tinkin' of der story I vas promise to tell you. Ah! Yosephine, how
I vas lofe you. You vas der apple of mine eye, and der milk of mine
cocoanut. But listen and I vill told you apout her."
Otto
12. JOSEPHINE MCGINTY. Otto's
Story.
"It vas like dhis. I vas prospecting in der New England
district. I vas camp at a place apout ten miles from Armitale, und
I egspect a letter from Sydney. So, von Saturday afternoons I puts
me on a clean shirt, und I valks to der post office, apout two
miles avay. In der front of der post office vas a leetle hole,
vhere dhey gifs out der letters. So I go to der leetle hole und I
looks in, but I sees nobody or nottings. I knocks mit mine knuggles
at der shlabs, und dhen I fills mine shmoke pipe. I gets mine pipe
full und dhen I shtrikes a match, und all at vonce der leetle hole
he seemed to fill mit sunshine. I know no more till der match he
burn mine finger, und dhen I say soomtins, und a shveet voice say
mit a shmile, 'Oh fie! You ought not to shvear.'
I looks again, und I forget I burns mine finger. I sees, in der
leetle hole, like a picture in a frame, der lofeliest face mine eye
vas neffer seen. It vas Yosephine McGinty. Her shkin vas as shmooth
as a sheet of paper, her cheeks und her lips vas as red as der end
of mine nose, und vhen she laugh, she show a set of teeth, better
und vhiter as vhat you see in der dentists' show cases. Her eyes
vas like two black diamonds, und her hair vas friz all ofer her
head, und as black as der ace of shpades. Her dress vas not button
qvite oop to der top, und her throat look like it was carve out of
ifory. I look at her for effer so long, und she look at me. I tink
of Lurline at der bottom of der Rhine, und all der lofely female
vomens I hear of in odher places, und I laughs und dhen she laughs,
und dhen ve both laughs together. Dhen she say:
'Can I do anytings for you?'
Und I say, 'Yah, you can do efferytings mit me.'
Dhen she say, 'Do you coom for a letter?'
Und I say, 'Yah,' und I drops mine pipe on der ground und laughs
again. Dhen she ask me mine name, und I say 'Von Stuntze,' und she
gifes me a letter. Dhen she cooms out on der verandah, und my vord,
she vas a fine girl. She veigh apout twelfe shtone, und vhen she
shtep on der verandah, she made der tin on der roof rattle again.
Und I tink I neffer seen so fine a girl, mithout she vas a vax vone
in a barber's shop. Und I say to her, Vhat vas your name?'
Und she say, 'Yosephine McGinty.' Und she bite der corner of her
teeth mit her apron, und look at me mit der corner of her eye, und
I drops mine pipe again, und dhen ve both laughs again, und I goes
avay to mine camp, und I neffer seem to touch der ground till I got
dhere. I valk on der air. I see her all der vay, I see her vhite
teeth bitin' her apron, und her two eyes lookin' at me out of der
corners. I sees der leetle hole filled mit sunshine, und I hears
der tin on der roof rattle again. Vhen I gets to mine camp, I
heafes a sigh, und I say to mineself, 'Ach! but she vas a fine
girl. I vas a better good mind to shtick oop to dhat
Yosephine.'
Vell, I neifer egspects no more letters, but I go effery day or
two to der post, und dhat Yosephine she get to know me, und she
call me 'Otto,' und I call her 'Yosephine,' und effery day I say to
mine-self, 'I tink I vas shtick oop mit dhat Yosephine.'
Und I hear she hafe no modher und her father is old, und he own
der farm, und she have no brodhers, und no sisters, und no nobody.
So I say to mineself, 'I vill shtick oop mit dhat girl
Yosephine.'
Und I shticks oop mit her, und she shticks oop mit me, und ve
both shticks oop mit von anodher. I buy her ribbons, und glofes,
und tings, und she borrow money of me und forget to pay me, und I
say to her, 'Yoseplriiie, vill you be mine frau?'
Und she say 'Yah,' und she laugh, und shmack mine face und
loosen two of mine teeth und preak mine pipe, und ve vas shoost as
happy as two leetle toves.
I vas on good gold at this time, un peside vat I pay for mine
tucker, I shpend all mine money on Yosephine. I buy her new pridles
und ridin' whips, und all sorts. She porrow more half-crowns, und
half-sovereigns, und neffer pay me back soom more.
Von day I goes to der post, und I knocks at der leetle hole, und
I shtoops minself down, mit mine head under it, until I hears soom
von coom to it, und dhen I says to mineself, 'Now der hole is
filled mit sunshine, und I vill hafe a lark.' So I pops up mine
head und say 'Boo.' But vhen I look, dhere vas no sunshine dhere.
Instead of mine Yosephine, it vas her Father, und he say, 'You
dirty Dutch pig, if you play your larks on me soom more like dhat,
I knocks you outside in.'
So I peg his pardon, und say I vas lace oop mine poot, und tell
him it vas a fine day, und ask him for letters und he get cool
again.
Dhen I say, 'Where vas Yosephine?' Und he tell me she vas go for
a holiday. Und I say, 'Vhere to!' Und he shlam, der vindow in mine
face.
Und I goes pack to mine camp, und it seemed apout ten miles.
Mine feet got as heavy as if mine poots vas soled und heeled mit
lead. Vhen I got pack, der fire vas out, und I couldn't light it;
und der vind vas moanin' und sighin in der trees, und I couldn't
eat mine tea mit a lump in mine throat, und I vondered vhere vas
Yosephine, und vhy she go und not tell me first. Und I neffer go to
der post any more for a month egsept apdut vonce a veek, und I take
tobacco for der old man, und I shmoke mit him for half an hour or
two, und dhen I say to him again, 'Vhere vas Yosephine. Did you
hear from her?'
Und he say 'No.' Und I go pack to mine camp, und I creep into
mine tent, und lay avake all der time I am asleep, und I get as
thin as a pick-handle.
She vas gone tree veeks vhen I goes to Armitale. I sells mine
gold, und I buys soom tucker, und soom pants und a shirt, und I
shpends all der rest in glofes und lace und a pound of lollies und
a leetle gold prooch und I goes pack to wait for anodher veek.
At last I counts oop der time und I find she vas gone four
veeks. So I puts on mine new pants und shirt, und I takes der
glofes und der lollies und avay I goes to der post. As I go along,
a leetle bird seem to sing in mine ear, 'Yosephine is pack!
Yosephine is pack!' So I shteps out qvick until I gets vhere I
could see der post—und dhen I goes slow.
I sees, on der verandah' a lots of peoples, und among der rest
vas Yosephine. How lofely she look, mit her vhite dress und her
pink cheeks all covered ofer mit plue ribbons. Der peoples vere all
talking und laughin', und vhen she laughed it reminded me of a
Yerman band, vhen der flute play a solo und all der rest of der
instruments accompany. Und she vas der flute. She valked along der
verandah, und der tin rattle again. Und dhen I tinks of nottings
but Yosephine, und I sees nottings but Yosephine, und I hears
nottings but Yosephine. She fill mine eyes, mine prain, mine ears,
mine efferytings. I roosh forvards und I say, 'Yosephine! mine
leetle frau!'
I vas like to be able to forget der rest vhat followed
aftervord. Vhen I dhat forgets, I, shall nottings at all remember.
I goes to roosh at Yosephine und to take her hand, but she looks at
me und laughs. (She vas alvays laughin'). Und she says, 'Dutchy,
you vas fool.'
Dhen I looks at her, und I says, 'I hafe peen so lonely all der
month mithout you. Gife me von leetle kiss, now you vas pack.'
Shoost at dhat moment, if not sooner, a great pig fellow in a
red shirt mit sandy vhiskers and ridin' pants, cooms to me und
says:
'Look here, Dutchy, do you know dhat you vas speakin' to mine
vife?'
I looked at him und I tried to speak, but mine tongue vouldn't
vork. Mine heart yumped into mine throat, und dhen fell into mine
poots. I got hot, und dhen I got cold. Mine eyes vas shvimmin' und
der people on der verandah got mixed. Der rattle of der tin seemed
to be a mile avay. Dhen mine tongue began to vork again. Und I zay,
'You red teffil, you lie like efferytings.'
Dhen he say, 'Get out of dhis, or I varm it oop for you.'
I look him town und oop, und dhen oop und town again, und dhen I
ducks mine head, und I at him runs like a dozen mad bulls. I tries
to putt him in der pelly, put he svings his great pig fist, und
vhen I vas goin' to hit him in der pelly, I hits him a shlog in der
fist mit mine head, und town I fall und see apout ten million
shtars all at vonst. Und I vish der ground vas der sea, so dhat I
could sink down und neffer coom oop some more. Dhen I shoomps me
oop again, und I sees a pig shtone in der front of der verandah, as
pig as mine two fists, und I shtoops to pick it oop, but as I vas
shtoopin', he vas so mean as to take hold of mine collar und mine
trousers pehind, und he ooplifts me ofer his head, carries me
across der road und drops me into a pig vater-hole, und I go
splash, vhere dhey drinks der cows. Dhen he throws after me mine
parcel, mit der glofes und der lollies und all der odher things,
und der first ting I hears vhen I cooms oop und vas shpittin' out
der vater, vas dhat Yosephine, laughin' like efferytings.
Cooling Otto's Ardour
So I crinds oop mine teeth, und I shakes mine fist, und dhen I
picked oop mine parcel und valked pack to mine camp. Und I neffer
know how far it seemed. I vas a long vay off from mineself all der
vay. I makes oop der fire, und I pokes der parcel into der fire,
und I crawl into-mine tent all cold und vet, und I lay all night
thinkin' of Yosephine in der arms of dhat pig red teffil, mit der
pig fist.
At daylight I shtrike mine tent, und make mine tracks for
anywhere. Vhen I gets on der top Of der pig hill, I looks at der
post-office for der last time, but dhere vas no more sunshine, nor
music nor anytings. Und I tinks of der days dhat vas gone, und I
shakes mine fist und sigh und hoomps mine shvag. Und I valk, mit
der lead on der soles of mine poots, und der sun, instead of
cheerin' me he only burn me till I shiver again. Dhere vas der
magpies all pokin' dheir fun at me, und der laughin' yackass, he
say, 'Ha, ha, ha! Yosephine coom pack. He-he-he-he! Ha-ha-ha-ha!
Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!'
Und I valk, und valk, und valk, for a long time I don't know
vhere. But at last I gets mineself petter again. But I neffer
writes no more letters, und I neffer goes to no post-offices, und
if I, at any time sees "a pig man mit red vhiskers I tinks of
Yosephine, und I grinds oop mine teeth und say 'Ach,' und I shvears
und kicks mineself, und I vish der ground vas der sea, so dhat I
could sink me down und neffer coom oop soom more for effer und
effer und effer."
* * *
"Faith," said Flanagan, when Otto had finished, "She shtruek him
hard in a soft place, but it's just like the women, they'll play
wid a man till they break his heart, und then they'll drop him like
a hot shpud."
"Well," said Mr. McTavish, "we have only the one side of the
story. Perhaps, if we heard the tale told by Miss McGinty it might
put a different light on it. It struck me as Otto was telling the
tale that he was not altogether a disinterested lover. I noticed as
he told us of his love, that he was not sufficiently infatuated to
declare his passion before he had made sure that her father was
pretty snugly off. Perhaps he mourned the loss of the farm as much
as the lass. And it is just possible that she saw through him.
Women have great intuition. I have known cases where men have made
love through motives of self-interest. I could tell you of a case
that happened not so far from here; but perhaps somebody else has a
story to tell."
But everybody repudiated the idea of telling a story while Mr.
McTavish was willing to tell one, and he was unanimously pressed to
begin.
"Well," he said, "it is not a very long story, but I think it
contains a moral, and it may serve to illustrate, to a certain
extent, the remarks I was making about Otto's tale. So, as you seem
to wish it, I will tell you."
Mr. McTavish
13. COMMERCIAL COMPETITION. Mr.
Mctavish's Story.
"There were two hotels in the township of Gumbargo. They were
characteristic of the township. One—the Gumbargo
Hotel—stood in the hollow near the bridge. It was a low,
one-storeyed building, frequented by teamsters and shearers. It
represented a class—the class that gained its living by the
sweat of its brow.
The other represented those who usually wore white collars, and
called themselves the genteel class. It was called the
'Commercial,' and boasted a sample room. It was here that bank
managers played billiards with the school inspector, in the
presence of the postmaster and the principal storekeepers. It stood
on the hill, was two storeys high, had a balcony, and, with an air
of importance, looked down upon its humble neighbour in the hollow,
near the bridge.
They both did a thriving trade, which was the only similarity,
between them. They each had their own peculiar advantages. The
Gumbargo Hotel could boast that, in the olden times, the police had
had an encounter with a noted bushranger under its very verandah,
and it could point with pride to the bullet holes in the posts.
The Commercial could claim no such distinction, but it could
boast of the fact that its affairs were ruled by as handsome a
widow as ever smiled at a weary bagman over a cosy bar.
There were only two stores in Gumbargo and the volume of trade
was small, but the number of commercial travellers who found it
necessary to spend a night there was surprisingly large. It was
remarkable, too, that ninety-nine per cent. of them were bachelors.
It may be mentioned that rumour credited Mrs. Pringle with being
the owner of a snug banking account.
Josiah Nickleskin represented the Commonwealt Gas Engine
Company. The nearest gas to Gumbargo was twenty miles away, yet
Josiah Nickleskin used to call regularly once a month.
Peter Switcham travelled for Messrs. Spark and Cable, importers
of electric light appliances. He never yet got an order in
Gumbargo, but he came all the same.
One hot evening in December, when Gumbargo was looking even
sleepier than usual, Mr. Peter Switcham drove in from the east as
Mr. Josiah Nickleskin drove in from the west, and they pulled up
simultaneously at the door of the Commercial.
'Good evening, Switcham,' said Josiah, scowling as he spoke;
'just keep an eye on the horses, and I'll go in and tell them we
are here.'
'Sorry, old chap,' said Switcham 'but I must go in—I'm
parched.'
'So am I!' said Josiah.
It happened that Peter's horse would stand anywhere, while it
was not safe for Josiah to leave his, so Peter entered the bar
first.
'Good evening, Mrs. Pringle, said he. As blooming as ever. I
hope you are well?'
'Quite well, thank you,' said the widow, smiling graciously.
'Who is in the other trap?'
'Oh!' replied Peter, 'it is only that bounder, Nickleskin. Let
him wait. I'm dying for a drink!
'Joe!' called the wldow, see to the horses.' Then, turning to
Peter, she asked what it was to be.
He had scarcely mentioned the name of it, when Niekleskin
entered the bar, and with no very good grace, Peter invited him to
say, 'What it was to be.' And he promptly gave it a name.
'How's business?' said Peter, as he blew the froth off it.
'Fairly brisk,' replied Josiah, following his exam ple.
'I suppose you are going on to-night,' remarked Peter,
casually.
'No, I'm not!' said Josiah.
'That's a pity,' said Peter. 'I met a man in Boolah that was
inquiring after a gas engine. He'll probably be gone in the
morning.' Then, as Josiah did not reply, he added, 'Its only twenty
miles and there'll be a beautiful moon to-night.'
'Couldn't do it!' said Josiah; 'my horse wouldn't stand it. Your
horse seems fresh enough. Old Raynor, at Dingo Creek, is talking of
installing the electric light in his shearing shed. You ought to
push on to his place. It's only ten miles, and he'll put you up for
the night.'
'Couldn't think of it, old chap—my mare wants a shoe.'
'Won't you go into the smoking-room?' said the widow. 'Dinner
will be ready in about half an hour.' And, as she led the way, they
both followedd.
She chatted for a few moments, and then ran ay to superintend
the preparations for dinner.
Nickleskin, who was short and fat, sank into an easy chair.
Switcham, who was tall and thin, leaned against the mantelpiece.
They both yawned.
'You'll have nice time to take your mare and get her shod before
dinner,' said Josiah. 'I'm going to have a doze.'
'Doze away,' said Peter; 'don't mind me. I'll get the mare shod
in the morning.'
He took up a paper and pretended to read; in the meantime eyeing
Nickleskin furtively. But Josiah didn't sleep; and every time Peter
glanced up from his paper he caught Josiah's eye.
Josiah at length remarked to him, 'Don't You think it a was a
waste of time to come to a place like Gumbargo to try to sell
electric appliances?'
'No, I don't!' spapped Peter. 'And if I did I suppose I can
please myself. If, however, I was travelling for gas engines, I
should confine myself to places where gas was available.'
'Not if you were me,' said Josiah. 'I don't come here to sell
gas engines.'
'I thought nota' said Peter, smiling sarcastically.
'What do you mean?' snorted Nickleskin.
'What I say!' snapped Switcham.
'I believe,' said Nickleskin, 'that you have an ulterior motive
in coming here.'
'Well, and if I have?'
'If I thought you had I'd—'
'What?'
'Never you mind.'
'Well, then, never you mind.'
For some time they smoked in silence, Nickleskin puffing huge
clouds from a pipe, Switcham curling fantastic rings from a
cigar.
Nickleskin was the first to break the silence. He gently
murmured, 'Cad!'
Mr. Switcham softly responded, 'Puppy!'
'Did you speak?' snorted Nickleskin.
'I was speaking to myself,' said Peter.
'Oh!' replied Josiah. 'Then, in that case the remark was very
appropriate.'
'Look here, Nickleskin,' said Peter, speaking convulsively, 'you
are wasting your time. I know why you hang about here. But if you
think Mrs. Pringle would throw herself away on a hedgehog, you are
vastly mistaken!'
'Switcham,' said Josiah, 'you cannot hoodwink me. But let me
tell you you are making an ass of yourself. If you think that that
woman would tie herself up for life to a scarecrow, it is simply a
proof that you are suffering from chronic mental aberration. You
ought to take advice. Your brain wants cleaning.'
'Nickleskin,' exclaimed Switcham, scornfully, 'I despise you!
You are an abnormity!'
'Switcham!' retorted Nickleskin, sarcastically, 'go and get
analysed. You are a bye-product!'
'Gentlemen,' said Mrs. Pringle, popping her head through the
doorway, 'dinner is ready.'
'You are looking as stout and well as ever, Mr. Nickleskin! said
the widow, when they were seated.
Nickleskin bowed, and beamed at the widow.
'It's not healthy fat,' remarked Switcham. 'Permit me to help
you to bread.'
Nickleskin snorted.
Stout men are good-tempered as a rule,' he said. 'Don't you
think so Mrs. Pringle?'
'I don't know,' said the widow, glancing alternately at Peter
and Josiah. 'I always prefer to value a man by his intellectual
qualifications.'
'Quite right!' said Nickleskin. 'Dr. Johnson was inclined to be
stout. So was Lord Salisbury and—
'So was the prize pig's fat aunt,' interjected Peter.
'Did you address that observation to me?' demanded Josiah.
'I did not,' replied Peter; 'but if you think the comparison is
obvious, I have no objection.'
Custard, gentlemen or stewed fruit?' said the widow, smiling
sweetly.
'Neither, thank you,' said Josiah.
'Both, please,' said Peter.
Josiah played nervously with his serviette, while Peter ate his
stewed fruit and custard; then, taking a letter from his pocket he
tore off a blank sheet and scribbled: 'Switcham, you are a bounder.
Will you meet me in the back paddock immediately after dinner?'
He tossed it over to Peter, and glared at him, drumming his
fingers upon the table.
Peter turned up the corner and wrote, Nickleskin, you are
another; I will.' And he passed it back to Josiah.
They met. And, according to the usual custom on such occasions,
they pulled off their coats and faced each other with grim
determination.
'Nickleskin,' said Peter, 'I'm willing to give you a chance.
Will you apologise?' and his voice was tremulous with suppressed
rage or some other emotion.
'No,' snorted Josiah; 'I will not apologise. Will You?'
'No.'
'Then come on.'
For some tine they danced round each Other, waving their fists
frantically, and several times they approached so closely that
there seemed imminent danger of one or other getting hurt.
At length they paused for breath. They glared savagely at each
other, when suddenly Switcham, who had the advantage in length of
limb, reached forward far enough to touch Nickleskin's nose.
A copious stream of red liquid at once began to flow from that
organ. Josiah, when he saw his vital fluid ebbing uselessly away,
gave a snort of rage, and regardless of consequences, he rushed
forward and planted his head with terrific force in that portion of
Peter's anatomy where, at that moment, the stewed fruit and custard
were presumably reposing.
With a sigh something like that of a broken-winded horse, Peter
doubled up like a jack-knife, sank gracefully to the ground, and
placed his hand upon the bottom of his light fancy waistcoat. When
he raised it and saw that it was stained with blood he groaned.
'Miserable wretch!' he exclaimed, 'you have punctured me. My
blood will be upon your head. Hereafter you will wander beneath the
curse of Cain. Leave me to die in peace.'
'Since you so desire it, I will, with pleasure,' said Josiah,
and gathering together his coat, hat and other belongings, he made
his way back to the house. For some minutes, thinking his end was
nigh, Switcham lay on the ground groaning. He tried to pass in
review all the events of his life, as he had read of dying people
doing; but he could not. Then the thought suddenly flashed across
his mind that perhaps while he was lying there his rival was
talking with the widow, and thus getting an unfair advantage; so
jumping to his feet, he, too, made his way to the house.
On his arrival he was told that the widow had gone out to spend
the evening with a friend, and that Mr. Nickleskin had gone to bed.
After a stiff glass of whisky he retired, too.
The following morning Peter, who could not bear the thought of
sitting at table with his hated rival, stayed in bed until
half-past nine. Nickleskin, who would have gone without breakfast
for a week rather than eat it in company with his adversary of the
previous evening, stayed in bed until twenty minutes to ten. The
result was, as the clock was striking ten, they entered the
breakfast room simultaneously by opposite doors.
The widow bade them a pleasant 'Good morning,' and ordered
breakfast. Josiah and Peter were taciturn and morose, the widow
talkative and merry.
When the meal was drawing to a close she said, 'Gentlemen, you
are both old friends of mine, and have been good customers. You
will be leaving this morning, and it is only fair that I should
tell you that before you come again there will be some alterations
here. We are going to put some additions to the building. You both
know Mr. Dingle, who keeps the Gumbargo Hotel? No? Well,' continued
the widow, as she toyed with her teaspoon, 'he is a very nice man.
He and I were talking the matter over last night, and we have
decided that under judicious management one hotel could do all the
business that is now done by two. And so—he is going to close
the Gumbargo Hotel, and we are going to run the combined business
at the Commercial. We shall build fresh stables, enlarge the
sample-room, and—'
'Are you going into partnership?' said Switcham, nervously.
'Yes,' said the widow, coyly. 'We are—to be—married
to-morrow.'
Half an hour later Mr. Nickleskin drove off to the east, and Mr.
Switcham to the west, and the township of Gumbargo saw them no
more."
* * *
"I vas told you a yarn apout vhen I vas on der vest coast of New
Zealand," said Otto.
"I beg leave to propose that the West Coast of New Zealand be
adjourned sine die," said Charley.
"Vhat you call sine die?" enquired Otto.
"It means," said Charley, "that it be postponed without any
definite time being fixed for its hearing."
"If you put it off for so long as dhat," growled Otto, "you
might put it Oof for so long as neffer vas. It vas a good yarn,
und—Ach! yurnpin' Moses!"
Otto had been sitting on the bottom of an upturned bucket, and
he uttered the above exclamation because, while he was speaking,
the bucket had been suddenly kicked from under him, and as a
consequence, Otto was left sprawling upon the ground.
"Yumpin' Moses!" repeated Otto, as he sprang to his feet, "If I
vas catch der man vhat kick dhat bucket, I vas be all ofer him
pefore he could say Yaek."
"Sure," said Flanagan, "you wouldn't be hard on a man that was
just afther kickin' the bucket, would you?"
"Py shenks! I vas soon make him mind his Q's and P's," said.
Otto. "I vas pretty gvick show him dhat I know how many five beans
make. He might hafe made me preak mine pipe."
"Hulloa, Jim," said Flanagan, "What brings you here?"
The question was addressed to a boy who made his appearance,
carrying a bag on his shoulder.
"I've brought the butter," said Jim.
Jim was the son of a neighbouring farmer, and was in the habit
of visiting the camp at intervals to bring supplies of butter,
eggs, and other commodities to replenish our stock.
"Vas you der von dhat kick dhat pucket?" enquired Otto.
"When?" asked Jim, innocently.
"Vhy, shoost now," said Otto. "If I tought you vas, py
shenks!"
"Do I look like a boy that had just kicked the bucket?" asked
Jim.
"Do I, Mr. Falconer?"
"No, Jim," said. Charley, "you do not."
"I've brought the butter," repeated Jim, evidently wishing to
change the subject, "and Ma said she thought Otto might like a
turkey for tomorrow, so she sent one as a present. She says she
won't put it in the bill."
"Ach!" said Otto, as Jim took a fine fat turkey from his bag,
"you vas der pully poy mit der glass eye."
Peace being restored, Jim took his seat by the fire, and
remarked that it was fine weather for lambing.
"What's the news over at the farm?" said Flanagan.
"Nothing much," said Jim, "it's always the same old thing you
know, milking and churning, and fetching up the cows, and all that
sort of thing. We don't get much change. I sometimes feel as if
life wasn't worth living, I do."
And then Jim began to laugh softly to himself.
"What are you laughing at?" said Flanagan.
"Oh, nothing," said Jim, "I was thinking of Mr. Thatcher, that's
all."
"Who's Mr. Thatcher?" enquired Flanagan.
"Oh," said Jim, "he was a visitor. He was a bit of a
change."
"Tell us about him," said Flanagan.
"I will, if you promise not to tell Lou."
"What has Lou to do wid it?" said. Flanagan.
"You'll know when you hear it," said Jim.
We all entered into a solemn promise not to tell Lou, and Jim
began.
14. LOU'S YOUNG MAN. Jim's
Story.
"We all had a down on him before we saw him. That wasn't his
fault. It was Lou's. She blowed about him so. If she hadn't cracked
him up the way she did, we shouldn't have had a down on him.
She met him in Sydney. She went down to the Show, and she stayed
with Aunt Betty. Lou was the only one of us, except Dad, who had
ever been to Sydney. That made her proud and uppish. She had a good
time when she was in Sydney. At least, she said she did, but girls
will say anything when they get uppish. I suppose she reckoned she
had a good time because she met him there.
When Dad went to bring Lou home, Dad met him. Dad didn't get
uppish about it; he invited hint to come up to our place for
Easter. But we had enough of him long before Easter. Lou never gave
him a rest. She was the only one of us who ever had a young man, so
far as I know. Ma might have had one once. I don't know. I never
heard her say so, but Ma's pretty close.
I didn't mind Lou having a young man. I'm only a boy—at
least, they treat me as a boy, although I've got a moustache
coming—but the other girls didn't like it. At least they
didn't like her blowing about it so.
Itwas sickening. From morning to night it was Mr.
Thatcher this, and Mr. Thatcher that, until we were all chock full
of Mr. Thatcher.
If Dollie said the jam was nice, Lou was sure to say:—
"Oh! yes. We must save some of that till Mr. Thatcher
comes!"
The back bedroom wanted papering. I had promised her for months
that I would paper it—some day—when we got newspapers
enough. There was plenty of time, but she wouldn't let me rest.
"Now, Jim, how about that back bedroom? We must get it done
before Mr. Thatcher comes, you know."
She made us do her share of the milking while she was amusing
herself whitewashing the kitchen, and digging and weeding the
garden, because she wanted it to look nice before Mr. Thatcher
came.
Then she got Dad to get her a new riding habit, and some new
gloves, and lace, and back combs and things, because she wanted to
look nice when Mr. Thatcher came.
She's not a bad sort, for a girl, and I did all t could for her,
but she wanted too much. I got tired.
One day I had a geography lesson to study, so I took a couple of
apples, some scones, and some comic papers down under the willows,
so as to study nice and quiet, but I hadn't been there half an
hour—at least, it didn't seem half an hour—when down
she bounced, and whisked the paper out of my hand, and said she
wanted me to nail Some palings on the garden fence, because the
fowls were getting in, and scratching up the flowers, and Mr.
Thatcher was so fond of flowers.
So I said, 'Oh! hang Mr. Thatcher!' the before I knew where I
was, she had me by the collar of my shirt, and was shaking me that
way that if she'd kept on much longer I should have spit blood or
something.
Dollie asked Lou, one day, what Mr. Thatcher was.
'Oh!' says Lou, getting uppish again, 'He's in the soft goods
line.'
'What's that?' says Dollie.
'You mind your own business!' says Lou.
I could see she didn't know what it was, any more than we did,
but she pretended that she knew everything since she'd been to
Sydney.
But, as Archie Boyle says: 'Everything comes to those who
wait.'
Archie Boyle lives on the place adjoining ours. He's a grand
chap, is Archie. He's got a sheep dog that took first prize at the
Sydney Show. But as I was saying, everything comes to those who
wait, and so the day came when hewas to come.
Dad drove to the station to meet him. All the time he was gone
Lou was in a fidget.
Even Ma had to speak to her, and Ma don't often grumble,
especially at Lou, but I heard Ma say:—
'Sakes alive, girl, what are you dodgin' in and out for? That
won't fetch him no quicker. Come here a minute. One of your hooks
is undone.'
Then Lou made me go and wash myself. That was twice in about
half an hour.
'And you put on your boots and stockings,' she says. 'What sort
of a family do you think Mr. Thatcher will imagine we are if he
sees you like that?'
And then she went on arranging the flowers on the table.
At last he came. I saw him the very first. I was behind a briar
bush, down near the slip-rails. Dollie and Selina were behind the
tank, and so they couldn't see him until he came round the
stock-yard fence.
He looked all right, although he was a bit stiff; wearing a
starched shirt and high collar made him look that way. Lou told us
he was tall, with a beautiful blonde moustache.
Well, he wasn't as tall as the stockman at Harvey's, and his
moustache wasn't blonde at all. It was ginger.
We were not very hungry, not being used to eat before strangers,
and Lou, with an eye on us to see we didn't make a hole in our
manners, but the way he put away the corned beef, and stewed fruit
and junket, was a caution. I should have liked some of the
chocolates he brought up, but he called me 'Sonny.' I hate anybody
to call me 'Sonny,' so I said I didn't like chocolates. They were
only for girls.
He got on very well with Dad. But most anybody can get on with
Dad. He brought Dad up a box of cigars, and while Dad was chewing
the end of one of them on the verandah, Mr. Thatcher talked.
He must have been talking pretty funny, because Dad was shaking
his sides and chortling that way, I thought he'd bust! Oh, yes. He
got on all right with Dad.
The next morning he was up early. So was Lou. Instead of putting
on her thick boots, and going over to the milk yard, as was her
obvious duty, she puts on her Sunday shoes, and her best apron with
the lace on it and the things that cross on the back, and she
showed Mr. Thatcher round the place.
She took him into the woolshed and explained to him how they
shore the sheep. She took a long time to do it
too—and—well! it's all over now. I'm satisfied, and so
I 'won't split on her. But she doesn't know to this day that I was
in the wool-press all the time.
Before he had been there twenty-four hours, you might have
thought that he was the Shah of Proosia, and that the whole place
belonged to him. They were all fussing round him, and Lou was as
proud as a calf with two tails.
But, as Archie Boyle said, his reign was brief. Archie says some
funny things sometimes. At least they are not always funny, but
they always seem good, if Archie says them. He's going to give' me
a foal next year.
He (that is, Mr. Thatcher) arrived on Good Friday, and on Easter
Sunday, Lou said she was going to ride to church with him.
While she was putting on her new riding habit, and back combs
and things, I had to go and catch the brown mare for Mr. Thatcher
to ride. Any other time she would have gone herself. She used to
like to catch the brown mare. She always took a halter with her,
and she'd slip it on the mare and lead her to a stump. Then She'd
get on her, straddle-ways, like a man, and ride her bare backed,
full canter across the paddock and jump the slip-rails.
But she wouldn't ride straddle while Mr. Thatcher was about,
although I reckoned she looked best that way. But girls have no
taste. They think they're clever, and especially Lou, but they
don't always know when they look best.
Lou was going to ride the bay and, after I had caught the mare
and rubbed her down and saddled her, Lou came out in her new riding
habit, and waited for Mr. Thatcher.
Her habit looked all right. Nobody said it didn't. But anything
looks well on Lou. It's not the things she wears, so much as her
eyes, and fresh colour, and her figure, and she didn't make them,
so there's nothing for her to be uppish about.
When Mr. Thatcher came out, I thought I should explode. He had
on a long tailed coat that Ma said was a frock coat. It was
something like the coats the parsons wear: a stiff collar, about
three inches high, and a tall hat. It was the first tall hat I'd
ever seen except in pictures, although Lou said they were quite
common in Sydney.
Lou stood there a while, holding the bridle of her horse, and
waiting for Mr. Thatcher to help her mount, but he took no notice,
and so she led her horse round to the chopping block, and mounted
him there.
I was holding the mare for him. He looked a bit pale, and
says:—
'Is he quiet?'
'It ain't a he,' I says, 'It's a mare.'
And then he tried to mount.
'Steady, old boy!' he says.
'I wouldn't try to mount her like that,' I says, 'She's as quiet
as a lamb, but she wouldn't let me mount her on the off side.'
'Oh!' he says. 'Is that what you call the off side, Sonny?' and
he went round to the other side.
'Whoa! old boy?' he says, as he was hopping round on his left
foot, and trying to put his right into the stirrup.
Just then I heard a choking sound behind the tank and I knew
that Dollie and Selina were there, and when I saw Dad and Mum
peeping through the window blind, I did explode. Dad's grin made me
do it. I couldn't have helped it if I'd had to be killed for
it.
I looked at Lou. She was getting red in the face, and biting her
lip, but she pretended to be buttoning her glove.
I showed him which foot to put in the stirrup, and after a lot
of struggling he managed to get on top of the brown mare. She was
as quiet as anything, but she was getting impatient so, as soon as
he was on the saddle, and before he had his foot in the stirrup,
she started.
Then Mr. Thatcher let the reins fall over her head, and gripped
her by the mane.
'Whoa! Old boy!' he said.
I picked up the reins and gave them to him, and as I did, the
brown mare turned her head round and looked at him, and then she
gave me a glance out of the corner of her eye that was almost
human.
I showed him how to hold the reins, and I put his other foot in
the stirrup, and then Lou says, in her sweetest tone:—
'Are you ready, Mr. Thatcher?'
'I think so,' he says, and then he started chirruping to the
mare.
'Get up, old boy,' says he. But the brown mare only sighed and
took no notice. So I gave her a flick with my hat, and off they
started. Lou went first, and the mare followed her.
Just at the corner of the garden fence there was a lilac tree,
and as the mare took a short cut round the corner, one of the
branches caught Mr. Thatcher's tall hat, and off it went, and away
went Mr. Thatcher across the paddock after Lou, without his
hat.
Lou was going at an easy canter, and the mare was trotting. As
she trotted, Mr. Thateher bumped. Every time he rose he went a foot
out of the saddle, and every time he came down he landed in a
different place. Sometimes he bumped on the saddle, sometimes on
the pommel, and sometimes on the mare's neck, but never twice in
the same place, even by accident.
I shouted for Lou to stop, and I picked up his hat and ran after
him, straightening out the dents as I went. I soon caught up to
them, but the mare didn't like the look of the tall hat, and kept
backing away, so that Mr. Thatcher couldn't reach it.
By this time, he was like a picture in a comic paper. His long
tailed coat was all hunched up between his shoulders, and his
trousers had worked up that way that you could see his bare calves
above his socks.
All the time I was trying to give him his hat, Lou was sitting
on the bay horse, cutting leaves off a sapling with her riding
whip, as vicious as could be.
Just at this moment, who should come riding across the paddock
on his way to church, but Archie Boyle. He was riding a colt that
he had just broken in, and when he pulled up to speak to Lou, the
colt started bucking. But Archie sat there as comfortable as if he
was in a rocking chair. While the colt was bucking, he was talking
to Lou and mending his whip.
'Hold the reins short,' I says to Thatcher, 'and then grab your
hat, quick!' and I managed to give it to him.
He was just fixing it on with one hand, and holding tight on to
the reins with the other, when the mare saw a tussock of grass that
took her fancy, and she bobbed down her head to reach it. When she
did so, Mr. Thatcher kept his grip of the reins, but lost his
balance, and went clean over the mare's head into a briar bush.
His face and hands were scratched a bit, his hat was a wreck,
and his pants torn that way that it was a mercy that his coat had
long tails to it.
Lou's face was a study. I know what it means when Lou gets all
red, and then pale directly after.
'Jim!' she screamed, 'Catch the brown mare, take the saddle off
her, and turn her into the paddock. I'm going to church with Mr.
Boyle.' Then she laughed, and said:—
Come on, Archie,' and away she went across the paddock, full
gallop. She jumped the slip-rails, with Archie close after her, and
I helped Mr. Thatcher out of the briar bush.
When Lou came back she said she had a headache, and didn't want
any dinner.
Mr. Thatcher didn't stay long after that, and while he did stay,
Lou was cold to him. Ice was a fiery furnace compared with her.
I've only heard her mention his name once since. It was while
she was on the verandah one night with Archie. I was sitting under
the lilac tree and they didn't know I was there, but if she reads
this she needn't be afraid. I won't split on her. I'm quite
satisfied, and besides, Archie's sheep dog is going to have pups,
and he's going to give me one.
But this is what she said:—
'Don't be stupid, Archie!' (she needn't be afraid, I won't
split) 'Don't tease me about Mr. Thatcher. I laugh every time I
think of him. The idea of me caring two straws about a man who
couldn't ride our old brown mare.'"
* * *
By the time Jim had finished his story, Otto had forgotten the
bucket, and was in his customary good humour. He wanted to tell us
a yarn about a man who rode a buckjumper, but Mr. McTavish said it
was time to stop yarning for the night, and soon after that we went
to bed.
Our task was getting near its completion, and an air of sadness
reigned over the camp in consequence. We were sitting, one night,
each occupied with his own thoughts, which, to judge by the air of
gloom which hung over the camp were not of the pleasantest, when
Mr. McTavish enquired the reason of the apparent want of
spirits.
"What ails you, lads?" said he, "you are all as grumpy as a lot
of old hens that have lost their chicks. Why don't you tell some
yarns? Our time is getting short, and we shall be soon separating.
Do not let us part in sadness. Let us rather part with the
satisfactory feeling that we have done our duty to our employers
and to each other, and trust to Providence that we shall meet
again."
"Tell us a yarn, Charley," said Flanagan, "and let us get rid of
the blues."
"I could not tell a yarn to-night," said Charley, "I feel too
dull."
"I vas tell you—" said Otto.
"Oh, shut up," said Flanagan. "You don't think that anybody is
frettin' because they are partin' from you, do you?"
"You vas very often part mit a better man," said Otto.
"I belave ye, me bhoy," answered Flanagan, "but wid the greatest
respect for your veracity and your eloquence, and all that kind of
thing, we are goin' to dispense wid your services to-night. If we
have a yarn, there is Arthur, he will tell us something, and we
shall be all thinkin' of Arthur for many a long year afther we have
left this camp and forgotten that such a person as Otto ever lived.
Tell us something, Arthur."
As usual Arthur was modest, but after a little coaxing
began:—
15. THE HALF-WAY HOUSE. Arthur's
Story.
"Marjorie Medlyn was an only child, and, as is frequent in such
cases, she had been petted, and, perhaps, slightly spoiled.
She was pretty and accomplished, clever and affectionate, but
decidedly sentimental. Her twenty-first birthday was only just
passed, and yet she felt that the noon-tide of life was gone
forever. For her, the future held no promise of Hope or Joy.
She was suffering all the pangs of disappointed love, for she
had bestowed her youthful heart upon a plumber.
His name was Edwin, and it was not his fault that Fate had
placed him in a somewhat humble sphere of life. Nor was he to blame
because Nature, being in a stingy mood, had endowed him with a form
of diminutive proportions. But, if his stature was small, his heart
was large. Nobody but Marjorie knew the great things of which he
was capable, had Fate been kinder, and Nature more liberal. During
their stolen interviews at the back gate, he had told her all about
them. He had shown her his heart, and she was satisfied.
She sympathised with him for the cruel way in which Nature and
Fate had combined to make a martyr of him. And so she loved him,
not for what he was, but for what he might have been. He hinted
that he might yet be great socially (alas, he could never be great
physically), if she would only stick to him.
'It's all a matter of Fate and Figure,' he used to murmur, but
more Fate than Figure. I'm as big as Lord Roberts, or nearly, and
might have been as great as he, but for Fate. He's a fairish
General. I'm a fairish Plumber. That's all the difference. I might
not be able to win a battle as well as he, but I'd like to see him
mend a gutter, make a tank, or wipe a joint. I'd beat him hands
down every time. Yet, look at him, and look at me. He kills people
and gets rewarded, gets a pile of money, and they make him a Duke
or something. I saves people's lives by attending to their sanitary
appliances, and then gets abused because their drains get out of
order, which is mostly their own fault, through chokin' of 'em and
expecting of 'em to do impossibilities.'
So Marjorie promised to stick to him, and, for a while, the
future beamed upon them with a rosy but uncertain light.
But inexorable Fate, like a grim Nemesis, was still on Edwin's
track. It materialised one night and took the form of old Medlyn
with a big horsewhip in his hand.
Medlyn was a retired shoemaker, with several terraces of houses
of his own, and a good round sum invested in stocks and shares. He
was, therefore, in the social scale, several degrees above a mere
plumber. Medlyn was a big man, Of a kindly disposition, but of a
violent temper. He had his own peculiar views as to the kind of
suitor who ought to come wooing his handsome, bouncing daughter.
And Edwin did not correspond with those views.
'A whippersnapper of a plumber, who mends one leak and makes
two. Acting as if he was a man; when he only wears threes. To come
sneaking round after a fine handsome girl who will someday have
terraces of her own. I'll show him!'
And he did.
When a big, strong man, with an ungovernable temper, flourishes
a large whip and threatens to use it, to a small man, with a
peace-loving and sensitive nature, there is but one course
open.
Edwin adopted that course and did what his prototype never did.
He bolted. He disappeared over the back fence, as if he were a cat
with a bull-dog after him.
Two brief, agonising, stolen interviews followed, at the last of
which, Edwin, with many sighs (and frequent glances up the lane)
had told her that he was suffering from nervous prostration, and
that the continual dread of meeting a violent man with a horsewhip
was breaking him down. It was more than he could bear.
Fate was too strong for him, and he had resolved to submit to
the inevitable. He had brought her back the matchbox she had given
him, and henceforth he would let Fate do with him as it
pleased.
Hence it was, that at the age of twenty-one, the world, to
Marjorie, had lost its charm, and life was a drear, dead waste. For
her the sun had ceased to shine, the moon and stars had lost their
lustre, the flowers their perfume, music its charm, and ice cream
its flavour. She felt that it would be only a question of time when
the roses would fade from her cheeks, and she consulted her glass
daily to discover on them that tinge of 'green and yellow
melancholy' which she had always considered a fitting and proper
accompaniment of a broken heart.
But she was twenty-one, and legally her own mistress. She
inherited some of her father's spirit, and so she resolved to do
something. She did not at first know what, but she must and would
do something. She would not submit tamely. She decided at last that
she would go away. Anywhere, so long as it was away from the home
of her infant nurture, and ultimate disappointment. She would seek
the drug Nepenthe, and she would pass the few remaining days of her
miserable existence in oblivion. So, with this object in view she
sought a registry office.
In answer to her inquiries, the keeper of the office said 'Yes,
he knew of a nice place up the country, where they wanted a
good-looking young lady as companion.'
'Is it a quiet place,' asked Marjorie, where one could live, as
it were, away from the cruel crowd, in a kind of oblivion?'
'Yes,' said the registry office keeper. 'It is about the most
oblivious place I know of. It is a little roadside inn, ten miles
from the nearest township, in a most romantic district, where the
'possums roost on the ridge pole, and the wallabies camp in the
back yard. Where, if it wasn't for the laughing jackasses, you
might fancy yourself in Heaven.'
Marjorie had never been farther from Sydney than Parramatta, and
her only idea of a country inn had been derived from a house by the
roadside, where, while the horse was feeding, her father had
regaled her with afternoon tea. It was near Granville, and she
remembered the roses that hung in clusters round the rustic porch,
the scent of a magnolia whose leafy branches shaded the verandah,
and the air of sweet drowsy peace that pervaded the place.
This was her ideal of a country inn, and, with this memory in
her mind, she accepted the situation, and paid the registry office
keeper his fee.
The next morning Marjorie was missing from breakfast. The
servant girl, dispatched to seek her, returned with a note which
had been found on Marjorie's dressing table. It was brief, but to
the point. It stated, in the fewest possible words, that Marjorie,
having been thwarted in her fondest hopes, had gone to seek
oblivion, trusting that heaven would forgive everybody for their
cruel conduct towards her. In the corner were the initials M.M.,
and near the initials were two smears, where two drops of moisture
had evidently been wiped away.
While her father swore, her mother wept, and the breakfast was
getting cold, Marjorie, who had been travelling all night in the
mail train, sat waiting, with a small carry-all by her side, and a
big lump in her throat, at a little railway platform some distance
south of Cootamundra, for the 'conveyance' which was to take her to
her destination. The 'conveyance' turned up at last, and it turned
out to be a large springless dray with four horses, the driver of
which had promised to take her to the 'Half-way House.'
After a rough journey, which seemed to Marjorie as though it
would have no end, they arrived at their destination and, while the
teamster adjourned to the bar with the landlord, Marjorie was
enabled to obtain her first glimpse of her new home.
It was a low, one-storied building, standing a little distance
from the road. It was built of slabs, and had, at some remote
period of its history, been white-washed. The verandah, with its
floor of slabs, bore evidence of being a camping ground for
poultry. A weather-beaten swagman was sleeping at one end, and near
the other, a consumptive-looking pig was rooting. In a kerosene
tin, near the corner post of the verandah, were the decaying
remains of a creeping plant, which had once rashly attempted to
climb the post, but, receiving little or no encouragement in its
efforts, had died in the attempt.
A small sign-board, which creaked mournfully upon its rusty
hinges, proclaimed, in dissipated characters, that this was the
"Half-way House," by Michael Sullivan.
Why it was called the half-way house, no one knew, but it was as
good a name as any othe, so no one cared.
The surrounding country was level and monotonous. The only signs
of vegetation were a few wattle trees at the side of the house and,
scattered about in the distance, some stunted gums, from most of
which bark had peeled in shreds and patches, giving to the trees a
sad and forlorn appearance.
Marjorie had scarcely time to notice these things, when she was
startled by the discordant voice of Mrs. Sullivan, the lady to whom
she had come to act as companion.
'I see ye've got here,' said that lady.
Marjorie turned, and in the door-way, which was filled by her
ample proportions, she saw the landlady of the Half-way House. She
was clothed in a short grey dress, beneath which could be seen a
pair of men's boots. One corner of her dirty white apron was tucked
up through her apron string, her arms were red and bare, and her
hair was twisted into an untidy knot, above a face the colour of a
dirty brick.
'Don't be afther shtandin' in the sun and ruinin' yer
complexion. Come in and get something to ate and a cup of tay. I
suppose it's tired ye'll be afther thravellin',' and she led the
way into the house.
Pointing to a small door leading from the dining room, she
said:—
'You can take off your things in there; it is your bedroom. If
you want a wash, you'll find a tin dish out on the shtool, and a
towel behind the kitchen door. There's wather in the tank, but be
shparin' of it. If we don't soon get rain, it's from the creek
we'll have to be cartin' it, and it's three miles away.'
Marjorie could scarcely touch the coarse food placed before her
by Mrs. Sullivan, but she swallowed some of the strong tea and felt
somewhat refreshed. After a critical examination, Mrs. Sullivan
seemed to be favourably impressed by Marjorie's apearance and,
lunch over, she proceeded to coach her in her duties.
'Have ye ever served in a bar?' she inquired.
'No,' answered Marjorie, 'I don't think I could do that.'
'Sure, ye don't know what ye can do till ye thry,' replied Mrs.
Sullivan. ''Tis aisy enough, so it is. All you have to do is to
make yourself look nice and be agreeable to the min. That'll of
courss come nathural to ye. The min do come here in patches.
Sometimes the whole day will pass and divel a man will we see
barrin' the coachman, and we don't see him because he passes in the
night, and then perhaps, we'll get a half a dozen or so, tamesters
and the like, wid maybe a shearer or two, and when we get them we
like to keep them as long as we can and their money houlds out. So
you must shmile at them, and not mind their little familiarities.
It pays to plaze them.'
'If you please,' said Marjorie, 'I think I would rather not have
anything to do with the bar, if it is all the same to you.'
'But it is not all the same to me,' retorted Mrs. Sullivan,
warmly.
'But I thought—that is—I understood, that I was to
be a companion?'
'A companion, is it? And sure, how can you be a companion unless
you make yourself companionable whin we have company? 'Twill maybe
be awkward at first, but you'll soon get used to it. Ye'll soon get
accustomed to the min and their little ways. It'll grow on you,
till you come to like it. I was shy myself once—a long time
ago.'
Marjorie happened to arrive at a slack time, and so nothing of
moment occurred during the first few days of her stay at the
Half-way House, but her ideal of a roadside inn was shattered. She
was plucky and proud and obstinate, or she would have written to
her father at Once; but the dirt, the rough accommodation, the ugly
monotony' of her surroundings, and the habitual untidiness of Mr.
and Mrs. Sullivan were totally different to anything she had ever
seen or imagined.
Her sleeping apartment was a little skillion room, which had
apparently been dabbed on to the side of the house. In one end was
a straw mattress on a canvas stretcher, while in the other lay a
miscellaneous heap of broken saddlery and harness, a plough-share,
and some milk cans and empty bottles. The only seat was a gin-case.
The toilet accommodation was strictly limited, but the ventilation
was ample, because the door refused to shut, and the moonlight fell
through the joints of the slabs, forming streaks of light on
Marjorie as she slowly sobbed herself to sleep.
One afternoon, about a week after her arrival, there was an
unusual stir. It was caused by the advent of guests at the hotel.
There were three of them, and they were shearers journeying from
one shed to another. Two of them were personally known to Sullivan,
and the third, who was introduced as Big Mat, the Ringer, was known
by reputation.
They were shy at first, and awkward, but Mrs. Sullivan, with a
few coarse jokes, soon put them at their ease. After each had
shouted in turn, and Sullivan had shouted for the honour of the
house, their tongues were loosened. Then they all talked at once;
and to Marjorie, the conversation was almost as unintelligible as a
foreign tongue.
With many strange expletives, they talked of 'hoggets,'
'wethers,' 'yews,' and 'weaners,' while Big Mat, a dark-bearded man
of herculean proportions, descanted on the relative merits of
crossbreds and merinos. At length, he remarked that it was time to
be moving.
'Come wid me into the bar,' said Mrs. Sullivan to Marjorie, who
was sitting on a stool near the door of the dining-room. 'Come in,
till I introduce you.'
'I would rather not,' replied Marjorie, shrinking.
'Faith! but you must,' said Mrs. Sullivan peremptorily. And
Marjorie was so terrified, that she allowed herself to be half led
and half dragged into the bar by Mrs. Sullivan, who introduced her
to the shearer trio.
After this, it was comparatively easy for Mrs. Sullivan to
persuade the men to take a snack of cold corned beef and hot fried
onions, the odour from which was floating temptingly through the
house.
When they had finished their repast, Sullivan remarked that he
thought a storm was brewing, and that he wouldn't be surprised to
see the creeks flooded before morning. As if to confirm his
opinion, a few big drops of rain pattered on the roof of the
verandah; so with a side-long glance at Marjorie, and another at
the weather, the shearers agreed to turn their horses into the
paddock and to stay for the night.
This being done, Big Mat called upon Sullivan to fill 'em up
again, and the object of the Sullivans was achieved.
The three shearers were on the spree, and before many hours had
passed, they were all noisily and uproariously drunk.
The spree lasted for a week, and during this time Marjorie was
in a state of terror. At first, the men were bashfully and
effusively polite. Then they got familiar, and after that,
rude.
Marjorie avoided them when she could, but the place was small,
and in the intervals between drinking, gambling, arguing and
swearing, they used to seek her out as though she were a part of
the entertainment for which they were paying. It was Saturday
evening, and Marjorie, to get as far as possible from the sounds of
revelry, had strolled, as she thought, unnoticed, to a clump of
wattles that grew about a hundred and fifty yards from the houe.
Here she sat, listening to the monotonous croaking of the frogs,
the mournful cry of the curlew, and the calling of a distant
mopoke. She was thinking of home. How she wished she could see the
burly form of her father. She tried to think of the plumber, but
she could not think of him without seeing his coat-tails flying
over the fence.
She was suddenly startled by the sound of a footstep, and,
before she could move, she was confronted by the whisky-flushed
face of Big Mat, who approached her with a leer, which he intended
for a propitiatory smile.
'So I've found you, my little beauty, have I?' he said,
advancing, 'It's no use you getting up. Stop where you are, and
we'll have a nice little talk. I've been wanting to have a pitch
with you.'
But Marjorie rose from her seat with a look or anger and
contempt.
'You might as well sit still,' said Mat, 'You can't get away,
and it's no use singing out, because nobody but the frogs could
hear you. Come and sit down with me for a while.'
He made a grab at Marjorie, who was trembling with fear, but she
eluded him, and started to run for the house, but the ground was
rough, and she had not gone a dozen yards when Mat caught her, and
gripped her round the waist.
Marjorie struggled and fought, but although she was a strong
girl, she was as an infant in the grasp of a giant.
'Keep still, darn yer,' he said. 'You'll make me hurt you. You
can't hurt me. But mind, for every punch I'll have a kiss. So punch
away, that's about ten you owe me now. It's no use kicking, I'm
going to take 'em.'
But if Mat was strong, Marjorie was lithe and supple, and so she
struggled, and managed eventually to slip away from him, with no
further damage than a flushed face, a torn blouse, and the loss of
some hair-pins.
Taking advantfige of her liberty, she ran towards the house,
with Big Mat stumbling and cursing behind her.
He was within three yards of her as she turned the corner of the
house, and felt certain he would catch her on the verandah, but on
turning the corner after her, he found that she had taken refuge
behind a horse, which a young man was just hitching up to the
verandah post.
'What the dickens do you mean?' said the young man. 'Do you want
to frighten my horse. If you had come round that corner like that a
second earlier, he would have bucked me into the middle of next
week.'
'Get out of my road,' panted Big Mat. 'I'm after that there
girl, and by ghost I'in going to have her.'
'Please,' pleaded Marjorie, 'Don't let him touch me. He has
insulted me.'
Big Mat laughed.
'Fancy!' he said, 'Fancy one of Mother Sullivan's chickens being
insulted.'
The young man looked at Marjorie with a glance in which there
was not much sympathy, but, turning to Mat, he said, 'It doesn't
matter what the girl is, she evidently doesn't want to have
anything to do with you, so leave her alone.'
'And what the blazes is it to do with you, Mr. Murray?' said
Mat, fiercely. You mind your own business. This isn't your station.
This is Sullivan's pub. One man's as good as another here, and
perhaps a derned sight better. You're not the boss here.'
'Take the advice of a friend,' said Murray, 'and leave the girl
alone.'
'Friend be hanged,' said Mat. 'Who ever heard of a squatter
being the friend of a shearer'? All you want of us, is to graft and
get your wool off. And that we've done.'
'And you got your cheque,' answered Murray, 'and by all
appearance you are not making the best use of it.'
'Bah!' retorted Mat, 'I've got no time for you. Get out of my
road or I'll flatten you.'
'You won't touch that girl while I am here,' said Murray,
quietly.
But Mat was excited and tried to thrust Murray aside. Finding
the young man obstinate, he aimed a swinging blow at Murray's
face.
Owing, however, to the face shifting, he missed his aim, and
instead, received a stinging blow from the shoulder, that sent him
sprawling on to the verandah.
In a second, Mat was on his feet, and as he tugged at his shirt,
to pull it over his head, his language was picturesque in the
extreme.
The noise attracted Sullivan and the other shearers from the
house, and they tried in vain to pacify Big Mat.
I will not try to describe the events of the quarter of an hour
that followed. Mat was the hero of a hundred fights. His fame had
extended to every shearing shed from Monaro to the Darling, and
many a shearer, and many a rouseabout, carried indelible mementos
of Mat's big fist.
But Murray had been champion boxer of his college, and, three
years ago, had shone brilliantly in intercolonial football. He was,
moreover, always in condition, and he was sober.
When they carried Big Mat to bed, and Murray had removed from
himself all traces of the recent battle, Marjorie summoned up
courage enough to thank him.
'Oh, that's all right,' he said. 'Only a young and pretty girl
like you ought to try to do better than act as a decoy in a place
like this.'
'You are mistaken,' said Marjorie, with a flush of anger, 'I am
not a decoy. I have only been here a fortnight, and I was brought
here under false pretences.'
Murray began to take more interest.
'In what way?' he said. 'I don't quite understand. Are you here
against your will?'
Marjorie explained as much as she thought necessary, and Murray
whistled and hitched up his horse again.
'I don't know what to do,' he said. 'I don't like the idea of
leaving you here among these ruffians. Can you ride' If you can, I
will try to get a horse from Sullivan and take you home to our
place.'
'I have never been on a horse in my life,' said Marjorie.
'That's awkward.' And Murray whistled again. Then he added, 'But
perhaps you would not care to come?'
'I cannot stay here,' said Marjorie. 'I will walk. I do not care
how far, if you will tell me where I can go.'
'Our place is only six miles,' Murray said. 'The Mater would
think it strange, but she would understand if I explained. Will you
trust yourself with me?'
Marjorie hesitated.
'Cannot you make up your mind?' enquired Murray.
'I have made up my mind to leave this place,' she said, 'but I
can only trust you if you trust me. If you still believe I am a
decoy, I will walk to the railway.'
'I believe you are speaking the truth. Will you come with me and
stay with my mother until we can see what is best to be done?'
'Yes,' she said, 'I can walk.'
'I will tell you what we will do then,' he said. 'You shall ride
my horse and I will lead him. You will be perfectly safe.'
Marjorie consented, and so, after running in to get her hat, and
straighten her hair, she started off with Murray towards the
setting sun.
Mrs. Murray was at first shocked, and then, after hearing
Marjorie's simple confession, pleased, and she remarked to Miss
Murray that it was just like Don. The dear boy was always doing
something unexpected and eccentric. He was so brave, and he never
paused to ask himself what the world might say.
The next post carried a contrite letter from Marjorie to her
father, and an explanatory note from Mrs. Murray to Mrs. Medlyn. In
a couple of days old Medlyn was there to claim his daughter, and to
thank Donald Murray for her rescue. Visitors were scarce at
Murray's Flat, and so, as Medlyn was a jolly old chap, and took a
keen interest in station life, he was easily induced to stay for a
few days and the days accumulated until he had been there a
month.
'You must come and stay With me, when you come to Sydney,' he
said, when leaving. And so, it came to pass, that when Don took his
mother and his sister to Sydney, they stayed some time with the
Medlyns. Besides staying with them they made several calls.
Sometimes Donald took his mother, sometimes he took his sister, and
sometimes both. It also happened that he called at times alone.
The next time Marjorie passed the Half-way House, she had
learned to ride. The diminutive plumber had faded from her memory,
for by her side, rode a stalwart young squatter. The frogs were
still croaking, and the mopoke calling, but she heard them not. She
was journeying to Murray's Flat to take her place as its
mistress."
* * *
I well remember the last Sabbath in the camp by the
Murrumbidgee. We were all glad that our work was done, and we were
elated at the prospect of a change and a holiday. But over our
elation rested a great shadow. It was the consciousness that,
before another Sabbath could come, the dwellers in our camp would
be separated, in all human probability, never to meet again. We
forgot each other's weaknesses, and remembered only the good
qualities in our mates, which before had not been so apparent.
Mr. McTavish was the first to break a somewhat gloomy
silence.
"We have finished our work lads, and must soon break camp and
part, but you must not let that make you sad. It is ordained that a
things must have an end, and we have the satisfaction of knowing
that we have been fairly happy together. When men have to work
together, eat together, and camp together, they find out all the
weaknesses and follies of their neighbours, but they also discover
many good qualities which a less close acquaintance would never
reveal. It is the small things of a man's life that make up his
character. But away wi' melancholy. Tell us a tale, Otto."
"I vas hafe no tale in mine head," said Otto sadly,﹃And if I
did it von't coom out. I vas tinkin' all der day as I vas do der
cookin' dhat it vas der last Sunday I vas cook for you all,
and—﹄Otto shrugged his shoulders, spat in the fire, and said
"Ach!" Then he collapsed.
No one seemed inclined to try to dispel the gloom, and so,
conquering for the moment my proverbial modesty (which I have
previously alluded to), I said that I remembered a little incident
which might interest them, and, if they liked, I would try to tell
it.
The suggestion was hailed with acclamation, and so, thus
encouraged, I told them the following little story:—
16. A WEEK END AT WALKER'S.
John Walker sat in the smoking room of his club. His
good-tempered face beamed with an expression of supreme
satisfaction. As he turned up his cigar to an angle of forty-five
degrees, and blew the smoke in curling clouds above his head, he
smiled the smile of a man who has wrestled with a knotty problem
and mastered it. John Walker (or Jack Walker, as he was more
familiarly styled), was the manager of a large Sydney company and,
being the owner of considerable property, was looked upon by his
acquaintances as a solid and substantial man. By those who knew him
more intimately, and valued him for his personal qualities, he was
known as a genial jolly good fellow.
In the midst of his meditations entered Billings.
'Well, Jack,' said Billings, as he straddled a vacant chair,
'you seem to be remarkably pleased with yourself. More lucky
speculations, I suppose?'
'My present speculations,' replied Walker, 'concern the future,
and as you happen to be concerned with that future, you might as
well learn what they are. Of course you know that Billy Graham is
going to get married? I thought you did. The news is public
property. The auspicious event is to take place on the sixteenth.
Well, Saturday next is the fifth, and I am going to ask you and Tom
Spicer, with Watty Strachan, and Jack Vennis, to meet Billy at my
place on the mountains, and stay until Monday. Billy is going to
take a trip to Europe after the wedding. The passages of himself
and the future Mrs. Graham are booked by the Mulgravia,
which leaves on the day after the ceremony, and so, we may not have
a chance to meet all together again for some time. We are all such
old chums that I think it will be nice to spend a couple of days
together before we separate. What do you think?'
'I think the idea is splendid,' replied Billings. 'But you are
sure we can get back on Monday? Let me see, Monday is Bank Holiday.
I can spare Monday, but on Tuesday morning I must be back at the
bank. You know that I am chief cashier, and must be on duty to the
tick.'
'I suppose the bank would burst if you were not there,' said
Walker, laughing.
'The bank might not burst,' said Billings, 'but if I were not
there, there would be a row—a devil of a row,' he added,
thoughtfully.
'Ah, well,' said Walker, 'you need not fear. I must be back on
Monday myself. There is a meeting of the Great Bonanza Syndicate on
Tuesday. I am proposing a candidate for secretary, and old Stinson
is proposing another. He always makes it a rule to oppose me, and I
wouldn't let him beat me this time for a thousand pounds.'
After some more conversation, which does not affect this story,
Jack Walker adjourned to the library and wrote his invitations.
They were short but effective.
'Meet the 2.20 train on Saturday. Bring your tooth-brush and a
divided skirt. Train accommodation and tickets will be provided.
From the time the train leaves Redfern until it arrives there
again, you are my guest.'
Jack Vennis said that he thought it was a mean way of doing
things.
'He expects us,' said he, 'to pay our own cab fare.'
It would be difficult to find a more jovial party than that
which filled the special compartment of the 2.20 train on that
particular Saturday afternoon. Every man was punctual, and all were
in high good humour. They were delighted to leave the cares and
responsibilities of business behind, and to breathe the pure air of
the mountains even for a little while.
Billy Graham was the lion of the party, for it was given in his
honour.
'By Jove!' he said, as the train puffed out of the station,
'This is a treat. Jack must have got wind of my arrangements. I
have got just three days to spare. My intended wife—you never
met her, Spicer—she is the dearest little woman in the world.
Tall and fair, with eyes like—like—'
'All right.' Spicer, 'we'll take her eyes for granted, and I'll
write some verses about her. I know the style, all intended brides
are like that. What about her?'
'Well, she's the dearest little woman, but she can't bear me out
of her sight. I couldn't possibly have got away, you know, but for
the fact that she had to go to Goulburn to bid good-bye to her
cousins there. She will be down by the train arriving at 4.45 on
Monday, and I have promised faithfully to meet her. We have an
awful lot to do next week.'
'I suppose you will be coming down on Monday?' said Walker to
Strachan.
'I must,' answered Strachan. 'I have been for weeks making up an
estimate for the North Coast Railway, and the tenders have to be in
on Tuesday morning. I must be on the spot in person, for I have to
arrange for the deposit.'
'I,' said Jack Vennis, 'am retained for the defence in a case
that is coming on at the Criminal Court on Tuesday. It promises to
be a remarkable trial. I have been making a special study of it,
and I reckon to make a name through it. It is the sort of case I
have been dreaming about ever since my admission to the bar. When
are you going back, Spicer?'
'I was just trying,' said Spicer, as he nibbled the point of a
pencil, to find a rhyme for silver.'
Jack Walker's mountain residence was a large, square-built stone
house, standing in the middle of a ten acre block, and was replete
with every comfort and convenience. The grounds had been tastefully
improved, and the flower and vegetable gardens, and orchard, were
well kept by James Spratt, the caretaker, whose wife was
responsible for the tidiness of the house itself.
Walker had sent up his daughter and his niece on the previous
day, to prepare for his guests, and dinner awaited them.
The meal being over, some of Walker's cigars were sampled on the
verandah, moistened with some whisky, at which, even the fastidious
Strachan smacked his lips. The girls played and sang, Jack Vennis
sang, Walker related anecdotes of the old coaching days, and so
good-tempered were the party, that they even allowed Tom Spicer to
recite some of his own verses.
The next morning all were up early, and the men went down the
gully at the back of the house and enjoyed a shower bath under the
waterfall near the Lady's Bower.
After breakfast they started on a trip to the Kanimbla Valley,
arranging to call on the way at the Bushranger's Cave. Before they
started, Walker apologised for a slight alteration in his
plans.
'I intended,' he said, 'to send Spratt ahead with a hamper, and
he would have lit a fire and boiled the billy, but his wife is not
well this morning, and I don't like to leave her alone all day as
she is sick, so it comes to this, we must take it in turns to carry
the hamper, or we must leave the girls at home with Mrs. Spratt.
Which do you prefer?'
'I'll carry the hamper until I drop,' said Jack Vennis, 'rather
than leave the girls at home.'
'I'll take my turn,' said Strachan.
'So will I,' said Billy Graham.
'And I,' said Billings.
'And I,' echoed Spicer.
'Rather than leave the girls, I'll take the hamper,
And like a What's-his name, I'll gaily scamper.
'Oh! shut up,' said Jack Vennis. 'And, as a warning against
repeating that kind of thing, you shall carry the hamper
first.'
'It is all down hill to the valley,' said Walker, 'and I guess
the hamper will not be quite so heavy coming back.'
They took a short cut through the bush, the sombre colouring of
which was relieved by the brilliant flowers of the waratah, and
they soon arrived at the top of the zigzag path which forms the
only practical approach to the valley from this direction. Fresh
views of gorgeous mountain scenery were revealed by every turn of
the path. Hill was piled upon hill, and rock upon rock, in the
wildest confusion, while, in the background, rose mountain upon
mountain, until the farthest ones lost themselves in the blue haze
of the distance.
The path to the valley had been hewn out of of the side of the
hill. On the one hand rose the mountain, thickly tangled with ferns
of every description, on the other fell a steep precipice, low down
which could be seen, like a piece of white tape, a continuation of
the same zigzag path.
Jack Walker and Vennis walked ahead, Strachan was busy examining
the rocks and calculating their possible commercial value, Billings
and Graham were paying particular attention to Miss Walker, and her
cousin, Miss Bell, whilst Spicer toiled slowly along in the rear,
carrying the hamper.
They reached and explored the Bushranger's Cave, then prepared
to continue their journey to the bottom of the valley. After going
some little distance, Vennis, looking back, saw Spicer sitting on
the hamper with his notebook in his hand.
'Come along Spicer,' shouted Vennis.
'I can't,' said Spicer, 'I haven't found that rhyme for
silver.'
'You can think that out going along,' said Vennis.
'No I can't,' said Spicer. 'Not while I'm carrying that
hamper.'
Then he added, as he mopped his face with his handkerchief, 'It
is a curious fact that the higher, the altitude the lower the
specific gravity. When we commenced to descend this path, this
hamper weighed about fifty pounds. It now weighs a hundred and
fifty. If I carry it to the bottom it will weigh a ton. That is
beyond me. I will come, if you desire my company, but the hamper
remains. I think it will be better for you all to go on. I will
stay here and mind the hamper.'
'Not if I know it,' said Vennis. 'Why Miss Walker is turning
pale at the mere suggestion. Let me take the hamper.'
'With the greatest pleasure,' said Spicer.
So Vennis took the hamper, and Spicer paired off with Miss
Walker, to discuss the relative merits of Browning and
Longfellow.
When the party reached home in the evening they were all tired,
but of the unanimous opinion that they had had a glorious
outing.
After dinner they rested. Music was prohibited, because the
caretaker's wife was not well, so they talked. Walker of the
meeting of the Great Bonanza, Billings of financial matters,
Strachan of the number of men he should require to build the new
railway, Vennis of the intricacies of the law, while Billy Graham
discussed lawn tennis with Miss Bell. In the meantime, Tom Spicer,
out on the verandah, in the bright moonlight, compared the relative
merits of Browning and Longfellow with Miss Walker.
When bidding his guests good night, Walker announced that he had
arranged to take a drive along the Bathurst Road-in the
morning.
'We shall return,' he said, 'in time for an early lunch, which
will give us ample time to catch the train at two o'clock, and
then, Hey! for Sydney and business.'
'Well,' said Vennis, 'We are having a real good time, and I feel
that I shall be all the fresher for my case, after this little
relaxation.'
'In going down that zigzag this morning,' said Strachan, 'I
thought out a scheme that will save ten per cent. of the cost of
the ballast on the new railway.'
'I was wishing,' said Billings, sadly, 'that I could leave the
bank, and live this life for ever. But my desk is waiting, and I
must be at it on Tuesday.'
'What do you say,' said Jack Walker to Spicer. 'Haven't you got
an engagement for Tuesday morning?'
'I beg your pardon,' said Spicer, blushing, and glancing at Miss
Walker, 'I was not listening. I was just trying to find a rhyme for
dove.'
'I was asking you what engagement you have for Tuesday
morning,'
'Oh,' replied the poet, 'The usual engagement at the office. You
know what a continual grind it is to be a Civil servant. One long
monotonous grind from ten till four. The hours are too long.'
'You have an hour off for lunch. It is only five a day.'
'I was not alluding to the length of the day,' said Spier, 'but
to the length of the hours. They are too long.'
'Ah, well!' said Walker, 'Good night, sleep sound, andd don't
get up in the morning until I call you.
The sun was shining over the Kanimbla Valley on they morning,
long enough to dispel the morning, mists, when in response to
Walker's call, his guess assembled in the large dining room.
'Are we all here?' he asked.
'All but Jack Vennis,' replied Billings.
'Then we are all here,' said Walker, 'for Jack Vennis is
gone.'
'Gone!' echoed the others, in some surprise.
Yes,' said Walker. 'I have a note in my hand, left by him in his
bedroom, and as it partly explains the situation I will read it. I
may first say that I have been up since four o'clock this morning,
and that I found this note when I went to call Jack about
eight.'
Dear Walker,—I don't want you to think that I am a
cocktail or that I would would fly away from danger merely because
it was danger. The fact is, I must be in Sydney to-morrow morning.
My case is coming on, and to be absent wotdd be to miss the chance
of my life. Therefore I take no risks. I trust, for your sake that
my rapid departure was unnecessary, but I will be on the safe side.
You told us not to rise early, but I can never sleep when the
magpies are whistling merrily outside so I got up intending to take
a walk and return in time for breakfast. What I heard induced me to
walk to the station instead. My door was partly open when the
doctor was talking to you in the hall. I heard him mention﹃Scarlet
Fever﹄and and "Local Health Officer." I put these two expressions
together, and knowing the new regulations, I reduced them to one
word. The word was "Quarantine." I thank you for your hospitality,
and trust to see you again very soon. I also hope that my fears may
be groundless. Goo-bye. Many thanks. Hope to see you all soon at
the Club.
Yours, etc.
Jack Vennis.
Walker paused, and then continued,
'I regret to say, that before I discovered Jack's note, his
prophecy had been fulfilled. The caretaker's wife has scarlet
fever, and the Health Officer has placed the house in
quarantine.'
'For how long?' enquired Spicer.
'It depends on the progress of the case,' replied Walker. 'It
may be for a fortnight, or it may be for six weeks, but for a
fortnight at least.'
'But this is nonsense,' said Strachan. 'They can't do it.'
'They have done it,' said Walker, shaking his head sadly.
'There is a policeman at the front and a policeman at the
back.'
'I simply must leave,' exclaimed Billings. 'I have to be at the
bank to-morrow morning or—'
'The simple fact is,' said Walker, 'that you can't leave. I
would not have missed that director's meeting for a thousand
pounds. I have begged, pleaded, and threatened in vain. I am sorry,
but we must make the best of it.'
'The best of it!' echoed Billy Graham. 'But my dear
fellow, you don't comprehend the situation. I have to meet my
intended this afternoon at the 4.45. We are to be married on the
16th, and sail the next day for Europe. Our passages are booked. So
you see, it is absolutely impossible. Ican't stop
here.'
To this Walker returned no answer, except a shrug of the
shoulder.
'Your wedding can be put off,' said Strachan. 'But how about
me?' And he faced Graham aggressively. 'The tenders for the new
railway close to-morrow at eleven. If I am not there I can't
tender, and if I don't tender I lose all my trouble and a cool
twenty thousand pounds. Great Scott! man, can't it be
arranged?'
'Thank heaven!' said Spicer, 'my clients can wait. I am a Civil
servant. The same Government that has so thoughtlessly placed us in
this peculiar position, will have also to pay my screw while I am
here. Can anybody suggest a rhyme for funny?'
At this moment attention was diverted to Billings. He had fallen
to the floor in a dead faint. Under the influence of restoratives
he soon recovered consciousness. He complained, however, of a
violent headache and retired to his room.
Billy Graham raved, Strachan swore, and the genial Jack Walker
lost his temper. It was a melancholy, ill-tempered party, that sat
down to lunch. Each was fretting over his own trouble. In the midst
of the meal there was a commotion on the back verandah. This was
caused by one of the policemen arresting Billings as he was trying
to escape through his bedroom window. He was granted his parole on
his promising, in a most dejected manner, that he would not do it
again.
During the afternoon, he remained closely shut in his bedroom.
Walker, Strachan and Graham were busy writing letters and
dispatching telegrams, which were all delayed owing to the
necessity for fumigation, while Spicer sat on the verandah, quietly
puffing one of Walker's cigars and discussing, with Miss Walker,
the relative merits of Browning and Longfellow.
The party which journeyed to Sydney some three weeks later,
could not, by any reasonable expansion of the truth, be called a
merry one. Pratique had been granted, it was true, but Walker and
Strachan were seedy and morose. During their three weeks enforced
companionship, they had discovered many subjects on which they
differed, and only one on which they cordially agreed. That was the
consumption of abnormal quantities of whisky.
Billy Graham sat in the corner of the carriage with his hat over
his eyes, and in his pocket a letter, in which his intended stated
that she had been told by a friend in whom she could trust (the
word trust being heavily underlined), that there was no quarantine
except at the proper quarantine station, and that he could have
come down if he had liked. She had therefore returned all the
wedding presents and all was over.
Billings travelled in a separate compartment. A quiet-looking
gentleman, in a tweed suit sat at his side; and in the
quiet-looking gentleman's pocket was a piece of paper authorising
the quiet-looking gentleman to safely convey Mr. Billings to Sydney
to answer a charge of embezzling large sums of money from the bank,
which fact had been discovered by the officer who had to take
charge of his books while Mr. Billings was in quarantine.
Among the male members of the party, but one was happy. That one
was Spicer. During his enforced holiday he had, like the busy bee,
improved each shining hour. He had written a poem which he had been
long contemplating. He felt in his inmost soul that it would be the
means of bracketing his name with those of the leading Australian
poets. And Miss Walker agreed with him. Not only did she agree with
him on this matter, but they had so effectually discussed the
relative merits of Browning and Longfellow, that they were
returning to Sydney an engaged couple. And what was more important,
he has never changed his mind. The last time I saw him he was
trying to find a rhyme for 'Cradle.'"
* * *
Our task was done. The day had arrived when we had to part. The
horses were harnessed to Mr. McTavish's trap, and his instruments
and personal belongings were carefully packed therein. Over a
parting cup of tea, he was saying "good-bye."
"Well, boys," said he, "If we never meet again, take my parting
advice. Wherever it may please God to place you, do your duty. Earn
the guid will of your neighbours, if you can. But do your duty.
Earn no man's guid will at the expense of your own self respect.
Guid-bye boys, God's blessing and mine be with you all."
He shook hands with us warmly, jumped into the trap, and in five
minutes no trace remained of our respected chief, but a cloud of
dust which marked the track he had taken.
We had all been more or less afraid of Mr. Mctavish, but when he
had gone, an air of supreme loneliness seemed to pervade the camp.
No one called him "Old Dry-as-dust" after he had left.
For some time we sat, each busy with his owu thoughts, until at
length the silence which enveloped us like a cloud, was broken by
Otto.
"Ach!" said he, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe, "I vas
glad to leave der old camp, and I vas sorry I vas glad. Mr.
McTavish says I vas sure to go to der teffil. If I vas, I von't see
Mr McTavish no more effer und effer. He vas neffer go to der
teffil. Und he was neffer fix me mit his eye again. It vas alvays
make me feel qveer vhen Mr. McTavish fix me mit his eye."
"There was a mighty conthrollin' power in thet eye of Mr.
McTavish," remarked Flanagan. "But he has gone. 'Twill be a long
time before we see the likes of him again. Faith! ye can never see
the good there is in a man until ye've lost sight of him for ever,
and ye can never feel the comfort of his presence so much as when
he's absent."
The next day the camp was deserted, and the kookaburra was free
to sit and chuckle on the empty ridge-poles of our tents.
THE END