an ebook published by Project Gutenberg
Australia
Title: Dad in Politics
Author: Steele Rudd
eBook No.: 2301191h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: November 2023
Most recent update: November 2023
This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore
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Dad in Politics
Steele Rudd
CONTENTS
Acknowledgment
Dad in Politics
Chapter 1. - On the Stump
Chapter
2. - The Member for Eton
Chapter
3. - A Scene in the House
Chapter
4. - “Order!” said the Speaker
Chapter
5. - A Steak in the Country
Chapter
6. - Kid-Gloved Selectors
Chapter
7. - Behind the Scenes
Chapter
8. - Under the Influence
Chapter
9. - The Rabbit Inspector
Chapter
10. - The Land Betterment Bill
Chapter
11. - Dad on Socialism
Necessity Knows No Law
The Selection Where I was
Reared
Our Neighbour
Sandy’s Loss
How I Wrote “On Our
Selection”
A Bush Tragedy
Acknowledgment
Many of the stories in this volume have appeared in the columns
of Steele Rudd’s Magazine, The Australian,
The Worker (Q.) and Life.
I have to thank the editors of these papers for the right to
republish in book form.
Two chapters of Dad in Politics have, with the permission
of the publisher, been reprinted from Sandy’s
Selection, in order to complete the series.
Dad in Politics
Chapter
1
On the Stump
Smith, the member for our district, died one day, and we forgot
all about him the next. Not that a politician is ever remembered
much after he dies, but Smith had been a blind, bigoted, old Tory,
and was better dead. Politicians are mostly better dead, so far as
other people and their country are concerned.
One night Gray and Wilkins, and Mulrooney, and Fahey, and
Charley Thompson, and Johnson, and a lot of others came to our
place and asked Dad to oppose Mulligan, the “endorsed”
candidate for Eton. Dad was taken by surprise. He opened his eyes
and stared. He chuckled some, too; but the deputation was in
earnest, and it waited for his reply.
“You’re the man we want, Rudd,” Gray said.
“You know the country and the wants of the district, and what
is best for the farmers, and you’d be able to make yourself
heard.”
Joe and Dave, seated near the fire, turned their heads away and
grinned.
“You’ve only to stand,” Mulrooney said,
“and you’ll get the seat.”
Joe and Dave chuckled deprecatingly, then rose, and went on to
the verandah.
Dad glared after them with ferocity in his eye.
“I don’t think he would do for it, Mr.
Mulrooney,” Mother said by way of apology for Dad. Dad
didn’t agree with Mother.
“Why not?” he snorted. “Why th’ devil
wouldn’t I? I’d tell some of them fellows,” he
went on, “what I think of them, an’ what they’ve
been doing for the country—th’ robbers! Believe
me!” and his eyes flashed fire.
“Well, you’ll stand, then, Mr. Rudd?” Gray
said again.
Dad stared first at one, then at another, and seemed in
doubt.
“It’s yer dooty, Rudd,” Thompson drawled, and
Thompson didn’t care two straws whether Dad consented to
stand, or whether he went away somewhere and drowned himself.
“We want a man,” Fahey added, “who’ll go
to Brisbane an’ put the sufferances of the farmers plainly
an’—an’—well before Parliament—a man
who’ll talk t’ thim, an’ talk straightforredly
t’ thim, an’—an’— tell thim
what’s right an’—an’ what ought t’ be
done. An’ there’s no one can do it better’n yeou.
“
Dad stared at the floor in silence. He seemed impressed with
Fahey’s argument.
“It’s yer dooty,” Thompson drawled again,
filling his pipe.
Dave and Joe laughed loud, and left the verandah and went to the
barn to husk corn.
At last Dad pulled himself together.
“Then I will!” he said boldly, and, rising to his
feet, struck the table hard with his fist, and put the light out.
“That’s my word!” he shouted in the dark.
Mulrooney struck a match, and Sarah re-lit the lamp.
“And when I give my word,” Dad went on,
“Ialwez keep it.” And he struck the table
harder than before, and put the lamp out again.
“Goodness me!” Mother moaned; “what is the man
doing?”
But Mulrooney struck another match and handed it to Sarah.
Dad then went into details, and the deputation expressed its
delight with him and went away.
* * * * * * * *
Next morning at breakfast, Joe asked Dave whom he was going to
vote for, and Dave spluttered into his cup and splashed tea about
the table. Sarah, at the bottom of the board, struggled to suppress
her mirth. Dad, at the head, cleared his throat and scowled. Joe
looked calmly at Dad and said:
“When are y’ going to address the
’lectors?”
Dave bent his head and leaned heavily on his knife and fork and
spluttered some more.
“Well,” Dad answered severely, “my committee
will arrange all that, I dare say.”
Dave lifted his head and felt for something to wipe the tears
from his eyes with.
Barty, seated opposite, pointed with his fork to Dave and
cried:
“L-l-look at ’im!”
All of us broke into loud hilarity—all of us except
Dad.
He dropped his knife and fork and shouted:
“Look here!”
But Dave and Joe rose together and hastened to the yard.
“Th’ devil take them!” Dad growled, taking up
his knife and fork again and proceeding with his breakfast,
“and their confounded impudence! ‘ ‘
* * * * * * * *
To our astonishment, Dad kept faith with the deputation, and
prepared to contest Eton. He went with Gray and Thompson and
travelled round the country and addressed the electors at the
Middle Arm and Cherry Gully, and Bible Creek, and Tannymorel, and
Hell-hole, and any place where there was a school or barn or shed
or anything he could stand up in. And at nearly every place that
Dad appeared he was received with joy and enthusiasm and made much
of. Saddletop was the only place where he met with opposition, and
then only from old Carey. Carey was jealous of Dad’s
prosperity and popularity, and jumped up at the meeting and accused
him of all kinds of villainy and called him “Judas.”
But when Dad came off the platform and reached for Carey, Carey
hurried out, and nothing more was heard from him until heavy lumps
of blue metal began to thump and rattle on the iron roof, and
punctuate Dad’s oration with long intervals of disorder.
“Now, isn’t he a low-down scoundrel?” Dad said
to the audience, and they stood up and responded with a wild yell.
They enjoyed Dad. His style and method suited them. He used plain
language, and didn’t quote statistics or poetry or scripture.
And they liked Dad because he wasn’t a humbug nor a sham;
because he didn’t go to their houses and ask after the health
of absent members of the family whom he had never seen, and wish to
be remembered to them; because he didn’t compliment the wives
upon having honest, hard-working, industrious husbands when he
didn’t know whether they had or not; and because he
didn’t hug and cuddle every baby in the electorate, and say
they resembled their fathers or their mothers or someone. They
respected Dad, too, because he was plain and honest, and when
polling day came round they voted for him to a man, and with a big
cheer put him in at the head of the poll.
We could scarcely believe it when the news came that Dad was
in.
Dave said, “Well, I’m blowed!” Sarah danced
about and clapped her hands and spoke of going to Brisbane; and
Mother sat down and shed tears. And when Gray drove Dad home in the
buggy we all gathered round and received him like a monarch. We had
never honoured our parent so much before. Mother threw her arms
round Dad and hugged him; Sarah took possession of his arm; Barty
hung on fondly to the slack of his pants; Joe carried his top-coat;
and Dave walked in the rear grinning. Dad stood it all well, too,
and showed wonderful composure. You’d think he had been a
member of Parliament all his days.
When he had mounted the verandah he turned, and looking at us
all said:
“To-morrow I’ll have to go to Brisbane, an’ be
away all the session, an’ you’ll have the place to look
after y’selves.”
’Twas a welcome piece of news to us. It sent a thrill of
delight through us. To everyone of us it was the happiest feature
of Dad’s political triumph. We hoped the session might last
for the term of Dad’s natural life.
Next day Joe drove Dad to the railway station, and he caught the
train for Brisbane.
At Toogoom Dad was joined by another member of Parliament, a
politician who conducted a newspaper and used its influence to
belittle and vilify Dad because he was honest. He grabbed Dad by
the hand and said he was delighted to see him, and congratulated
him on his victory, and treated him just like a brother. Dad was
astonished. Dad didn’t know much about politicians then. He
knows more about them now.
Chapter
2
The Member for Eton
Arrived at Brisbane, Dad set out with his portmanteau for his
old boarding-house on Wickham Terrace. He had scarcely entered the
establishment when the boarders were rushing wildly into each
other’s rooms, calling out, “Esau is back.” They
all remembered Dad, and seemed pleased to see him again.
Next morning, at breakfast, Dad sat over a plate of sausage,
and, in a loud voice, inquired the way to Parliament House. Several
of the boarders directed him.
“Are you going to hear them speak, Mr. Rudd?” the
boarding-house-keeper asked.
“Well—yes,” Dad answered, “and to speak
myself, p’raps.”
They all stared at Dad then, and one who read the papers
regularly, and had a memory for names, asked him if he was related
to the Rudd who was returned for Eton.
Dad leaned back as if he was in a barber’s chair, and
laughed heartily.
“I’m ’im,” he said. . . .
“It’s me that beat Mulligan.”
They all stared again and laughed.
“Really, though, Mr. Rudd?” the
boarding-house-keeper asked meekly, and as if she secretly doubted
Dad.
“Yairs,” Dad went on, ignoring the lady, “I
beat Mulligan easy enough. . . . be three ’und’ed
an’ ten, I think it were.”
“If I’d known you had a member of Parliament here,
Mrs. Brown,” a beery-looking boarder, the wag of the house,
said, rising and leaning on the back of his chair, “I’d
have taken off my boots.”
There was a loud roar round the table then, and every eye was
fixed cheerfully on Dad. Dad glared at the wag. The wag smiled
placidly back at him.
“Well,” Dad said, “that would be more than
y’ do when y’ go to bed, perhaps.”
They all roared louder then, and the wag changed colour and went
away.
And one reached over and said, “Good man!” to Dad,
and hit him hard on the back and made him spill all the tea out of
his saucer, which he had just blown cool and was lifting to his
head. Dad frowned. Then another boarder repeated Dad’s retort
to the wag, and the room rang with renewed hilarity. And the same
boarder punched Dad on the back a second time, and caused a sausage
to escape from his fork.
“Damn you!” Dad shouted, turning fiercely on him.
But the boarder had folded his serviette, and hurried from the
table, chuckling. So did the others.
Dad found his way to Parliament House, and entered the building
as if he was proprietor of it. He seemed to be emulating in dignity
and lordliness the member for Glengallon.
Several messengers and a calm, well-groomed, well-fed policeman
approached Dad. They appeared to suspect he was a new, hairy sort
of Guy Fawkes, with evil designs on the costly and sacred
edifice.
“Where’s th’ place where they’re
speakin’?” Dad asked.
The Law pointed up a wide staircase, and said:
“But y’ can’t go there. . . . Have you a
ticket?”
Dad hadn’t.
“Go along there, then,” the policeman said, pointing
through a doorway; “you’ll get a ticket for the
gallery, and go up the stairs.”
Dad poked his way through, and a boy in brass buttons handed him
a ticket in silence, and pointed up the stairs in more silence.
Dad blundered up like an elephant, his footsteps and false steps
echoing all over the building. He reached the top breathless, and
when his eyes rested upon a group of ordinary-looking people
crouching in listening attitudes, he looked bewildered. A
policeman, with white gloves on, and his hair oiled and parted in
the centre, grimaced and motioned to Dad to sit down.
“I repeat, Sir, that the Government have made no efforts
whatever to encourage the right people to come and settle
here,” came from the depths of the Chamber.
Dad looked down and saw all the eminent legislators of his
country lolloping idly on the benches.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed in a loud voice,
“that’s where I’ve to be!”
Those in the gallery turned their heads and looked angrily at
Dad. The policeman tiptoed up a few short steps and whispered a
short warning into Dad’s ear.
“Do you know who I am?” Dad said in a voice that
travelled round the building and reached the ear of Mr. Speaker,
down below, who turned his eyes on the gallery.
The policeman squeezed Dad’s arm viciously to silence him,
but he might just as well have squeezed one of the wooden
forms.
“Do you know who I am?” Dad said again, in a louder
key.
The policeman grimaced some more, and removed Dad’s hat
from his head and tried to force him into a seat. Dad recovered his
hat with a violent wrench, and hit the policeman on the head with
it, and knocked the parting out of his hair and planted a lot of
dust in it. The gallery stood up to enjoy Dad. The policeman
clenched his teeth, and pounced fiercely on Dad. But Dad put both
hands to him, and shoved him right off his feet, and he fell down
the short steps with a thud against a little man with a bald head,
and crushed him under a form. The gallery forgot about the debate
going on below, and, in one voice, cheered the new show. Dad
expanded his chest and extended his nostrils, and stood game and
defiant-looking, waiting for the Law to renew the attack.
“Clear the gallery!” came from Mr. Speaker.
Then there was commotion! In an instant three policemen appeared
in the gallery and seized Dad, and rolled down the stairs with him.
Dad yelled and fought with them like a Ned Kelly; and the Law had
just sent for a cab to take Dad to gaol when the member for Toogoom
appeared and recognised him. He explained matters, then took Dad
into the refreshment room and calmed him.
Chapter
3
A Scene in the House
The member for Toogoom became a sort of “best man”
to Dad. He conducted him to the “Chair” and introduced
him to Mr. Speaker as the member for Eton. The Speaker bowed
profoundly to Dad, and Dad asked him how he was getting on, then
signed his name, and took a seat on the cross benches, and sank
deep into the costly leather cushions, and cleared his throat
several times and groaned and glared composedly round the gorgeous
chamber and up at the galleries. And those in the gallery stared
down at Dad and grinned. And the members conversed with each other
about him, and the reporters made notes of his arrival and his
personal appearance, and the artists made sketches of him which no
one but themselves would ever recognise. There they
lolled—seventy-two picked men; seventy-two paid
representatives of different opinions, of different shape and
shades and size; seventy-two imposing-looking politicians! Some of
them were lean and long and weary-looking; some big, bulky, and
bloated; some dejected; some jolly; some poetic; some pious; some
had long hair; some had no hair; many of them wore spectacles; one
an eye-glass; and one— the undersized prig of the
galaxy—wore rich black curls.
The Minister for Lands rose to introduce “A Land
Settlement Bill,” and made a long speech. He said no country
in the wide world was so liberal in matters of land as this
country, and with eloquence and enthusiasm proceeded to reveal a
new scheme for settling people on the land. There was never a
Minister for Lands yet born who hadn’t a scheme for settling
people somewhere or other.
Dad screwed himself round, crossed his legs, and fixed his eyes
intently on that Minister. You’d think he was preparing to
enjoy a sermon.
“In the first clause of the Bill,” the Minister went
on, “provision is made for monetary assistance, and the
principal aim of the measure is to help those who have a desire to
live a country life, to settle on the land in
communities—”
Just here an oldish member named O’Reilly, sitting near
Dad, with a wild-looking head of flowing white hair, and a strong
Irish accent, said “Hear, hear!”
Dad glared aggressively at the Hibernian.
“There’s nothing new in the village-community
system,” the Minister resumed. “It’s older than
the Norman Conquest.”
Then he talked glibly about “grazing farms,” and
“homesteads,” and “continuous occupation by the
groups,” and “undue restrictions,” and
“articles of export,” and “open markets,”
and many other ancient and miserable platitudes.
Dad edged along the seat an inch or two, so as not to miss any
of him, and unconsciously leaned on the hoary-headed one’s
tall black hat.
O’Reilly poked Dad in the ribs with a silver-headed
walking-stick which he was leaning on, and nodded to the
beaver.
Dad scowled disdainfully, but didn’t remove himself.
O’Reilly poked him in the ribs again.
“Damn you!” Dad said, “what do you
want?”
“Have y’ not iny manners? Do not you see
you’re crushing me hat?”
The Speaker reproved O’Reilly. “Order!” he
said stentoriously. “Order!”
Dad glared angrily at O’Reilly, then shoved the hat away,
and again gave all his attention to the Minister.
O’Reilly continued to snarl audibly, and turned the whites
of his eyes aggressively at Dad, and attracted the attention of
members sitting behind. They laughed, and were in turn called to
order by the Speaker.
“These co-operators, therefore,” the Minister said,
“will have to settle their disputes among themselves, except
in matters of a criminal nature; and if they resort to any
contentious proceedings—that is to say, if they go to law
with one another—they will cease to be members of the
society. This is a bold experiment—
“An’ a fool of a one!” Dad shouted in a voice
that drowned the Minister’s; and rising to his feet held up
his hand.
“Order! Order!” the Speaker cried, eyeing Dad like
an adder.
“Look here,” Dad shouted, pointing his finger at the
Minister.
“The hon. member for Eton must desist from interrupting
the—”
The rest of the Speaker’s rebuke was lost. The Chamber
suddenly became boisterous. “Sit down! Sit down!” came
from every corner.
Then a member, seated behind Dad, reached forward and pulled him
down on the seat by the coat-tail.
Dad thought it was O’Reilly, and turned angrily on him,
and shook his fist at him, and in a loud voice warned him to be
careful. O’Reilly gesticulated, and showed his teeth to Dad
and hissed that “he had been a mimber of the House for
twenty-five years an’ more.”
Dad grunted contemptuously, and said he didn’t care if he
had been a member for fifty years!
O’Reilly turned the whites of his eyes at Dad again, then
ignored him.
“It provides that in cases of destitution,”
continued the Minister, “certain allowances may be made to
the wives and families of the men for a limited period at places
away from the settlement. It would be impossible to take women and
children to a settlement in its rough condition—”
“Wha-a-t?” Dad yelled, jumping up again.
“What th’ devil sort o’ people do
you—”
“Order! Order!” came sharp and angrily from the
Speaker. “The hon. member must retract those words at
once.”
“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!” from those on the
Ministerial side, mingled with loud cries of
“Withdraw!”
“I’ve come here” Dad shouted, waving his hands
about, “to see that the honest an’ right
an’—”
Cries of “Chair! Chair!” and “Sit down!”
accompanied by loud laughter from the Labour party, overflowed the
Chamber.
“I must ask the hon. member for Eton, once and for
all,” the Speaker said angrily, “to resume his
seat.” And he seemed to mean what he said.
Dad lifted his voice again, but “Chair! Chair!” and
more Labour laughter, smothered him. It looked as if something
serious must happen, but the member for Toogoom hurried across the
floor and talked persuasively into Dad’s ear, and Dad gave
way reluctantly and sat heavily down on O’Reilly’s long
hat and made it flat.
Then there was disorder.
“Why th’ devil didn’t y’ look after it,
then?” Dad snorted to O’Reilly, rising and releasing
the battered beaver. “I haven’t eyes behin’
me.”
“You’re a clumsy elephant, that’s what ye
are!” O’Reilly whined, lifting his voice and
straightening the beaver.
Dad turned and fell on O’Reilly, and took him by the
collar and squeezed him hard into the cushion.
There was real commotion and excitement then.
All the members stood up. Some called “Shame!”
others “Disgraceful!” People in the galleries leaned
over and grinned and burst buttons restraining their joy.
Messengers and miscellaneous members rushed eagerly through the
lobbies and into the “refreshment room,” urging absent
ones to hurry and witness the fun.
“Lesh them fi’ it out,” the honourable member
for Fillemupagen murmured, hanging on fondly to the rim of the bar
by the dimple on his chin.
The Speaker grew pale, and exhausted himself appealing for
“Order.” He might just as well have called
“Butcher,” or “Baker,” or anything, for Dad
was deaf to it all.
O’Reilly twisted his legs round Dad’s neck and
yelled in a shrill, hideous key, and hit blindly at Dad’s
whiskers with his fists. Dad straightened up and swung round, but
couldn’t shake him off. A small dog with no tail, which had
been lying asleep in a corner of the Under-Secretary’s
gallery, woke up suddenly, and, seeing O’Reilly being swung
round, rushed in and yelped vigorously at Dad. The Labour party
broke into fresh bursts of hilarity. A messenger in a uniform
hastened to eject the dog. The animal dodged through his legs, and
barked at him. The occupants of the strangers’ gallery lost
control of their emotions, and hung over the railings, and shrieked
cheerfully.
“Clear the galleries!” the Speaker gasped, and
created more commotion and disorder. At last several members seized
Dad, and separated him from O’Reilly, and asked him to have
some sense and not to be a fool. O’Reilly, bereft of collar
and tie, his white hair dishevelled, stood panting and gasping for
breath; then suddenly, and with agility of a circus man, he
divested himself of his coat, which he tossed fiercely to the rear.
It spread itself out on the table, and upset a water bottle on the
Statutes, and the fluid flowed into the lap of the aged Clerk of
the Assembly, who jumped up in horror. Then his vest was ripped off
with one pull and flung to the winds. It fluttered through the
Chamber, and settled calmly on the Speaker. O’Reilly next
tugged at his shirt, and whilst “Order!” and
“Shame!” echoed all round, yelled a profane sort of
prelude, then struck a pugilistic attitude and sparred round Dad
and those who were restraining him, and bumped the table.
The member for Fillemupagen rolled into the Chamber, and
hiccoughed loudly above the din:
“Lesh ’im havesh it, Reilly—he’s
’gainsh Fe’ration.”
More loud laughter from the Labour party, and pathetic cries of
“Disgraceful!” from the Conservatives.
The Chesterfield of the Assembly submerged in a high collar,
rose and appealed for peace.
“I nevah in mai laife,” he said, “witnessed
anything so beastly bleggardly.” Then he went outside the bar
in disgust, murmuring, “Vulgah bleggards!”
Finally two or three members secured O’Reilly and
conducted him to an anteroom, where they calmed and rehabilitated
him. Dad sat down and glared round like an injured lion. Then the
Premier, pale and trembling with indignation, rose.
“Mr. Speaker” he said, “it is with feelings of
pain—with feelings of shame, Sir” (Hear, hear)
“that I rise to refer to the disgraceful scene—the
degrading exhibition of ruffianism—which this honourable
House has just witnessed.” (The member for Bordertown, with
the clean shave, shifted his “chew” from the hollow of
one cheek to the other, and said “Hear, hear!”; then
leisurely went on chewing some more.) “During the whole of
the twenty years I have had the honour to hold a seat in this
Chamber, Sir, I have never known an occasion when the honour and
reputation of this House have been so insulted,
so—er—dragged to the level, I might say, of the common
public-house back-yard brawl. Sir.” (Loud applause and shouts
of approval from the Conservatives, intermingled with
“Rot!” and shouts of “What about the
Derkin’s incident?” from the Labour supporters and
hiccoughs and “Queshun!”from the member for
Fillemupagen, and “Order!” from the Speaker.)
“The hon member for Churchland” (meaning
O’Reilly) “is an old member of this House, Sir, and
I’m amazed, Mr. Speaker—amazed, I say—and grieved
that he should so far forget himself as to be guilty of such
conduct—conduct only becoming—er—er”
(“Gentlemen,” from the member for Burke, and laughter
from the Labour party) a lunatic, Sir!” (O’Reilly, who
had re-entered the Chamber, here jumped to his feet and vociferated
wildly, but was promptly pulled on to the cushion again by two
other members, where he kicked and scratched, and yelled
“I’m not a lunatic!”). “The honourable
member for Eton” (turning and glancing in the direction of
Dad) “is the youngest member of this House, and it may be
well he should understand that if he comes here with no respect for
himself, he might at least show some reverence and regard for the
honourable position he happens to hold, and for the dignity and
reputation of this Assembly.” (Wild applause from the
Ministerialists, during which Dad groaned contentedly and stared
about the Chamber and up at the crowded galleries.)
“And,” the Premier continued severely, “I say the
honourable member for Churchland and the honourable member for Eton
should apologise to this House, Sir.”
Then the Chamber rang with cheers, and triumphant cries of
“Apologise!” from the Government benches.
The “Chesterfield” of the Assembly, in his lofty,
lordly fashion, rose to gratuitously endorse the remarks of the
Premier, and more confusion followed. The Independents and Labour,
members rose en masse, and bombarded him with cries of
“Sit down!” “Chair!” “The member for
Churchland,” and “Let them apologise.” Then the
“Chesterfield” turned ferociously upon them, and,
lifting his voice above theirs, shouted back:
“If you will have the mannahs to permit mai to be heard, I
only wish to say that you are the maost vulgah horde of hoodlums
that ever disgraced a Legislative Assemblay.” And he sat down
suddenly, mopped his flushed brow with a large silk handkerchief,
adjusted his gorgeous tie, and muttered “Vulgah
cads!”
“I rise to a point of order, Mr. Speaker!” yelled a
broad-shouldered member, with a tremendous voice, across the
Chamber. “Is the member for Bunya in order, Sir, in
describing members on this side of the House as a horde of hoodlums
disgracing—”
“Mr. Speaker,” the Premier hotly interrupted,
landing on his feet in a bound, “the member for Churchland
and the member for Eton have been asked to—”
“I have asked for your decision, Mr. Speaker, on a point
of order!” the broad-backed member yelled. (Cheers and
“Hear, hear!” from the Labour party.)
“Chair! Chair!” from different parts of the
Assembly. Then the Speaker, red in the face and angry-looking,
pointed his sharp-edged features at the broad-backed Labour man,
who was standing erect, and wagging his head, and said:
“If the honourable member for Bunya made use of the words
complained of by the honourable member for St. George, such
expressions are certainly unparliamentary, and must be met
with—”
The Premier jumped to his feet again, and interrupted excitedly:
“I regret to have to move. Sir, that your ruling be disagreed
with.” (Great disorder.) “According to
May”—(more disorder and loud cries of
“Chair!” “Respect the Chair!” and
“Shame!” during which Dad rose and strolled out of the
Chamber—so did the member for Toogoom and
O’Reilly.)
“It is clearly laid down in May, Mr. Speaker, Clause 999,
that—”
“Chair! Chair! Chair!”
“I must draw the attention of the honourable the Leader of
the Grovernment,” the Speaker said, “to the fact that
the question before—”
He was suddenly interrupted from an unexpected quarter. On his
left at the bar of the Chamber fresh disorder broke out. The prig
of the House rushed into the Chamber in fear and trembling, and his
rich black curls standing straight up.
“Let go ov me! Let go ov me! Let go ov me!” rang out
in a wild, shrill key, and Dad and O’Riley, locked in each
other’s embrace, rocked and swayed about in the lobby, then
with a heavy thud fell upon the carpets, their heads just inside
the Chamber.
Wild confusion! Those who were not in a position to see what was
going on stood up on the seats to get a view.
“Disgraceful!” the “Chesterfield” of the
Assembly moaned; “a positive outrage!”
“Who’sh on top thish ’ime?”murmured the
member for Fillemupagen, with his chin resting calmly on his
chest.
A spectator in the gallery—one of the unwashed who spent
much valueless time following the debates— craning his neck
to get a view of the struggle, over-balanced himself, and fell
over, clinging with both hands to the balustrading, and kicking his
legs about like a frog in water just above the heads of a bunch of
Government supporters.
“Help! Help!” he shouted.
The bunch of Government supporters suddenly looked up, then took
alarm, and divided and rushed across the floor.
The Speaker closed his eyes and moaned and perspired. The
Chamber rang with a fresh burst of Labour laughter.
“O, my G—, help!” groaned the dangling form.
All eyes were turned on it. But the long arm of the Law reached
down from the gallery, and hauled the intruder back. Then it shook
him, and kicked him down the stairs.
At the same moment Dad and O’Reilly suddenly disappeared
from the floor. The member for Toogoom and some more dragged them
away by the heels and saved the situation.
“Shocking! Shocking!” came from the Ministers, while
bursts of smothered merriment continued to escape from the ranks of
Labour, and for some moments the House didn’t know where it
was. Then the Speaker, perspiring and looking Bonaparte after
Waterloo, turned his face to the clock, and said he would
“resume the Chair at seven o’clock.”
Chapter
4
“Order!” said the Speaker
The Speaker was a man of his word, and resumed the Chair at
seven o’clock. There was a full House. The Chamber was ablaze
with electric light; the costly leather cushions lined with
honourable members—the representatives of public
opinion—sitting erect, alert, expectant-looking, and for once
they respected the property for which their country went in debt,
and rested their huge feet on the expensive carpet. The
Strangers’ Gallery, creaking under the burden it had to bear,
was packed from the balustrading to the back wall; and the eager,
anxious crowd elbowed each other, and leaned over and gaped and
grinned down upon the heads of the intellectual gathering below.
The Ladies’ Gallery, charged to the last inch of its carrying
capacity with the wives, daughters, and female friends of members
and influential citizens, was alive with absurd-looking hats and
fans, and the air was filled with perfume. Press
representatives—their ranks reinforced for the
occasion—sat turning over the leaves of note-books, preparing
for action. The lobbies were filled with distinguished visitors,
huddled together like sheep in a shed. Outside a multitude of
disappointed ones repined their inability to gain admittance, and
went home resolved to book seats and make sure of the next
evening’s entertainment.
Those who witnessed the scene before tea knew Dad, and pointed
him out to the rest of the audience. In every part of the House,
fingers were indicating him, and murmurs of “That’s
him—the big, hairy, old chap on the cross
benches”—were audible in every gallery. Dad was the
object of everyone’s admiration, the idol of the evening. But
there was no vanity, no pride, no priggishness, no
self-consciousness, about Dad’s political demeanour. There he
sat, grave, stolid, stern.
Mr. Speaker, his black gown hanging loosely on him, and an
extravagant plaster of embroidery protecting his chest, completed
making some notes in a book, and, raising his head, adjusted his
pince-nez and glared significantly at the members. It was the
signal to commence fire. O’Reilly, the member for Churchland,
rose slowly and ran his fingers through his shaggy white hair till
it stood fairly on end.
“Mr. Speaker,” he commenced, “I wud just like
to saay a few words in explanation uv what tuk place here in
this—” (“Hear, hear.”)
“Is it the will of the House that the honourable member
for Churchland be heard?” the Speaker put in promptly,
lowering his spectacles to the tip of his Napoleonic nose, and
staring all round with an air of tremendous authority.
(Enthusiastic cries in the affirmative and yells of “Hear,
hear!” and “The member for Churchland!”)
“I move that the member for Churchland be heard,”
came in sonorous tones from the broad-backed Labour member for St.
George.
“The motion is that the member for Churchland be heard.
Those in favour say ‘Aye’” (an unanimous burst of
“aye,” which made the spectators grin and
giggle), “to the contrary, ‘no.’. . . . The
‘ayes’ have it.” (More giggling in the
galleries.)
The member for Churchland proceeded:
“Well, Mister Speaker,” he said cheerfully, “I
wish to saay that I regrit as much and may be more than even the
Primeer himself, or any mimber of—”
He was interrupted by the member for Fillemupagen.
“Mis’er Spikker,” the latter hiccoughed,
“I ri’sh poin’ order.” (Loud laughter.)
The Speaker frowned heavily on the member for Fillemupagen, and
O’Reilly turned and hissed, “Will yez hould your
tongue?” (Renewed laughter.)
“Order!”
“I ri’sh poin’ order,” the
representative for Fillemupagen hiccoughed some more. (Cries of
“Sit down!” and “The member for Churchland has
the Chair!”)
The Premier sprang to his feet.
“Mr. Speaker!” he shouted, “I most
emphatically protest against the business of the country being
continuously obstructed in this manner, (Hear, hear.) If we are to
have a repetition of the disgraceful exhibition this Chamber was
treated to this afternoon—” (Uproar, mingled with cries
of approval from the Ministerial side of the House and vehement
shouts of “You’re obstructing yourself!” from
Labourites.) “I submish, Mis’er Spikker,” the
member for Fillemupagen continued to ejaculate, clutching the back
of the bench in front of him for support, “thash I’msh
(hic) jushly ent’led to ri’sh to (hic) poin’
order.” (Great laughter from the Labour party, and
“Positively disgraceful! Nothing but an ill-mannered lot of
hooligans!” from the Chesterfield of the Assembly.)
“Will the honourable member be good enough to state his
point of order?” the Speaker snapped, leaning forward and
showing his false teeth. (“Hear, hear.”)
“Cer’ainly!” And the member for Fillemupagen
lowered his head a little and clung tighter to the back of the
bench while he tried to remember things, and caused more merriment
and an exodus of disgusted females from the Ladies’ Gallery.
“I callsh you ’tention to a breash stan’in
orshers thish Housh, Mis’er Spikker.” (Tremendous burst
of hilarity and cries of “Sit down!”) “Evshbody
musher seen, an’ you musher seen, Mis’er
Spikker, pershon not mem’er thish ’Oush come in thish
Cham’er throughsh roof.” (Yells of laughter from
the Labour party, dissent from the Government benches, and
“Order, gentlemen, order!” from the Speaker.)
“There is no point of order in the question raised by the
honourable member,” the latter decided angrily. “If
such a breach were committed, the honourable gentleman should have
moved the suspension of the standing orders and called attention to
it at the time. (Hear, hear.) Having allowed it to pass, the matter
cannot be dealt with now.” (Government cheers.)
“But I shay dishinc’ly, Mis’er
Spikker” (more Labour laughter, which was shared heartily by
occupants of the gallery, and “Order!”), “I shay
this ’Oush cansh!”
“Order, order!” the Speaker shouted. “I ask
the honourable member for Fillemupagen to resume his seat.”
(Cheers from the Government and cries of disapproval from the
Labour party.)
“I shay this ’Ouse cansh.”
(Uproar.)
“The honourable member must not further address the
House,” snorted the Speaker, with shot and shell in his
eye.
“Tha’sh parshality—”
“Order!”
“It’sh not Bri’sh jus’ice!”
(“Order, order!” and uproar.)
“Will the honourable member resume his seat?”
(Cheers from the Government, laughter from the Labour party, and
“If this bleggardly conduct continues, I will deem it mai
duty as a protest to walk out of the Chambah,” from the
Chesterfield. Then renewed merriment.)
In the midst of all the commotion an excited old man in the
Strangers’ Gallery dropped a heavy walking-stick on the heads
of the occupants of the cross benches, and consternation and
confusion set in amongst the “Independents.” They
seemed to think the owner of the blackthorn was following in
pursuit of his property, and fled in disorder, and took shelter on
the Labour benches. Labour members welcomed them with loud guffaws,
jeers, and hilarity. The Independents gazed up in scorn at the
gallery, and the occupants of it, writhing in emotion, grinned back
at them. The member for Mopoke Meadow, who had received most of the
force of the falling missile, rubbed the back of his ear and
shouted boisterously:
“Mr. Speaker, I appeal to you, Sir, for
protection—”
“Order!” the Speaker retorted.
(Laughter.)
“But, Mr. Speak—”
“Order! Order!” (Vehement merriment, in which
the gallery heartily joined.)
The member for Mopoke Meadow sat down and in savage, indignant
undertones murmured his opinion of Mr. Speaker. “A one-sided
pig!” he said, and raised more merriment in his corner of the
Chamber.
Again the Premier appealed for peace, but in vain.
“D—d undignified of you,” the Chesterfield
called out. “Less decorum could not be expected from a
Parliament of blackfellahs or South Sea Ailanders.”
(“Hear, hear,” and laughter.)
But the Speaker had not settled with the member for
Fillemupagen, who was still upon his feet.
“The honourable member for Churchland,” he said with
great dignity, “is in possession of the chair, and again I
ask the honourable member for Fillemupagen to resume his
seat.” (“Hear, hear.”)
“Wonsh reshume any sheat,” the member
for Fillemupagen jerked out stubbornly. (Commotion.)
“The honourable gentleman is distinctly out of order in
refusing to resume his seat.”
“Mis’er Spikker—”
“Order!”
“Mis’er (hic) Spikker!” (Loud laughter.)
“Order, order!”
“I wish make pershonal exsp’nation—”
“Order!” (and tremendous laughter from the Labour
party) .
“I have the chair, Mr. Speaker!” O’Reilly
yelled in defence of his Parliamentary rights.
“The honourable member for Churchland is in possession of
the chair, and the member for Fillemupagen must resume his
seat.”
“Wellsh, ’en (hic) I movesh—”
“Order!”
“Your rulinsh—” (Laughter.)
“Order, order!”
“Be dish’greed.” (Roars of laughter.)
“Order, order, order!”
“Itsh not—” (Yells and howls of laughter.)
“Order!”
“Bri’ish justice!” (Shrieks of laughter.)
“Order, order!” (Howls of merriment and
confusion.)
“It’sKanaka shustice!” (Dissent, cries
of “Shame! Shame!” and “Order, order!” from
the Speaker.)
“Yoush a Kanaka youshelf!” (Uproar, more cries of
‘’Shame!” and “Name him!” and
laughter from the Labour members.)
The Premier again rose amidst all the disorder and commotion,
and excitedly called the Speaker’s attention to the words of
the member for Fillemupagen.
“I have never heard,” he said, “of such
disrespectful language ever being used in any British House of
Parliament.” (Cheers from the Government.)
“My attention having been drawn by the Leader of the
Government to the most offensive and unparliamentary language
addressed to this House by the honourable member for
Fillemupagen,” the Speaker said, “I ask that honourable
member to withdraw the words ‘You are a kanaka
yourself,’ and apologise to this House.” (Cheers and
uproar.)
“I shay so a- (hic) -gen!” (More disorder and
prolonged laughter.)
“Upon my soul,” the Chesterfield interjected,
addressing himself to the Labour party, “but you fellahs are
the greatest lot of jackasses it has evah—”
“Order!” And continued bursts of hilarity.
The Chesterfield obeyed the Chair, and the Premier rose
again.
“I move. Sir,” he said, “that the member for
Fillemupagen be suspended from this Chamber for twenty-four
hours.” (Renewed cheers from the Government, and shouts of
disapproval from the Labour members.)
The motion was put and carried, and the Speaker passed sentence,
and ordered the offending one to leave the Chamber.
Several members approached the member for Fillemupagen to
persuade him leave the precincts quietly, but the honourable
gentleman was only beginning to feel his feet. He shoved his
friends aside, waved his hands about, danced into the middle of the
Chamber, and offered to fight the Speaker and the Premier on the
spot, and started to feel and fumble for the buttons of his
coat.
Excitement was tremendous. But before the member for
Fillemupagen could divest himself of any of his garments the
sergeant-at-arms appeared and escorted him out amidst cheers and
counter-cheers, howls, and hoots, and laughter.
Chapter
5
A Steak in the Country
When the disorder subsided, O’Reilly finished his apology;
then the Minister for Lands rose again to continue his second
reading speech.
“I do not flatter myself that this measure,” he
said, “which has cost me so much personal labour and trouble,
will put an end to all the pauperism—all the distress and
discontent that’s in the country. But I do think, Sir, that
it will go a long way—a very long way, indeed—towards
removing from our cities and populous centres, those who are really
worth helping.” (“Hear, hear.”)
“Then, y’ can’t mean it for
y’selves,” Dad interjected bluntly.
“Order!” the Speaker said, and members of the
Opposition laughed and looked hopefully upon Dad.
“The village life of a Swiss peasant,” the Minister
went on, ignoring the interruption, “as long as he pays his
taxes and gives his quota of conscription to the army of his
country, is probably as enviable as that of any race in the world;
and in village communities, there, they manage their own affairs,
and manage them in a most amiable and agreeable manner. They
cultivate their land without as much as even running up a dividing
fence, and no differences or disputes ever arise between
them—”
“Well, then!” Dad shouted.
“Order!” the Speaker cried promptly.
“They’re different from—”
“Order!” the Speaker cried again.
“From the people of this—”
“Order! Order!”angrily from the Speaker.
“This country.”
“Order! Order! OR-DER!” (Great laughter.)
“For I knew a minister,” Dad rumbled on. (More
laughter.)
Just here the Speaker came down on Dad like an elephant throwing
a handspring.
“The honourable member,” he snorted, “must
desist from making interruptions, and must not defy the authority
of this House.” (Applause from the Government.) Then Dad
jumped up and threw his arms about.
“What I came here to say,” he roared,
“I’ll say!” (Ministerial cries of
“Chair!” and cheers from the Opposition.)
“An’ I say that I once knew a minister who owned some
land—it was near a place his brother
had”—(merriment)—“an’ the two of them
dealt in horses, an’ so as the minister wouldn’t be
takin’ an’ usin’ the wrong horses, the brother
went an’ cut all the tails off his mob.” (Loud
laughter.) “But what do you think that minister did?”
(Dad paused amidst more laughter, mingled with appeals for
“Order!”) “He went and cut the tails off
his lot. “(Great hilarity, and useless appeals for
“Order!” from the Speaker.) “It’strue!” Dad yelled with emphasis, then sat down and
leaned back contentedly on the cushions. (Renewed merriment.)
“Order! Order!” from the Speaker, who showed signs
of exhaustion.
“And he’s sittin’ in this House at this
moment!” Dad shouted again. (More hilarity, and cries of
“Name!”) But Dad didn’t give any name. He merely
glared across the Chamber at an exMinister of the Crown, who first
went white, then green and red, and became the object of more
laughter.
“Order!” the Speaker shouted. “Order!”
And, standing up, fixed Dad firmly with his eyes and said:
“If the honourable member for Eton continues to violate
the rules of this House, it will be my duty to take such steps as
will maintain order and uphold the honour and dignity of the
Chamber.” (Loud cheers from the Government, during which Mr.
Speaker sat back, and with great confidence and fearlessness
removed his spectacles, and slowly and carefully wiped them with a
large silk handkerchief.)
All eyes were directed to Dad. But Dad was imperturbable. He
made no reply.
“This Act does not say, Sir,” resumed the Minister,
“that every thirty persons who come along with a code of
rules in their hands ‘shall’ be recognised as a group;
but if the Minister of the day is satisfied it is all right, then
he ‘may’ recognise them as such. Each group will bear a
name. One may be ‘The Golden Grain,’ another ‘The
Big Yield’—”
“Or ‘The Gooseberry’ or ‘The Angora
Goat,’” yelled a sarcastic Labour member,
(Laughter.)
“Even that would be preferable to ‘The equal
distribution’ or ‘The Kelly Gang,’” came
from an old Tory.
“Order!” the Speaker yelled to him.
“Order!”
“Good God, man!” Dad broke out, glaring at the
Minister for Lands, “can’t you think of something
better to do than standing there talking such d—
nonsense?”
“Order!” the Speaker shouted. “Order! The
honourable member for Eton is trying the patience of this
House!” (Cheers.)
“I hope the honourable gentleman will try to control
himself,” the Minister for Lands said, turning to Dad.
“No doubt he comes into this House pregnant with knowledge of
the most practical kind concerning life on the land, but it is
hoped he will be gracious enough to restrain himself till he has an
opportunity of expressing his views in a becoming way.” (More
Government cheers.)
Then the Minister continued his argument.
“As I said before, there will be no roadways left open to
litigation. (Hear, hear.) And I can only hope, Sir, that the good
sense of the co-operators when they go on the land will be such
that they will make a rough survey of it, and endeavour, as far as
may be possible, to provide for the time when a division will take
place. Possibly they may have surveyors among them who will see to
a fair division of—”
“Well, I never did hear such rubbish from a sensible
man!” Dad cried.
“Order!” the Speaker said.
“I never heerd such nonsense from a lunatic!”
Dad said further. (Loud laughter.)
“Then it’s very evident you have never heard
yourself speaking!” the Minister sneered.
“Make their own division!” Dad yelled, ignoring the
sneer. “You know a lot about selectors!”
(“Or-der!” and laughter.) “You have a lot of
sense!” (“Order! Order!”)
“Why don’t you put in the bill that
the—”
“Order!” the Speaker cried. “Will the
honourable member—”
“Selector is to do the same as the German and the
Irishman—” (Yells of laughter from the Labour party,
and “Order, order!” from the Speaker.)
“Who—”
“Order! The honourable member for Eton—”
“Wanted to divide” (shouts of “Chair!
Chair!” and laughter) “a paddock.”
With perspiration running off him, Mr. Speaker several times
called “Order!” in a most peremptory manner.
“Well,” Dad drawled—this time rising to his
feet.
“Order!” the Speaker shouted at him. “The
honourable member cannot—”
“They took hold of some raw steak with their
teeth—” (Wildest of merriment and “Order,
gentlemen, Order!”)
“And pulled fer—”
“I ask the hon—”
“Th’ pick of th’—”
“Order! ORDER!” (Terrific laughter.)
“Paddick.” (Increased laughter, and cries of
“Name him! Name him!”)
The Speaker took Dad in hand again, and cautioned him for the
last time. Then the Minister for Lands was permitted to finish his
speech in peace.
Chapter
6
Kid-Gloved Selectors
When “order” had been restored by the Speaker, the
Minister for Lands said that the bill had cost him a lot of labour,
and thought and trusted it would become law, and that it would be
the beginning of the country’s happiness and salvation.
A lawyer on the Opposition side of the House rose at the same
moment that Dad jumped to his feet. The Speaker caught the
former’s eye, and Dad sank back into the cushion.
The legal one cleared his throat, and said he had no fault to
find with the bill except as regards the clauses which excluded
settlers from having recourse to litigation in order to decide
their disputes.
“That,” he declared, with great emotion, “is
depriving them of the rights and privileges enjoyed by the humblest
subject of our glorious Empire. ’Tis a harsh, a sad, a
sorrowful condition to impose upon any body of poor people; and I
earnestly hope that when the bill gets into committee, Sir, this
House will, in the interests of the people, see its way to amend it
in the direction I have indicated.” Then he sat down.
Dad rose again, and the Speaker caught the eye of the member for
Mundic, “Mr. Doolan,” he murmured; and Dad looked round
and said:
“Well, I’m!—” (Laughter.)
“Order!” the Speaker cried, and Mr. Doolan
proceeded. He stood with thumbs hooked to the arm-holes of his
vest, and talked fluently and rapidly, and bowed and grimaced at
intervals.
“It isn’t a bad bill,” he said, “and it
isn’t a good one; but, seeing the sort of Government it
emanates from, the wonder to me is that there’s any good or
any intelligence in it of any kind.” (“Oh!
Oh!” from the Premier.) “It is a pleasant surprise,
anyway. I never expected to find anything useful in it whatever. I
would never expect to find anything useful in a measure introduced
by the present unprincipled party that’s in power.”
(Dissent.) “Only a fool or a madman could be capable of such
wild expectations.” (Laughter from the Labour party.)
“To search an Act of theirs for anything beneficial to the
people would be conclusive evidence of insanity. I would as soon
think of hacking down the biggest and toughest ironbark tree that
ever grew in the bush with half a shear-blade to get honey from the
hollow of a limb that I knew contained nothing but flies and a dead
’possum.” (Shrieks of laughter from the Labour party.)
“But having received more wisdom than could reasonably be
expected from a lot of political sundowners, I do not intend,
therefore, to offer the bill much serious opposition. It would only
be a waste of intelligence if I did. The clause prohibiting
lawyers, though, from entering these communities and making money
out of the settlers before they make any for themselves, deserves
the approbation of every right-minded person in the
country—”
“They haven’t mine, anyway!” snapped a
sorrowing legal member.
“I said every right-minded person.” (Roars of
Labour laughter.) “It is wise, in the first place, to
prohibit their entering, because it will deprive the settlers of a
reasonable excuse for murdering the whole pilfering profession;
and, in the second place, it will save the wives and children of
the settlers the humiliation of seeing their breadwinners hanged by
the neck on an old wooden beam for a paltry and trivial offence,
for having done the country a good turn, in fact.” (More
laughter.) “For this, if for no other reason, Mr. Speaker, I
do not intend to offer any opposition to this contemptible bit of a
bill.” (“Hear, hear,” and more laughter.)
Dad rose once more, and this time the Speaker bowed to him and
murmured, “The member for Eton.” Dad groaned, expanded
his chest, extended his nostrils, and for several seconds glared in
silence at the Minister for Lands. The Minister for Lands seemed to
be Dad’s “man.” Members flocked in from the
library, from the refreshment room, from every nook and corner,
every rendezvous of the luxurious institution, to hear his maiden
speech. Occupants of the galleries brightened up, and grinned and
leaned over the balustrading, and kept the policemen occupied.
“Sir!” Dad shouted, in a voice that might have been
heard across the river, “this bill is trash.
It’shumbug!” (Laughter.) “It’s
waste of time talkin’ of it.” (More laughter.)
“Well, you’re not likely to waste any sense
on it,” from the Minister for Lands. (Applause.)
“No!” Dad yelled back at him. “Nor you
didn’t waste any sense on it, neither. The man who could
think of such a thing as it has nothing in his head but
nonsense—”
Commotion, laughter, and “Order, order!” from the
Speaker.
“What do it all mean? Where is the use of makin’ a
lot of shabby, little camping grounds for a few broken-down
swells—for a few fellows who want to go out farming with
gloves on their hands and belltoppers on their heads, like this
man’s here” (pointing to O’Reilly). (Laughter.)
“Findin’ land and money and machinery and all the rest
of it for men who’ve never even seen a
selection—fer men who don’t know a jug of milk from a
jew lizard! (Laughter.) Fer men who don’t want to take their
wives with them, for fear they might hurt their hands or wet their
feet or get sunburnt! (Cheers.) And they’re to have rules
made fer them, and a secretary to look after the camp, same as if
it were a football club. My God! what sort of Ministers are ye at
all?” (Loud laughter.)
“Order! Order!” the Speaker cried, and fresh
laughter came from the Opposition.
“It isn’t some good you want to do the
country!” Dad shouted warmly. “It’s
harm—it’smischief—”
“Order!” the Speaker broke out again. “The
honourable member must not—”
“Call it what you like,” Dad rattled on.
“It’s bad—villainous!”
“Order! Order! The honourable member must not use language
in debate which is—”
“Then why don’t they do something that’s
honest—that’s sensible. Why can they not help the
people who are on the land now—people who’ve
been there all their lives, workin’ their hearts and souls
and very eyes out among stones, and sand-hills, and bog-holes, and
dry cricks, and the devil on’y knows what. (Great laughter.)
Let them show they’re in earnest by helpin’ those poor
deservin’ people, and stop foolin’ about with these
gentlemen friends of theirs—these men who are only
thinkin’ they might go on to a selection if everything
is made nice enough for them. (Applause from the Opposition.) Just
fancy givin’ them rations to go on with! God bless my soul,
ain’t there enough sundowners in the country already? (Loud
hilarity.) And fancy puttin’ good new ploughs in the hands of
men with gloves on—men who don’t know a swingle-tree
from a piece of sugar-cane—to go scratching about their camps
with! (Continued merriment.) Did I get flash machinery and money
and a secretary to run after me with his inkpot, when I went into
the bush forty years ago? (Hear, hear.) No! I had to take my wife
and youngsters with me. They weren’t left in town to be kept
by the Government. (Cheers.) They put up with an old humpy with
wide cracks in it, and took their chance against wind and wet and
bad water, and no water, and snakes, and heaven knows what.”
(Laughter and cheers, and “Order!” from the Speaker.)
“But they didn’t mind—they didn’t sulk and
whimper and howl for the town. (More cheers.) They
worked—worked night an’ day, worked in the
house, and in the yard, and in the paddicks, and on the drays, and
beside the stacks. They weren’t afraid of gettin’
sunburnt. They had courage. They had hearts! (A burst of
applause.) And many a time they went without a bit o’
meat.” (More applause.)
“Weren’t there any ’possums or dingoes where
you were?” squeaked the member for Coal Falls, from a distant
corner of the Chamber. (Laughter.)
“There was dingoes,” Dad said, jumping round,
“but there was no donkeys. (Loud laughter.) I didn’t
meet any till I come here. (Renewed laughter.) And that was how my
family, Sir, faced the land,” Dad went on, “and
hundreds of families are doing the same this very day. And if the
Gover’ment have any honesty (“Order!”), if it
have any shame (dissent), it have no intelligence (laughter from
the Opposition), it will tear this bill up and burn it.
(“Nonsense!” from the Premier.) For it’s not
wanted. It’s no good. It’s the work of a
luna—”
“Order! Order!” the Speaker called. “The
honourable member is violating—”
“Only a mad Minister would—”
“Order! Order! Order! The hon—”
‘Would come here and say that a country that’s
already loaded to the ground with taxes and paupers and rogues of
politicians—”
“Order! Order!”
“A country that’s been a drag and a dead horse to
the poor, hard-working man for God knows how long, should pay two
pounds a week for keepin’ men’s wives in town to do
nothin’! Why th’ devil—”
“Order! Order! Order!”
“Do he not let them have a trap and servants and a
governess as well” (“Hear, hear,” and laughter),
“and supply the men at the camps with merry-go-rounds and
swings, so as they won’t get lonely and fret for their
women?” (Roars of laughter from the gallery, during which the
Speaker adjusted his glasses and cast dark, threatening looks at
the occupants.)
A member seated at the table handed Dad a glass of water. Dad
swilled it, and waving the empty glass about, fairly yelled:
“Do any sensible man think these men will stay on a
selection when they get there?”
“Certainly; why not?” said the Minister in charge of
the bill.
“Of course, you do,” Dad snorted.
“You do, but you were never a sensible man!”
(Rounds of laughter, in the midst of which an occupant of the
Strangers’ Gallery was thrown down the stairs.) “You
are an unsensible man!” (More laughter, and
“Order, order!” from Mr. Speaker.) “You are an in
—an un—” (Language failed Dad, and the Chamber
rang with more mirth.)
“You’reno man!” he jerked out.
(Increased merriment.)
“Order!” interrupted the Speaker. “I must ask
the honourable member not to indulge in personalities, but to
confine himself to the bill be—”
“Well, Where’s the sense,” Dad rolled on,
“of leaving their wives in town? If they can’t go on
the selection, and wash and starch and stitch and help to burn off
like other women, what good will they be?” (Laughter.)
“What good will it do the country? Do you call that settling
people on the land? Taking people who don’t want to go by the
scruff of the neck, and puttin’ them on a hundred and sixty
acres, and givin’ them a secretary to polish their boots,
while young fellows who take up places themselves are charged
sixteen and twenty pounds for surveyin’, same as you did
young Mulrooney!” (Loud laughter.) “Is that the way to
settle them on the land? Pshaw!” (Laughter.)
“Rubbish!” And Dad sat down.
Chapter
7
Behind the Scenes
Dad had now been three months in the “House,” and
was beginning to find his way about, and to understand the ways of
the Institution. Dad enjoyed being a member of Parliament, and felt
all the weight and importance of the position. He spent a lot of
time about the building, looked upon it as a sort of home—a
refuge—and every morning visited the library and hobnobbed
and yarned with members, read the newspapers, and answered his
correspondence. Dad’s correspondence took a lot of answering,
too; it required a deal of tact and skill and local knowledge to
answer it properly. The correspondence gave Dad more trouble than
his election, and came harder on him than sinking post holes or
putting out a bush fire. Nearly every man in the Eton electorate
was in communication with Dad—especially those who had
opposed him at the poll. Some sent him points and information for
his speeches; some required the railway freight for carrying
produce to the markets reduced at once; some wished him to secure a
level crossing near the siding; some wanted a grain shed; some more
a Government dam; one end of the electorate desired him to obtain
the grant of ten acres of land for a sports ground; the other end
of it had no place to bury their dead, and instructed him to find
out “how they were to go about getting a cemetery?” One
wanted him to “find out quietly” if a certain piece of
land owned by a neighbouring squatter for over twenty years
wasn’t “a reserve,” and if it
“couldn’t be got some way.” Another “had
heard” that someone in Brisbane had a lot of
“second-hand galvanised iron for sale,” and asked him
to find out all about it and let him know; another had sent a crate
of fowls to a poultry dealer “over a week ago, and
hadn’t received no money for them,” and wished Dad to
“go and see the cove about it at once and get the
money.” Scores of them were “waiting anxious” to
know if he had done anything “about gettin’ Willie (or
Tommy or Johnny or some-one) on the Railway,” while others
had sons yearning to be made policemen. And regularly each week the
P.S. to mother’s letter ran, “Sandy says for me to tell
you he hasn’t heard any thing yet about being made rabbit
inspector.”
* * * * * * * *
Dad was in the refreshment bar. The members for Mopoke Meadow
and Fillemupagen and the Government Whip were there, too. The
Government Whip shook hands with Dad, and complimented him on the
speech he made on the Land Settlement Bill. “For a maiden
speech,” he said, “I can assure you it was one of the
best I have ever heard delivered in the House.” Dad took a
liking to that Whip then, and assured him there was a lot more he
could have said. “But I’m not used to talkin’ on
me feet,” Dad said. “If I’d been sittin’
down as we’re talkin’ now, I’d have given it to
them!”
“You did very well,” the Whip went on; “and
though I supported the bill myself, I candidly admit the force of
everything you said.” Then he asked Dad what he’d have
to drink. Dad would have whisky. The Whip took some whisky, too;
then broke new ground. He spoke of a motion which had been moved by
the Leader of the Opposition to defeat the Dry Creek-Currajong
Railway Bill, the voting on which was to take place in a night or
two. “Why these fellows,” he said, referring to the
opponents of the bill, “are against the line passes my
comprehension. The short and long of it is they’re so
d— ignorant that they don’t know what they’re
talking about! Not one of them has ever been over the country the
line’s to go through; and I can assure you, Mr. Rudd”
(laying his hand affectionately on Dad’s knee) “that
right from Dry Creek, where it’s proposed to start this line,
to Currajong—and I’ve been over every inch of it dozens
of times, myself—is to be found some of the finest land that
ever you set eyes on. There is not a foot of it bad, and the amount
of country it must open up would simply mean that the whole width
of those great, expansive rolling downs would, in a few years, be
teeming with prosperous settlers of the right class, and this
country would go ahead. And with your intelligence, and with all
your practical experience, I needn’t tell you how desirable
that is to a young country.”
Dad agreed with every word the Whip said.
“But all these fellows,” the Whip continued,
“are talking through their necks. For the life of them they
can’t see that this country is simply languishing for the
want of intelligent farmers, and that before a farmer can do any
good for himself on the land he must have a railway to carry his
stuff to the market. You know that?”
Dad did.
Then the amiable Whip retailed and detailed more of the proposed
railway’s virtues and its glorious prospects, and the good
intentions with which it would be paved. But he didn’t tell
Dad it was a job railway— that its construction would benefit
a big syndicate only, or that it wouldn’t bring a single
farmer within a hundred miles of it, or any settlement worth
talking about for the next hundred years. Neither did he tell Dad
that some of those who were the most earnest advocates of the bill
were members of the syndicate. He left that for a member of the
Opposition to do later on.
“Well, I suppose, then,” the Whip said, bringing
matters to a head, “we can reckon on your vote?”
“Well,” Dad answered, “I dare
say—yes—perhaps—no doubt, no doubt.”
Then it was Dad’s turn to break new ground. He did it
suddenly.
“How do you get a man on rabbit inspectin’?”
he said.
The Whip smiled. “How? By saying the word. By simply
putting him on yourself.”
Dad stared.
“Why, what is it? Who’s the man you want to put
on?”
Dad unbosomed himself, and told the Whip all about Sandy. Just
then the Minister for Lands entered the refreshment bar.
“You know Mr. Rudd, Mr. Carter?” the Whip said,
drawing that gentleman’s attention to Dad.
“Well, after the spirited speech he made against me the
other night,” the Minister said, with a broad smile, and
shaking hands enthusiastically with Dad, “I ought
to.”
Then Dad shook.
“Though we may be bitter opponents inside the Chamber, Mr.
Rudd,” the Minister added, “there’s no reason why
we shouldn’t meet on friendly terms outside.”
Dad felt like a criminal. The Minister’s good nature and
affability softened his heart.
“Mr. Rudd,” the Whip put in, with a knowing look at
the Minister, “I understand, has a little matter he wants
fixed up which comes under your department.”
The Minister pricked his ears.
“I’ll be very pleased,” he said, looking at
Dad. And once more Dad went into details regarding Sandy’s
aspirations.
“By Jove, then!” the Minister exclaimed, “you
have just spoken in time. There’s a vacancy of that
description at this very moment, if I’m not
mistaken.”
Then, after reflecting:
“I’ll tell you what” (placing his hand on
Dad’s broad shoulder). “Come round to my
office—say about two o’clock tomorrow, and we’ll
talk it over.”
Dad said he would, and the Minister returned to the Chamber.
“That was easy enough,” the Whip said, with a
triumphant wink at Dad.
“Different fellow to what I thought he was,” Dad
murmured.
“Oh, a good fellow—splendid chap—real white
man. Carter,” the Whip said; then added confidentially,
“You can always get any little thing like that fixed up if
you keep in with Ministers. And it’s worth your
while—take it from me!”
The members for Mopoke Meadow and Fillemupagen strolled into the
Chamber, and in a while were followed by Dad.
Chapter
8
Under the Influence
The member for Quondong—a tall, thin, pale, stately, old
man, flying a piece of blue ribbon in his coat, rose and moved:
“That owing to the spread of drunkenness and debauchery
throughout the country, it is the opinion of this House that it is
desirable that no spirituous liquors be sold at the
refreshment-room bar or in any part of this House.”
“My object in moving this resolution,” he said,
“is that this country may lead Australia—may lead
England—may lead the world, in fact—in virtue
and sobriety.”
“Leadsh y’ gransh (hic) musher!” hiccoughed
the member for Fillemupagen. (Laughter.)
“Order!” the Speaker said.
“That the cause of Temperance, Sir, should advance and
triumph in this country is the one great
wish—er—er—the one great wish that’s
nearest and dearest to my heart.” (“Hear, hear.”)
“With this end in view I have fought the Demon Drink both on
the platform and in the Press, Sir, for the—”
“Dish ye ever fi’ him insh cellarsh?” asked
the member for Fillemupagen.
Loud laughter, in which “Fillemupagen” himself
joined heartily.
“Order!” roared the Speaker. “Order,
gentlemen, order!”
“—for the greatest part of my life. I hold in my
hand here,” the temperance one went on, “statistics
which show that the consumption of intoxicating liquors per head of
population, men, women, and children, for last year amounted to the
dreadful sum of £8 per head—”
“Thash includsh grog drunksh ash merishun,”
interrupted the member for Fillemupagen. (More loud laughter, and
“Order, order!” from the Speaker.)
“What I desire this House to do in regard to this bar, Mr,
Speaker, is to wipe it out—to wipe it out in the interests of
sobriety, in the interests of morality, in the interests of wise
and sensible legislation—”
“What do you mean?” angrily from the Premier.
“I will tell the honourable gentleman what I mean. I mean
that while a refreshment bar is attached to this House it will
stand as a bad example to the rest of the country; it will stand
for evil; it will stand as a temptation to members to frequent it
and waste time that should be spent in considering and studying
measures that are brought in by the Government for the benefit of
the country.”
“You are talking nonsense!” from the Premier.
“Hear, hear!” from Government supporters.
“He is most insulting!” the Chesterfield of the
Assembly called out “Devilish unfaiah!”
“Mr. Speaker,” the man of temperance hammered on,
“I venture to say there is a great deal more of this
country’s business transacted in that bar” (pointing
his finger dramatically at the bar door) “than there is in
this Chamber!”
Loud cries of “No, no!” and “Shame!”
“I say ‘Yes,’ Mr. Speaker!”
“That is a direct insult to honourable members,” the
Premier shouted.
“I have no desire to insult honourable members, but I make
bold to say that when members—I do not say every member of
this House—far from it—but a good percentage of
them—indulge in spirituous liquors during the sitting hours
of this House—their intellects must, to a very great extent,
be blunted and clouded.” (Indignant shouts of
“Rubbish!” and “Brightened, you mean!”)
“And foolish and ridiculous legislation must be the
result.” (“Bah!” from a member of the Ministry.)
“I earnestly hope on behalf of the great body of temperance
people of this colony that the House will aid me all it can in this
matter; and should this motion be carried without going to a
division, it will be one of the proudest moments of my life.”
(“Pshaw!” from the Premier, and laughter.) “One
of the principal planks, Mr. Speaker, in the platform of the Labour
party, of which they boast so much, is reform, and we hear it said
every day that the members of that party are also pledged to
temperance. That being so, I trust, then, that those gentlemen will
show their sincerity in the principles they advocate by supporting
this motion, and assisting to abolish strong drink from the
precincts of this House.”
There was a heavy silence.
Then the Premier rose.
“Mr. Speaker,” he commenced, “this motion is a
farce—a stupid shriek” (great cheering), “and the
honourable member in moving it went out of his way to insult this
House.” (More cheers.) “I have been a member of this
House, Sir, much longer than the honourable gentleman, and I say
emphatically that never yet have I seen a member under the
influence of liquor.” (Cries of “Hear, hear!”
from the Government, mingled with smothered laughter from the
galleries.) “I do not say that some members of this House do
not take a glass of whisky when they require it—I take one
myself sometimes” (“Qui’ rish!” from the
member for Fillemupagen, and laughter from the Labour benches),
“but to say they could not take an intelligent part in the
work of this House is nothing but a base slander and a deliberate
insult.” (Wild shouts of approval.) “This is not the
first nor the fifth occasion that we have heard this cold-water
speech of the honourable gentleman’s” (“Hear,
hear”) “and it seems to me, Mr. Speaker, that he would
have served a more laudable object had he remained in his
electorate, and lectured teetotalism in the highways and byways and
back yards of that locality.” (Vociferous applause from
Ministerialists.) “I know of no other part of the
colony—and I’m familiar with the whole of it, Mr.
Speaker—where his dreary, cold-tea dissertation would be
appreciated.” (Laughter.) “It is certainly not relished
by sober, sensible men, and is, therefore, resented in this
Chamber.” (More cheers from Ministerialists, and “Mosh
’suredly!” from the member for Fillemupagen.) “I
think it a piece of gross impertinence on the honourable
gentleman’s part to preach temperance to this House.”
(“Hear, hearsh!” from the member for Fillemupagen.)
“If I want a glass of grog, Mr. Speaker, I will always
have it.” (Cheers.) “And I will not consult the
honourable member’s feelings on the matter, either.”
(Great cheers.) “Neither will I, when he requires his cup of
cold tea, expect him to consult mine.” (Loud laughter.)
“I regard this motion as a miserable and contemptible slur
upon this House” (Yells of applause), “and I feel sure
it will meet with the fate it so well deserves.”
Amidst more cheers the Premier sat down, puffing hard and
mopping his flushed face with a handkerchief.
Others rose in quick succession, and condemned the motion. The
mover replied; then the member for Fillemupagen pulled himself
together and faced the chair.
“Mish’ Spikker” (laughter), “on thish
bill” (cries of “No, motion!”), “I’m
mush ’blished—on thish motion I’m wish
Premier—”
“I would be sorry to have you with me unless as a
convert,” interjected the temperance member.
“Jusho—ash convert—ash blue (hic)
ribbonsher” (loud laughter). “There’s no harmsh
at allsh, Mish’ Spikker, in blue (hic) ribbonsh—no
harmsh at all” (laughter). “Ansh if a mansh likesh
wearsh it—wellsh I shay, leshim.” (Great
hilarity.) “Bush, I alsho zhay—I alsho
zhay—i’ll be sorish daysh forsh country, Miss’
Spikker, whensh bar thish ’Oush closhed up, ansh blue (hic)
ribbonsh mee’ings held in thish Cham-’er.” (Loud
Labour laughter, and “Order, order,” from the Speaker.)
“Ash mem’er this ’Oush for fifeensh year I
deniesh shta’ment thash mem’ers eversh
inca’blesh.” (Loud laughter.) “I’sh never
sheen shingle (hic) onesh s-s-s-shim’lated.” (Screams
of hilarity.) “Mosh shober lot mem’ers—mosh
shober ’Shembly insh worlsh.” (Roars of
merriment.) “Doesh hon’ble mem’er wish thish
’Oush join temransh league?” (Prolonged merriment.)
“Shupposh did? Woush it makesh a’ differensh? I shay
mosh ’suredly nosh.” (Yells of Labour laughter,
and cries of “Order, gentlemen, order!” from the
Speaker.) “Doesh-in’ temransh people drinksh?”
(“Shame!” from the mover of the motion, and laughter
from the Opposition.) “Coursh you shay shamesh, bush
’eydo. I knowsh!”
“That is false!” from the man of temperance.
“Ish truesh—Bible truesh!”
“A wicked slander!”
“Order!” the Speaker said. “The honourable
mem—”
“Yoursh shlanered this ’Oush,
y’selfsh!”
“Order, order!”
“Thish motion. Mis’ Spikker, ish sim’ly
col’ warrer cry, an’ mush be ’poshed.”
(Loud laughter.)
Then the House divided, and amidst merriment the motion was lost
by 41 to 2, the member for Fillemupagen voting for the motion, in
error, along with the blue ribboner.
Chapter
9
The Rabbit Inspector
Next day. An air of prosperity pervaded the Lands Department.
Several large estates had been repurchased by the Government at
boom-or-burst prices, and every draftsman on the premises had his
head buried in a map or a plan or something; electric bells were
ringing; messengers rushed up and down the narrow, dingy corridors
of the decayed, old rookery, while clerks, with high collars and
nicely-parted hair, and laden with bundles of papers bandaged with
red tape, hurried from the door of one room to another.
A pale, poorly-dressed, careworn, anxious-looking woman, of
middle age, with an infant in her arms and two toddlers clinging to
her skirts, entered the building; and asked a messenger if Mr.
Brewer was engaged, Mr. Brewer was her husband. The messenger said
“he’d see,” and hurried to the other end of the
building. In a while the husband, a thoughtful, capable, ill-paid
servant, came into the corridor.
“Have you heard yet?” the wife asked, a
half-hopeful, half-anxious expression mounting her face.
The man glanced cautiously up and down the corridor, then over
his shoulder, to satisfy himself no one was listening, then lowered
his voice and said:
“I’ve just been in with the
Under-Secretary—”
“Yes, yes!” the wife broke in eagerly,
expectantly.
“And he’s recommended me for the
billet—”
“Oh, I’m so glad, Tom. Do you
think—”
“Sh!” the husband whispered, glancing round again.
“Musn’t speak so loud.”
“I am glad, though. How much will it be—a
forty pounds rise?”
“Forty-five.”
“Forty-five? £135 a year.”
“Of course, I haven’t got it yet,” the husband
added, with just a suspicion of uncertainty in his voice.
“But you will, though, Tom, when the
Under-Secretary has recommended it?”
“I think so, but you mustn’t speak about it yet
awhile.”
The wife assured him she wouldn’t, and, with hopes of
promotion and prosperity in her heart, turned cheerfully away with
the mites and left the building.
* * * * * * *
At two o’clock Dad was at the Lands Office. He told a
messenger that he was a member of Parliament, and was hurriedly
shown into the Minister’s room. The Minister rose and shook
him by the hand and said: “Sit down till I finish signing
some papers.” Dad dropped heavily into a costly chair lined
with leather, and stared up at a row of life-sized pictures hanging
on the wall—photographs of ex-Ministers encased in expensive
frames, paid for out of public money.
“Well, now, let me see,” the Minister mused, putting
down his pen, “you were saying something about a
clerkship?”
“Arabbit inspector,” Dad said, correcting
him.
“Ah, yes, yes. . . . there is such a vacancy, I remember
now.”
Then, after reflecting:
“Is this man you speak of a trustworthy fellow?”
“He’s me son-in-law,” Dad said sternly,
“Sandy. You know he married Kate.”
The Minister didn’t ask for further information. He nodded
and grinned, and told Dad it would “be all right.”
They talked for a while about land, and selectors, and wheat,
and things the Minister didn’t know anything about. Then the
Minister assured Dad again that “it would be all
right,” and Dad fervently shook hands with him and came
out.
When Dad had gone the Minister rang for the Under-Secretary, and
discussed the vacancy with him. The Under-Secretary mentioned the
name of Mr. Brewer.
“Brewer?” the Minister said. “Is he someone in
the Department?”
“For twenty-two years,” the Under-Secretary answered
“He’s only receiving £90 a year, and he’s
an excellent officer, and I would like to see him get the position.
This is his application.”
He placed the document before the Minister.
It ran:
“I have the honour to most respectfully
apply for the position of rabbit inspector for the district of
Mingoolooloo, rendered vacant by the death of Mr. James Smith. I
would ask to be permitted to state that I have now been in the
service for twenty-two years, and for the last ten years have not
received an increase of salary; and would further ask for special
consideration on the ground that I have a wife and family of eight
children to support, and regret to admit that I find it a hard
struggle indeed to provide them with even the bare necessities of
life out of the small salary of £90 per annum. Trusting the
Honourable the Minister will be pleased to favourably consider my
claim to promotion,
“I
have the honour to be, &c.,
“THOMAS
BREWER.”
“Is he a good man, this?” the Minister asked,
looking up at the Under-Secretary.
“A splendid officer, Mr. Carter. A really good all-round
man.”
The Minister reflected.
“H’m,” he said. “H’m.”
Then after a silence:
“Well, I’m afraid we can’t give it to him this
time, but we’ll put him down for five pounds on the
Estimates, next year.”
Then he minuted the papers: “Sandy Taylor to be appointed
at a salary of £180.”
* * * * * * * *
“Mr. Brewer, the Under-Secretary would like to see
you,” said a messenger.
Poor Brewer! He fouled the copying-press, and fell over the tall
stool in his excitement and eagerness to obey the summons and learn
of his promotion. He felt he had “got the billet,” and
his heart palpitated and his eyes shone as he entered the
Under-Secretary’s room. The latter looked up.
“Well, Brewer,” he said, with a ring of genuine
sorrow in his voice, “I did all I could for you,
but—” He seemed to think it wasn’t necessary to
say more.
Poor Brewer! His hopes and his heart and every internal part of
him dropped. He turned pale. He stared stupidly. He felt ill.
“I’m sorry,” the Under-Secretary said,
“very sorry, but” And Brewer, broken-hearted, turned
and went back to his £90 a year. And he didn’t utter
one word of reproach or profanity; he didn’t even curse any
of the scheming, unprincipled politicians who pretend to run the
country in an honest way.
* * * * * * * *
The House was in Committee. The Lands Office Estimates were
under discussion, and numerous awkward and ugly questions were
being asked the Minister. One inquisitive member of the Opposition
wished to know how it was that an influential justice of the peace
in the Minister’s own electorate became the proprietor of a
Government reserve. Another, who had discovered some thing
suspicious in connection with sales of land, desired to be informed
why the Department had paid away several thousand pounds of
borrowed money to a certain gentleman as commission for merely
“introducing a purchaser” who was already in
negotiation with the Department over the property in question. For
several hours the Minister defended himself and his Department by
indulging in recriminations and piling abuse and banter upon the
heads of those whose duty it was to ask for the information.
Finally he sat down with a triumphant smile on his face. But his
opponents hadn’t finished with him, not by a long way. The
member for Cross Roads rose, flashing a bunch of loose papers in
his hand, and in deep, sonorous tones said:
“Mr. Chairman, I have a matter of importance to bring
before this Committee—a matter which, I feel sure, when all
the facts are fully stated, will make the Honourable the Minister
for Lands tremble in his official shoes, if it doesn’t
actually cause him to hang his head in shame—”
“That is only your impertinent opinion,” interrupted
the Minister.
“And I think it will also be the opinion of every member
of this Committee before I have finished,” retorted the
member for Cross Roads.
Then, after an impressive pause:
“On the honourable gentleman’s estimate it will be
seen, Mr. Chairman, that a rabbit inspector is provided for at an
increased salary of £180.” (Here Dad turned suddenly in
his seat and gaped wonderingly at the member for Cross Roads.)
“The honourable member for Eton, I see, is already keenly
interested. Now, Mr. Chairman, this rabbit inspector’s name,
I am told, is Taylor; and he happens to be the son-in-law of a
member of this House.” (Cries of “Name!”)
“Well, then, it’s the member for Eton.” (Cries of
“Oh, oh!” and laughter.) “And, if my information
is correct, the appointment was given to this gentleman upon a
promise made by the member I have named to support the Dry
Creek-Currajong Railway Bill, which was introduced to this Chamber
by the Honourable the Minister for Lands—”
“An infamous falsehood!” shouted the Minister, which
was followed by uproar, and “Order, order!” from the
chair.
“I said I might—or perhaps I would!” Dad
roared. (Sensation and yells of “Oh! Ah! We’re getting
at the truth now!” from Labour members.)
“Yes; we’re getting at the truth now,” the
member for Cross Roads continued, “and for this half-promise,
then—this perhaps-I-might sort of promise, Mr.
Chairman—the honourable gentleman appointed the son-in-law of
the member for Eton, who is not in the service, over the head of an
unfortunate servant who had been in his Department for no less than
twenty-two years—whose salary was only £90, and who had
a family of eight children and a sick wife to support on this
miserable pittance; and, worse than all, made the appointment in
direct antagonism to the entreaties and supplications of his
Under-Secretary; and despite the fact that this son-in-law, in his
written application for the post, which I now hold in my
hand” (waving the document) “admitted he had never seen
a rabbit in his life.” (Disorder.) “If this, Mr.
Chairman, is not a clear case of bribery and corruption, as well as
Ministerial heartlessness, then there never was one” (renewed
disorder), “and I leave the Minister to clear himself of this
dirty business as he may think fit.” (General confusion,
mingled with cheers and cries of “Shame!”)
The Minister bounced to his feet.
“Mr. Chairman,” he yelled, “this is not the
first time nor the fifth that the honourable member for
Cross Roads has attempted to bring a charge of corruption against
me and blacken my good name, and each time he has sought to do it
in a most vile and dastardly manner. I deny the charge in toto, and
challenge him to bring evidence to prove the truth of his
statements.” (Ministerial cheers.) “The appointment of
this rabbit inspector was made strictly upon its merits. I went
carefully into the matter, and I have no hesitation in saying
before this Committee that the man selected was the best fitted for
the post.” (More Ministerial cheers.) “And I claim the
right, Mr. Chairman, to administer the affairs of the Department
over which I have the honour to preside according to my lights and
learning and without consulting the honourable member, and without
the least fear of what he might think or have to say.”
(Tremendous Ministerial cheers.) “And I say further that no
promise, or hint of a promise, to vote for the bill mentioned was
ever made by the member for Eton to me, nor did any conversation
ever take place between us in regard to it. The whole thing is a
wicked fabrication, and I do not know what the honourable member
for Eton alluded to when he interjected that he promised ‘he
might or that perhaps he would.’”
“It wasn’t to you I said it; it was to this man over
here!” Dad blurted out, pointing with his thick middle finger
to the Government Whip. (Fresh sensation, and more cries of
“Oh! Oh!”)
“Who? Me?” the Whip retorted, feigning
surprise. “It’s a deliberate lie!—”
“Order, order!” from the chair. “The
honourable member must withdraw.”
The Whip withdrew his words, and smiled at Dad. Then Dad stood
up, and amidst much confusion made a clean breast of what
transpired in the refreshment room, but reminded them that he did
not vote for the bill.
“And, Sir!” he roared with much force and dramatic
effect, “I say here that I did ask the Minister for a
billet for my son-in-law, Sandy, and I thought I had a right to,
but I didn’t know till now that I was doing a poor man with a
family and a sick wife out of his rights; and if what that member
says is true” (pointing to the member for Cross Roads),
“then I can tell him that in twenty-four hours that billet
will not be held by my son-in-law.” (Loud cheers.) “I
never did a man harm in my life, Sir, and I’m not going to
commence now.” (Great applause, during which the Minister for
Lands left the Chamber.)
And Dad was as good as his word. In three days Sandy had
resigned, and a fortnight later the appointment of Thomas Brewer as
a rabbit inspector appeared in the “Government
Gazette.”
Chapter 10
The Land Betterment Bill
Dad had now been a member of Parliament for several years, and
had gained a reputation for fearless, violent debating, and for
hard, practical commonsense.
The continuous Government, which had ruled the country
interminably—a Government which had been impeached and
impaled in Parliament and on platform—howled and hooted down
by its opponents as a band of political bushrangers and enemies to
the country and every one in it—had fallen, defeated by the
ambition of some of its followers—followers who all along the
line had supported and applauded its actions, whether good, bad, or
indifferent. For the prospect of position and power they promptly
deserted and joined the Opposition. Even its Speaker cleared out of
the chair one night by the back way, and was missing in the
morning. In a casual sort of way he became Premier of the new
combination, which called itself the “Coalition
Government”—the Government of “Reform and
Progress”—then it sat down and formulated a policy.
When the document was finished it looked well. They hoisted it high
above Parliament House; brandished it over the heads of the
electors; said it would right all the wrongs that had been done by
the old Party; declared its mission was to relieve the people of
the weight of further taxation; to bring about high wages and cheap
food and clothing and lots of work for the poor man; to release
civil servants from their load of retrenchment; to build a network
of light railways throughout the land—in fact, to GO
STRAIGHT, and be a good, righteous, honest Government, and God
knows what! And in this grand garb —with this glorious Policy
in its two hands—it went forth to the country.
“Our manifesto,” said the new Premier, “is the
same as our opponents’, but with this
difference—we mean it; they don’t.”
And in its excitement the country believed him, and sent his party
into power with a large majority, a lot of shouting, and several
big, noisy banquets. Then once more the country threw up its hat,
and hurrayed before finally sobering itself, and settling down to
wait for the new prophets to perform their miracles—for the
promised prosperity to set in, for the millennium to come up over
the horizon. And while it held its breath and waited, the new
Parliament got together and met much in the same way that the old
one used to meet. It was a great and glorious occasion. The band
played. People crowded into the House and thronged the galleries.
The Chamber presented a new and strange appearance. The Government
side of it was crammed. Had any more been returned by the people to
support that Premier, they would have had to sit outside and
support him on the steps. Numerically, that Government was
formidable. The dozen or so remaining of the old defeated party
were in possession of the Opposition benches, and none of them
seemed to enjoy their promotion. Some of them looked sorry, some
sad, some bored, some bitter, some battered; altogether they looked
like the sole survivors of a great wreck.
The proceedings opened with prayer and adjourned in wrath. For
several weeks they opened and adjourned in like manner. Then one
evening a piece of policy—the part that they had left behind
in the drawers when they went to the country—was unfolded,
and business commenced.
The Treasurer, a sturdy, pompous, Cromwellian sort of politician
with a Scotch accent, rose and began his second reading speech on
“A Land Betterment Bill.” He explained all the beauties
and perfections of that bill; said he had a lot of faith in it;
that it was to be the salvation of the country, and was confident
that members would find the principle embodied in it simple and
easily understood. “Whoso maketh a thing,” he said,
‘’whoso createth a value, to him that thing or value
belongs.” (Loud cheers from the Government benches.)
“Let me illustrate my meaning,” he went on.
“Suppose John Smith buys 100 acres of land at £1 per
acre; and suppose further that he improves and clears that land, or
spends money or labour on it equal to £4 per acre, then
everyone must recognise that John Smith has a property right in
that land to the extent of £500.” Everyone did; they
got up and cheered the prophet. “But,” he continued
confidently, “further suppose that a railway is built into
the district where that land is, and the value of John
Smith’s holding is increased thereby in value from £5
to £8 per acre, then it must be clear to everyone that if
John Smith has a property right in the £5 per acre which he
created, the community which added another £3 per acre to the
value of the land has a property right in that increased
value—”
“’Tis a lie; ’twould be a
robbery!” Dad shouted.
Dissent.
“Order!” the Speaker cried. “The honourable
member must not impute—”
The rest of the rebuke was lost in a loud “Hear,
hear!” that came from the Government.
“So long as John Smith can fairly claim,” the
Treasurer went on, “that his land is only worth £500,
then this bill does not propose to ask one penny from him, but when
John Smith himself admits that the community has added a value to
his land, then this bill will ask half of that value from John
Smith—”
“My God!” Dad exclaimed, throwing his head back and
opening wide his mouth. (Loud, derisive laughter from the
Government, and “Order!” from the Speaker.)
“I submit that the equity and moderation of such a
proposal,” the Minister resumed, fanning the air with pages
of his written speech, “cannot be disputed” (hear,
hear), “and, as Mill pointed out, the claims of the
community—”
“Who th’ devil is Mill?” Dad shouted, leaning
forward in his seat. (Great laughter.)
“Order, order!”
“Windmill!” responded the member for Pine Tree in a
loud voice from a distant part of the Chamber.
More laughter, and again “Order!” from the
Speaker.
“Yes, the Treasurer is the mill,” the member for
Targo rasped out from the Opposition side, “and the
honourable gentleman representing Pine Tree supplies the
wind.” (Loud laughter from members generally —from all
except the member for Pine Tree.)
“Order!” the Speaker demanded angrily. “I must
ask honourable members to allow the Treasurer to proceed with his
speech without interruption.” (The merriment ceased.)
“The claims of the community in this respect,” the
Treasurer went on, “would long ago have been recognised but
for the ascendancy of landlords; and the judgment of
Mill—”
“What th’ devil have he to do with it?” Dad
roared, jumping to his feet.
“Order! Order!” from the Speaker.
“Chair! Chair!” from different parts of the Chamber,
and “Sit down, you ox!” from the representative of Pine
Tree. Dad shook his fist in the direction of the latter and
yelled:
“Not fer the askin’ of an ass wud I sit down!”
(Renewed merriment and laughter in the Strangers’
Gallery.)
The Speaker lifted his eyes, and stared threateningly at the
strangers—and the police began to get active. Then he turned
his attention to Dad.
“The honourable member for Eton,” he snapped,
fanning like an infuriated commandant, “must resume his seat,
and I warn him not to continue interrupting the House.”
“How can any honest man sit down while—”
“Order! Will the honourable member resume his
seat?”
A member seated near Dad induced him to obey the chair.
“It’s meant for nothing but robbery!” Dad
blurted out, as he dropped heavily on the cushion.
“Order!” the Speaker fired back, and once
more the coast was cleared for the Treasurer.
“The judgment of Mill,” he rolled on, “is not
only in accord with human nature, but is also in strict accord with
historical fact—”
“Well, if Mill’s statement has your-re
approval,” came from the member for Targo, “wha-at more
is required? Let us pass the bill, and get on with the
business.” (Laughter, and “Order!”)
“’Twill never pass!” Dad hollered,
struggling violently with the members for Cow Yard and Cattle
Creek, who had some difficulty in keeping him from taking the floor
again. “Never, while there’s a bit o’
breath in me body!”
“Order!”
“Yoush wrong,” the member for Fillemupagen
hiccoughed at Dad. “Will pash—same ash ships
pash in (hic) nightsh.” (Boisterous hilarity, and loud
appeals for “Order!” from the Speaker.)
“I have no objection,” the Treasurer retorted
angrily, “to honourable gentlemen interrupting me by making
interjacksions reelevant to the matter before the Hoose, but I
objaikt, Sair, to people eenterrupting like drunk men in the back
yaird o’ a bush shanty.” (Commotion.)
“Mr. Speaker, I rise to a point of order!” squealed
the member of blue ribbon fame. “I take exception,
Sir—”
“Mis’er Spikker,” the member for Fillemupagen
broke in, “I ri’h (hic) poin’ order.”
(Great merriment.) “If’sh hon’ble
gen’el’em saysh I’m drunksh, he’shliar.” (Disorder, and cries of “Shame!”
and “Withdraw!” intermingled with laughter, loudly
echoed back from the galleries.)
“Order! The honourable member must withdraw such
remarks!” the Speaker demanded with fearful firmness.
The member for Fillemupagen sat down silent and
sullen-looking.
“I ask the honourable member to withdraw his
words.”
“All righsh,” the offending one murmured, “I
wishdraw” (hear, hear), “but it’sh a
lie.” (Laughter.)
“Order!”
Once more the Treasurer got under way, and explained the meaning
of “unimproved value” and “betterment.”
“No person,” he said, “is to be charged for
betterment until that person admits the betterment. The
owner’s valuation will be taken, and the Treasurer cannot
alter that valuation; and there will be no litigation about it.
But” (here Dad shifted in his seat and leaned forward to
catch all he said) “the Treasurer may advise the Crown to
resume the land at the owner’s valuation, with 10 per cent,
added for compensation—”
“Aha!” Dad snorted, “Aha!”
(Laughter from Government supporters, and “Order!” from
Mr. Speaker.)
Then the Treasurer quoted Mill again, and read chunks of wisdom
from Pepys’ Diary, and concluded by saying that he himself
was fully persuaded that, if the bill became law, it would be
“a great gude—it would be an unmixed blaisin’
an’ the lastin’ joy and salvation o’ th’
country.” (Loud and enthusiastic cheers from the
Government.)
The Leader of the Opposition and the member for Targo rose in
turn and pelted the bill; then Dad caught the Speaker’s
eye.
“Sir,” Dad commenced in a loud, aggressive voice.
(Laughter and guffaws from the Government end of the House.) Dad
paused and glared at the scoffers till they were silent, then
proceeded: “I was sent into this House by honest, sensible
farmers and selectors—men an’ their wives who have been
struggling all th’ days of their life on the
land—an’ I was sent to look after their interests
an’ ter tell any Government that tries to make bad
laws for them—that tries ter bring in mischievous
legislation—just what I think of them.” (Hear, hear!)
“An’ I tell this Gover’ment that this bill”
(Dad raised his clenched fist above his head), “that this
bill is nothing but broad daylight robbery!” (Down
came Dad’s fist like a sledge-hammer.)
“Nonsense!” from the Treasurer.
“’Tis not nonsense!” Dad yelled back.
“This bill is nonsense; and all the rot you have been
telling this House about it is nonsense! With your prattle about
things what someone called Mill have to say! What’s the good
o’ that?” (Opposition laughter.) “What
have he to do with people’s land?” (Loud laughter, and
“You don’t understand it,” from the Treasurer.)
“I do understand it!” Dad shouted. “Do you think
I don’t understand when a man tries to put his hand into my
pocket, that he wants to help himself to something he never put
there?” (Opposition cheers.)
“He wouldn’t find anything there, only pumpkin, if
he did,” interjected the member for Sandy Gallop.
“He’d find more there than he’d find in
yours!” Dad snorted. “I’m not like ye—I
didn’t come here fer a livin’.” (Cheers
and laughter from the Opposition.) “I won my independence
workin’ and battlin’ on the land.” (Hear, hear.)
“I went on the land, Mr. Speaker, when I hadn’t enough
to buy a billy-can with—when there was no railway, and when
there wasn’t another settler within ten mile o’
me” (applause), “an’ I would ask the Minister
that brings this bill here to tax selectors with if he knows
anything about land? If he knows what selecting in this country
meant to the pioneers of it, and what it means to this day?”
(Opposition cheers, and cries of “Rot!” from the other
side.) “I stand here and tell him he knows nothing of
it. He comes here a new chum with his head stuffed full of fine
ideas about some fool—”
Dad was pulled up by the Speaker. “Order!” he cried.
“The honourable member must, not indulge in terms which are
unparliamentary, and must withdraw them!” (Loud “Hear,
hear,” from Ministers.)
“Well, then,” Dad roared on, “with ideas about
some fellow he calls ‘Mill’” (laughter),
“and wants to take half of the increased value of a poor
man’s bit of land to put in his Treasury to pay debts and
things with that every loafer and sundowner in th’ country
have had a hand in incurrin’.” (Cheers from the
Opposition.) “He talks in a fine way about a selection
increasing in value till it’s worth £500. What is that
to a poor man after his twenty years’ battle with it—
after his years of scrub-cutting and fighting fires, and
livin’ on dry bread, and harrowin’ his grain in perhaps
with a bramble before he sees his deeds—after payin’
interest at ten per cent, and twelve per cent, for fifteen
year—after sinking wells all over it, and never gettin’
any water?” (Loud cheering from the opponents of the bill.)
“I tell the gentleman, Mr. Speaker, that he don’t know
what he talks about. With this bill he is like a lunatic
runnin’ about with a loaded gun in his hand” (roars of
laughter), “and the sooner the gun is taken off of him and
smashed across a fence, the better it will be for the people of
this country.” (Re-newed laughter.) “He talks about the
value that a railway gives to a man’s land, and wants to
pocket some of it on that account. I never in all my natural days
heard of such an impudent reason bein’ given for stealing a
man’s property. Sir, a cattle-duffer has more decency and
honour than that! A railway!” Dad fairly yelled.
“Confound it! Doesn’t the selector help to build the
railway?” (Hear, hear.) “Doesn’t he pay freight
and fares to that railway for carrying his produce and himself and
his family, when they can afford to go anywhere? Surely to God that
should be enough?” (Cheers.) “If it
isn’t,” and he suited the word to the action,
“then tear your d— railways up.” (Cheers from the
Opposition.)
“Order!” the Speaker cried again, “I warn the
honourable member not to continue using terms which are
unparliamentary.”
(“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!” from the Treasury
benches.)
“I say, tear them up!” Dad went on,
“and go back to the bullock-drays and the coach.
They’ll carry produce and passengers nearly as quick as your
trains, and are doing it in parts of the country now, and
they’re not asking the people for any increased value of
their bit of land for doing it, either!” (Loud cheering.)
“Mr. Speaker, this bill is robbery!” (Government
dissent.) “’Tis thievery!” (Great disorder.)
“And the Government know it!” (“No, no!”
and more disorder.) “You do!” (and Dad lifted
his voice a note higher), “and shame on you;
shame on you for trying to sell the electors that sent you
here to make honest laws fer them!” (Opposition cheers and
Government dissent.) “You told them that there would be no
more taxation, and ’tis nothin’ but taxin’ and
taxin’ them you’re doin’. The very first thing
you do is to break your pledge—tolie!” (Uproar,
and “Order, order!”from the Speaker.) “Then you
put a charge on the poor man’s few dairy cows” (Hear,
hear), “and you want him to pay for carrying a gun about, and
another of you would bleed more money from him fer keepin’
his own stallion!” (Cries of “No!” and
“Yes, yes!”) “’Tis scandalous; ’tis
villainy!” (Great uproar, and Dad was again called to
order.) “To the devil with the railways and their increased
value—”
“Order! Order!” cried the Speaker. “The
honourable member must address the house in more respectful
language.”
“Let them build their railways into some part of the bush
where’s there’s no one,” Dad howled, “and
see how much it will increase the value of the land!”
The Treasurer: “So it would when the people settle
there.”
“Well, then, charge an increased price for it, and the
people will know what the bargain is they are making. But until
they do go and settle there, your railway wouldn’t be
worth tuppence—’twould rust!” (Hear, hear.) Dad
paused for breath, then continued: “But this bill is a
shameful piece of work.” (Dissent.) “’Tis
full of tricks and traps to grind selectors down and take their
land away from them!” (Cries of “No, no!” and
“Nonsense!” and cheers from the Opposition.) “Itis! All the Treasurer’s fine talk about letting a man
make his own valuation is lies!” (Great disorder and
cheers, in the midst of which the Speaker’s rebukes and
appeals for order were drowned.) “’Tis false
magernanimity!” (Dissent, intermingled with laughter.)
“’Tis a trick to get a man to value his property for
more than ’tis worth, and, if he undervalue it, you take it
off him at that price!” (Hear, hear.) “And how many
farmers are there in the country, let me ask you, who would think
of selling their places even for a hundred pounds more than
they are worth? What good would it do them? It wudn’t be
enough to keep them; and do you think they want to begin an’
cut holes in the bush again, and to fight drought, and floods, and
fires, and mean, bad Governments?” (Cheers from the
Opposition.) “And this is the kind of law-making we get from
a Ministry that prattles about settling people on the land,
an’ trots round the country patting farmers on the back and
gorgen’ on their banquets.” (Cheers.) “’Tis
trachery—”
“Order!”
“’Tis highway robbery—”
“Order, order!”
“’Tis d— roguery—” (Uproar.)
“Order, order!” the Speaker cried. “The
honourable member must not make such statements.”
The Premier rose angrily, and asked that the member for Eton be
called on to withdraw the words “d— roguery,” and
the Speaker called on Dad to withdraw them.
“What I’ve said is th’ plain
truth!” Dad shouted, throwing his arms and head
about.
Loud cries of “Shame!”and “Withdraw!”
from the Government benches.
“NEVER!” Dad howled.
The Speaker: “I ask the honourable member for Eton to
withdraw the words the Premier complains of, which are most
unparliamentary.” (Commotion.)
“I’llnot!” Dad shouted. “I defy
you or anybody to make me withdraw what I know is the truth.”
(Great confusion, during which the Speaker “named” Dad
to the House.)
The Premier jumped to his feet.
“Mr. Speaker,” he said, “I regret that the
honourable member for Eton should again be the cause of another
disgraceful scene in this Chamber, and when that member not only
violates the rules and propriety of this House, but openly hurls
defiance at your executive authority. Sir, I am compelled, however
painful the duty may be, to move that the honourable member be
suspended for the term of one week.” (Disorder, and cries of
“Gag!” and yells and howls of approval.)
The motion was carried, and the Speaker said: “It is the
pleasure of this House that the member for Eton be suspended for
one week” (more confusion), “and I ask the honourable
member to withdraw from its precincts.” (Great uproar.)
“Never!”Dad shouted furiously.
“Never!”
Then the Sergeant-at-Arms and officers of the House approached
him, and Dad prepared for violence. But the Leader of the
Opposition spoke persuasively to him, and he strode out quietly. At
the bar of the House he turned, and shouted out
“Robbers!”
Chapter 11
Dad on Socialism
A newspaper man, with glasses and long hair and a tragic brow,
called on Dad at his hotel one evening, and said he would like to
have a few words with him.
Dad glared at him.
“You’ve been a successful man on the land?”
the scribe commenced, seating himself confidently opposite Dad, and
producing his note-book.
“Middlin’,” was Dad’s answer.
“At all events, you have made money, acquired property,
and all that; done better than most?”
“May be . . . perhaps.”
“Have you any opinions on socialism, Mr. Rudd?”
“I have—plenty,” Dad said
aggressively.
“Well, do you believe in socialism?”
“No!” And Dad gave his head a violent shake.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to become a savage, that is
why.”
The newspaper man smiled, as if he pitied Dad, and said:
“Doesn’t it ever occur to you that there would be
more happiness in the country if there was a system under which
every person born in it would be sure of getting what he required,
instead of being compelled to struggle for existence in the midst
of poverty and distress and disappointment?”
“No!” (with great violence) “I do not! God
bless my soul, man, if you had such a system you might as well be
dead. You would wipe out all the happiness that ever was in the
country. What on earth use or pleasure would a man’s feelings
be to him? ’Tis the thought, the hope, of getting on that
puts go into a man—if he is a man; if he isn’t it
doesn’t matter—and encourages him to work and use his
head and do his level best. And ’tis the wish that is in his
heart to succeed and make money, and own property, that takes the
dullness and the pain and the sting out of his hard toil;
’tis the hope he have, man, that he will overcome, and get to
the top, that makes the way easier and interesting for him; and as
he finds himself getting on, his happiness gets greater and
greater. It isn’t the man who have not a penny or a stick of
property that is badly off—he is not the one to be
pitied—’tis the poor devil who have never a
wish—who have not the determination to get out of his own way
and wade into things, and gain for himself a bit of
property.”
“Then you don’t believe that the equal distribution
of property—that is, wealth—would bring universal
happiness?”
“No!” (wildly). “I do not believe such
nonsense. ’Twould bring universal unhappiness and misery.
’Twould do away with rivalry, man. There wouldn’t be
any industry worth speaking about, because there could be no
encouragement for a man to produce any more than he required. We
would be on a level with the wild blacks. There would be no
inducement for one man to outdo or win the race from another. There
would be no reward for the plodding, industrious man—he would
be no better off than the fellow who sat in the shade of the fence
all day talking about the colour of his cattle pup, or the cove who
put in his time shooting at jam-tins on a post—with someone
else’s gun and ammunition. And the end of it all would be
that there wouldn’t be a particle of property
anywhere—’twould disappear altogether, and we would get
back to where we started. We would be a homeless lot of savages
without a rag to our backs, and holding children’s and old
women’s ideas about the history of the piles of bricks that
would be left to mark the ruins of Parliament House and the
‘Courier’ Building, and we would be tomahawking one
another from behind, and thieving and stealing one another’s
bit of kangaroo and ’possum out of the ashes! ’Tis the
pain that a man feels from the want of a thing that puts
courage—that puts devil into him, and gets him out of bed to
strike out for himself, and when he gets out and gets bustled, he
thinks, and uses his head and his hands, and sets his teeth, and
gathers money. Equal distribution of people’s property, man,
could pan out in nothing but the equal division of the poverty and
misery of a country!”
There was a pause.
“But under socialism the law would give to every person so
much property, and compel everyone to work?” the interviewer
said.
“The law!” Dad growled. “What have the law to
do with a man’s property? You talk nonsense! The law is only
a servant—the policeman that protects a man’s property
for him. It never had, and could never have, the giving of property
to anyone. The law was born in the same cradle as property, and
when property disappears the law will be as dead as the man they
hanged in the gaol last year.”
“But doesn’t the law, now, provide work for
people?”
“Well, you are a simple man,” Dad answered
irritably. “That is what the law don’t do, and
never did do. It could never say to a farmer, ‘Work on that
selection there, and I’ll give you 3s. 6d. a bushel for your
corn.’ But it could say, and does say to him every day:
‘Grow corn, and I will see that it is yours, Anderson, and
that you get paid for it when you sell it.’ Can you not see
the difference, man?”
“That’s right enough,” the newspaper man said
reflectively.
“Of course, it is right enough,” Dad went on
forcibly, “because ’tis sense, and the wish or
the yearning, or whatever you like to call it, to be industrious
and useful to himself came from the man’s own heart, and if
you strangle that wish in him he will do nothing, he will produce
nothing, and will be idle and as useless as a wooden man; and there
will be no wealth, there will be no property of any kind, unless it
is a yamstick or a stone tomahawk or something.”
“Now, look here, Mr. Rudd, do you think that God or Nature
ever intended that poverty and starvation should exist in the midst
of luxury? Is it a just law that allows such a state of
things?”
“Good heavens, man, don’t I tell you that the law
have nothing whatever in the wide, wide world to do with making
people either poor or rich? The law doesn’t keep a man poor;
it helps to make him rich. To be poor as a rat or a piece of paling
is the first, the real, the natural state of us all—the same
as it is for the howling bush at the back of my place to be covered
with trees and scrub and dead timber. And the man who is contented
to mope and crawl about, and look on and drag himself lazily along
from sunrise to sunset, from one day to another, is the most
natural man in the world—he is the savage. And
it’s back to his d— level that you, with your equal
distribution of people’s property, want to drag
everybody!”
“But if, as you maintain, poverty is the primitive state
of everyone, how is a poor man to raise or better himself under the
present system?”
“In the same way that he would if he was in an uncivilised
country—by work; by the sweat of his brow. But not
bein’ in an uncivilised country, but in one where
there’s stacks of money and property around him, he starts
with this advantage of having a chance of success, and is filled
with the hope of succeeding, and he knows if he dosucceed
he will enjoy what he gets. The law makes him sure of that, and
that’s what the law is for; and I tell you, as we live now,
there is so much raised, so much produced, that fortune is possible
to any poor man; and it doesn’t matter how poor he is, the
very fact that he is a worker puts him among the candidates for
success. And the hope of reaching the goal gives him pleasure. If
it didn’t, no one would try; every man-jack of us would sit
down on our haunches and play mumbleth-peg or throw stones at
someone’s dog till our stomachs pinched us and compelled us
to look around and hunt for a wallaby or something for the
dinner.”
“But a man born in poverty has a long way to go before he
reaches the land of plenty.”
“Of course he have; but it depends upon the road he takes
and the way he takes it; and don’t you know that every poor
man who starts out along that road is in a tearing divil’s
own hurry. He is restless and eager to enjoy things
speedily—and, if he can, to enjoy them without putting in any
work. And isn’t it this eagerness of the poor man which is
dreadful—don’t I know it? And doesn’t it make
everyone of them who haven’t anything feel inclined to get up
in arms against them who have something?”
Dad paused for breath.
“Having been poor yourself,” the newspaper man
asked, “do you think it just that one man should be in
possession of thousands and thousands of pounds—money that he
himself never did a day’s work to earn, that became his by
inheritance—while other poor wretches not twenty yards from
him are starving?”
“Why should it not be just, man?” Dad shouted.
“Isn’t it a satisfaction and a pleasure to a poor man
to know that if he succeed he will be in a position to leave some
property to those to whom we have most affection, and who have
affection for him? Isn’t it a triumph for him to feel that by
his own labour and intelligence he was able to save them from going
through the struggle he went through himself? It’s one of the
rewards he gets for all his labour and industry, man; and
it’s one of the values he puts on his property.”
“Don’t you think that all men are equal, and should
be paid the same wage for their work?”
“What are you talking about?” roared Dad, “All
men paid the same wage for their work? Do you think I could get a
man to build my wheat stacks every year for the same wage I pay the
scarecrow of a fellow who pokes about the slop buckets and feeds my
pigs? And do you think, Andy Purcell, who shears two hundred of my
sheep a day, would be content with the same money I give Tom Brown
for tomahawking fifty or sixty of them in two days for me? Why,
sir, you have no more brains than a bandicoot. I would never get my
shearing done at all; it would drag along like a donkey race, and I
would see d— little of my wool, neither; ’twould be all
in the paddocks. Before the shed would be cut out at the rate they
would shear, the sheep there would be nothing but a mob of
bare-bellies and rosellas. To the devil with you, man! Get out of
here. Be off with your d— socialism, and do
something!”
The interviewer left.
Necessity Knows No Law
They hadn’t tasted meat for ten days. Prince was on three
legs, and they couldn’t catch even a kangaroo rat. The wife
was saying, between the howls of a cantankerous youngster, that
Logan (a neighbour who occasionally slaughtered someone
else’s bullocks and sold to his friends, without license) was
to kill next day; but as the last quarter hadn’t been paid
for, she expected they would refuse them any more. The old selector
sat for a long time looking at the fire. He was solemn and silent,
and played with a piece of stick, until he had mechanically traced
the word “M-e-a-t” in the ashes.
An idea seized him. Pitching the ironbark pen into the fire, he
rose and stepped outside, knocking his head as he went against a
fleshless leg of a kangaroo which dangled ’neath the
verandah.
“Bobby!”
“W-what?”
“Come along with me!”
Bobby was the eldest boy, about fifteen. He stuttered fearfully,
and had never put his feet inside shoe leather. The skin he walked
on was as tough and as thick as that on the neck of a
seventeen-year-old bull.
They walked away from the house. The night was dark, and Bobby
trotted behind, wondering.
“Do you feel meat-hungry, Bobby?”
“M-m-meat-’ungry? W-what k-k-k-kind-beef or
k-k-kang’roo meat?”
“Beef, mutton—anything?”
“H-h-haven’t t-tasted m-m-mutton since
Kr-Kr-Krismus.”
“Could you find the sheep camp in the long paddock
to-night, Bobby?”
“S-s-see now, Dad, g-g-g-goin’ t-t-t’
c-c-catch a sheep?” And the stuttering lad led the way over
logs, gullies, and wire fences.
They stumbled along till Bobby said, “L-look out,
D-Dad—a g-g-g-gully there.”
But he hung on to “gully” so long that Dad, who was
near-sighted, tumbled into it.
“Dammit, boy, couldn’t you tell me? Now I’ve
lost my hat and the bag.”
“B-b-but you woo-woo-wouldn’t w-wait. W-we’re
close on n-n-now, D-Dad. You s-s-stay h-here, an’ I’ll
s-s-sneak on them. If I k-k-catch one, I’ll w-w-whistle
l-l-like k-k-curlew.”
The sheep were camped on a ridge, and Bobby crept up with the
stealth of a black, and, pouncing like a starved dingo on the
resting fold, grabbed the nearest one.
A whistle, as like the cry of the curlew as could be, followed,
and several times repeated ere the old selector groped his way to
where Bobby and a big wether were kicking and wrestling in the
dust.
“H-have yer th’— H-h-h-have yer th’
n-n-nife, Dad?”
The parent brandished the carving-knife.
“L-look out, d-d-d-don’t s-s-stick it in m-m-my
p-p-p-paunch!”
The wether ceased to kick.
“Can we carry him between us, Bobby?”
“N-n-not if yer d-d-don’t t-t-take out his
g-g-g-guts.”
* * * * * * * * *
Fried chops were served up for breakfast, and the
selector’s wife didn’t ask where the mutton came from
nor how it was got. She didn’t upbraid the man and try to
make out that stolen mutton hadn’t the same taste as any
other.
She was ruled by necessity, and necessity knows no law.
The Selection Where I was
Reared
The selection where I was reared was a queer place twenty-five
years ago; it was a queer place twenty-five months ago. A selection
in Queensland twenty-five years ago was a weird, wild institution,
hidden away in the bowels of the great, sleepy bush. It consisted
for the most part of one hundred and sixty acres, with some scrub
and stones and a slab humpy, and a small stockyard, where the
fowls, when they were at home, used to roost. There were no fences
on selections twenty-five years ago; they weren’t required
then. There was nothing except grass to put them round, and people
in those days were rarely ever jealous of their grass. They all had
lots of grass—that was all they did have lots of, save
freedom and wild honey and good exercise, twenty-five years ago.
The selection where I was reared was a beautiful place. It was a
picture—a grand work of art. It was one of the eyes of the
country—so father used to tell us; and I suppose that was why
he picked it out. A quiet, secluded spot it was, with a great wall
of mountains banked up all round it, and I remember how it used to
attract strangers. Even travellers who had lost their way used to
visit it. They would call on us and stay for hours—stay till
father could find time to show them a track by which they could
climb out again without falling down a precipice and breaking their
necks.
“We were lucky to get this place,” father used to
say when sometimes he would be sitting down reflecting in the shade
after felling a tree for honey, “and so near the river,
too.” Ah, yes, we were near the river; it was only seven
miles away, and from the top of the mountains, whenever you had
energy and wind enough to climb them, you could see it bending
silently along in the dim distance.
“I don’t like that tree there,” father said
one Christmas day, viewing a big ironbark that grew close beside
the humpy. “It doesn’t improve the place at all, and I
believe it attracts the rain.”
Mother didn’t like the tree, either. It had always been a
worry and an eyesore to her. She said she was afraid it might get
blown down some day, and perhaps fall on the house and hurt us.
“Let me see,” father said, walking round the
iron-bark, axe in hand, and in a scientific sort of way looking
along the trunk to see which way it was leaning. “It’ll
go that way,” he concluded, and pointed towards the
stockyard. Then he spat on his hands, and, swinging the axe
vigorously, commenced to chop it down. Father was a fine axeman
twenty-five years ago. He made the chips fly round him in showers
for about an hour, and when he had chopped half-way through the
trunk, mother called him to dinner. Mother was always calling us to
dinner twenty-five years ago!
“We’ll leave it for a bit,” father grunted,
wiping the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his shirt;
then he came inside and took the head of the table.
We had two scrub turkeys and a wonga pigeon for dinner that
Christmas. (The Christmas before we had only one and a damper.) In
the middle of the meal the wind sprang up. The wind was always
springing up in the middle of something or other twenty-five years
ago.
“That’s a grand breeze,” father said, looking
through the window. Father was fond of a good breeze twenty-five
years ago.
“Beautiful!” mother answered.
“Beautiful!”
The breeze increased until it was blowing hard; and just when
father was standing up to carve more turkey for himself, we heard a
loud creak outside and a “swishing” sound through the
air.
“The tree!” father gasped, looking at us. Then all
at once the roof of the humpy came down with a great crash on top
of us, and flattened us all out on the floor. And everything became
dark. Ah, yes, we got a good many surprises one way and another
twenty-five years ago. Mother and I, after a lot of excitement and
struggling, worked our way out from under the heap of debris, and
when we shook ourselves free and looked round, what a wreck the
humpy was! There was no humpy at all then on the selection where I
was reared, twenty-five years ago!
There was nothing but a pile of green leaves and broken limbs.
We couldn’t see anything of father, either, or even get any
sort of answer from him when we called. And how mother went on! Ah,
it was terrible to hear her crying and calling on the Almighty for
help! But after a while we thought of the axe, and set to work to
cut our way to father and get him out. And it was a long way to
him, too. But he wasn’t dead when we reached him—he was
alive.
He rolled about and groaned heavily when we dragged him to the
light. And when we turned him over he had the turkey still with
him. It took a lot to separate father from a turkey twenty-five
years ago. It was clinging to his chest like a mustard poultice,
and some of the bones were sticking in him.
Ah, it was a miserable dinner we had that Christmas at the
selection where I was reared, twenty-five years ago!
It was three months before father could do a hand’s turn
again, and it was hard work we had curing him. Mother cured
everything, except bacon, with goanna oil at the selection where I
was reared, twenty-five years ago.
And father had scarcely recovered when he went down to the river
to cook for some pear-cutters, and met with another accident. It
was nothing but accidents at the selection where I was reared,
twenty-five years ago. Twelve men father was cooking
for—twelve big, hungry men—and one evening he took a
couple of buckets, and went to a hole beneath the bridge that
spanned the river to get water for the tea. A thousand head of
Tyson’s cattle, bound for New South Wales, were approaching
the bridge, and father stood to watch them cross it. Father was
fond of standing and looking at cattle, twenty-five years ago.
Cattle was his ambition then. He always longed to own a mob of
cattle like Tyson’s. A drover rode in front to show the
cattle the way; some more rode on each side, crooning “Werp,
werp!”and “Whoa there!” (That’s how they
used to drove all the cattle twenty-five years ago), while others
at the tail end held back to allow the brutes time to cross without
crushing on the bridge.
A wild-eyed, hollow-sided bullock, with spear horns, caught
sight of father’s beard—father had a fine red beard,
twenty-five years ago. It covered all his chest, and reached right
to his belt. And he wore his belt a long way down, twenty-five
years ago. And with a snort the bullock shied off, and started the
mob ringing. The men on the wings became anxious, and shouted,
“Whoa there!” and swung their whips and called to
father to “get out of the d— road!” But it was a
Government road, and father wouldn’t get out of it. He
remained rigid, and every now and again a fresh beast would take
fright at him, and more rushing and ringing would set in. The
drover in the lead cantered back, and shook his stockwhip
threateningly over father’s head, and called him a hairy
lunatic. Father never could suffer being called a lunatic
twenty-five years ago, and bellowed bad language at the drover, and
put his fingers to his nose. The drover reached down from his horse
and pulled a fistful of father’s beard out, then wheeled
round and galloped after the startled cattle. Father never could
stand his whiskers being pulled twenty-five years ago, and became
furious, and ran after the drover for about fifty yards; then
stopped and swore and shook his fist. Father wasn’t a man to
be meddled with lightly twenty-five years ago; and while he was
swearing his eye rested on a spare horse fastened by a halter to
the drover’s camp which was pitched on the river bank. Father
rushed over and mounted that horse bare-back, and pursued the
drover. Father was not an accomplished horseman twenty-five years
ago. He wasn’t an accomplished horseman two years ago. He
didn’t get much riding to do at the selection where I was
reared; but he would do anything on a horse when his blood was up;
and his blood was up now.
And the men had just steadied the mob when father sailed round
the wing, and charged at the drover who had assaulted him. But
father had not calculated everything correctly. He had left the
drover out of the account. The drover saw him coming, and met him
with the stockwhip, which he brought down heavily on father’s
head and shoulders, till pieces flew out of father’s beard
and the cracks echoed among the pear and along the river banks. And
drovers knew how to use a whip, too, twenty-five years ago! The
whip descended on the horse, and the animal, with more presence of
mind than father, turned and bolted. The drover followed. He
pursued father through the cattle and over fallen timber and
prickly-pear, flogging the horse on the rump all the time. The
brute switched its tail and wriggled in its stride, and strained
every muscle to escape. But it couldn’t escape. The drover
was better mounted than father, and forced him to take everything
in front of him in steeplechase fashion, and father, with only the
halter-rein to steer a course with, had to cling like an
orangoutang to keep on the back of his mount. And they raced right
into the pear-cutters’ camp, and dashed between the tents,
and the dog that was there broke loose and chased father, too. Dogs
would do anything twenty-five years ago.
Father charged at the staring pear-cutters, and all of them
threw down their hoes and separated to let him through. But father
didn’t go through. His horse rose high in the air to clear
some more pear, and they separated. Ah! it was a terrible fall that
father got! And that drover went away laughing. Drovers had no
feelings at the selection where I was reared, twenty-five years
ago.
The pear-cutters brought father home next day on a sheet of
bark, and for months we rubbed his back again with goanna oil. Ah,
it was a touch-and-go with father that time; but he got over it. He
is not the man now, though, that he was on the selection where I
was reared, twenty-five years ago.
Our Neighbour
Davy McDonald’s a Scotchman. He lives about three hundred
yards from our place in a humpy by himself at Hungeroo. Everyone
calls him Mac. He aluz looks dusty, and never washes his clothes,
not once—he thinks it spoils clothes to wash them, and sez it
only wears them out, Every New Year’s Day he comes out in a
new flannel and white moleskins, and when he takes them off they
stand up straight as he does himself. His selection joins ours, but
there’s no dividin’ fence up yet. He wants us to do our
half first, but he ain’t got any stock, and we don’t
want to be in a hurry, cuz our cows wouldn’t have so much
grass then. His cultivation paddock’s fenced in, though. We
ain’t got any cleared yet, and our cattle are aluz
puttin’ their heads through the wires tryin’ to get at
his wheat, but their necks ain’t long enough to reach it. The
calves reach it, though. They get in under the wires, and Mac puts
his dog on them instead of puttin’ them out; and o’
course they beller and run mad-blind all over the wheat; then he
stands outside our sliprails, swearin’ and runnin’ down
our religion and forefathers, and threatens, because he knows a
J.P., to have us all summoned if we don’t do somethin’
with them.
“We’ve got yokes on the calves now—some
o’ them real forks o’ trees—but it don’t
make no difference to their appetites for wheat. One o’ them
got caught in the wires the other day, and smashed all the fence
down, and Mac didn’t know about it till he saw all the cattle
(about eighty head) in his wheat.
He was breakin’ up some new ground at the time, and
cleared away to get his gun without tellin’ the horses to
“waay.” He aimed a shot at Snailey, and it looked bad
for her, but the gun wasn’t loaded, and on’y clicked.
Then Mac chucked it at Silkie’s heifer and sang out,
“Bally! Here, boy, here!” to his dog. But Bally was
chained up, and could do nothin’ on’y howl and bark and
jump in the air. Mac turned round then, and swore over at our
house, and shook his fist. The cultivation paddock wasn’t
near big enough for him to swear his best in. So he came out in the
lane. The cattle didn’t want to go out at all, and he
couldn’t find anything in the wheat to throw at them. That
made him swear more. While he’d be chasin’ one and
cryin’ with temper, the others would stand and gorge
themselves. He got them goin’ though, at last, and had them
nearly at the slip rails, when he looked round and saw the horses
walkin ’right through the wheat, too, with the plough
rollin’ about be’ind them. He ran to meet them, singin
’out fearful to “waay.” They were quiet horses
enough, but weren’t used to him appearin’ like a
apperishin, when they knew he ought t’ been be’ind; so
o’ course they took to and bolted like brumbies; but when
they reached the wire fence they stopped—at least one of them
did; the other two went over the fence.
It was just near our house, too, where they fell over, and they
got inside and watched him get them out. He managed it after a
while, and then returned to the cattle; but he didn’t swear
once at them. He was knocked up, or else he didn’t know any
more.
He put the cows in the yard, and left them there all night with
nothin’ to eat. Next day he came to our place again and said
Dad was a cattle-stealer and a rogue, and that we could have a trip
to town for our crawlers. Of course, Dad wasn’t at home.
Mac ain’t any good in the saddle, and he’s worse at
drivin’ cattle, especially knowin’ ones like ours. So
when he started them for town they didn’t want to go, and
first one and then another dodged him round logs and trees, till
they got right into our paddock again; then he gave up the idea of
impoundin’ them.
He never spoke to any of us for a long time after that, and
wouldn’t p’raps at all, on’y he wanted to borrow
some flour, and had to. And now he always sez that if he was our
father he would skin us boys alive; that’s because we were
throwin’ a few stones at his humpy one day and killed a
fowl.
We don’t know why it is, but he never likes to see us
ridin’ the calves.
One evenin’, Sam—he’s the biggest of
us—was startin’ to break in Tiney’s calf, Bully.
He got on, but on’y meant to sit there a bit at first,
without lettin’ him move, while we held Bully with a rope. We
gave Bully a poke in the ribs, and he bellered and rushed under the
middle rail of the stockyard—it was the on’y one
up—and knocked Sam clean off, and then got away with the new
leg-rope round his neck which Mac had lent us. Well, Mac was
goin’ by just then to water his horses at the dam, and stood
and laughed, and said he wished Bully had broken Sam’s neck.
O’course Sam got in a scot and threw a stone at Mac, and hit
him on the back, knockin’ a cloud of dust out of his flannel
shirt, and makin’ him go round and round sayin’,
“Oh, you—you deevil!”
We were glad Mac got it, cuz Sam would ’av’ hammered
me and Jack for lettin’ Bully chuck him. Mac told about it,
though, and said hangin’s too good for Sam, and he’s
sure we’ll all come to no good some day.
He’s got a new man workin for him now; he’s aluz
getting a new man, because when they work for three or four months
and ask him for some wages he swears at them as if they had no
business ter ask, and then they go to town and fetch him out a bit
o’ paper. He never gives them any money, tho’ he lets
them take a horse. He had twenty horses one time; he’s
on’y four now, and when they’re done we don’t
expect he’ll get any more new chums.
He got Jim—he’s another of us, and the best rider
among our lot—to break in some horses one time, and said
he’d give a pound a head for them; but when they were
quietened and Jim wanted his money, Mac said if he didn’t
clear off his ground he’d summons him.
I was over at his humpy yesterday to borrow a sharpenin’
stone, and he got in a rage and wouldn’t give it to me,
because I didn’t care about goin’ inside and
gettin’ it for meself. No, he couldn’t induce me in! I
was in once, and all the time I was there I was liftin’ up
one foot and then another, and scratchin’ me leg with it, and
as if I was standin’ on something hot. When he saw me
dancin’ about, he ran at me quite savage and said:
“Didn’t yer never ’ave a flea in yer hown
’ouse?”
Guess we’ve often had, but nothing like this.
Once when Jim wanted to go to town there was no horse, and he
was wondering what to do, when Mac came along and offered to lend
him one (this was before they fell out about the breakin’in). Jim was quite pleased, and said we’d all been too hard
on old Mac, and that he was a real good-hearted cove. When
he’d nearly reached town, tho’, on Mac’s horse,
some chap, whom he met on the road, wanted to know where he got the
horse from, and said it was one he’d lost. O’course Jim
said it belonged to Mac of Hungeroo, and then the cove said to him:
“Well, Mac of Hungeroo, or any other Mac, if you’ll
take my advice, young fellow, you’ll get off and hand him
over to me.” So Jim did, and tramped home—fifteen
miles—with the saddle on his head. He never liked Mac after
that.
Sandy’s Loss
Sandy got five tons of hay from the cut of lucerne. He sold it
all to the storekeeper, and received in return a bag of sugar and a
few little things for Jimmy, some dress material for Kate, a shirt
and trousers for himself, and a sovereign. The balance went to
square Sandy’s account with the storekeeper.
* * * * * * * *
After tea, Kate tore open the brown paper parcel and admired the
dress material, and tried Jimmy’s new hat on him, and Sandy
put on the new shirt and trousers to see if they were a good
fit.
“Just the thing,” he said.
“You can wear them tomorrow,” Kate said, admiring
the clothes, “and I’ll wash the others for you in the
morning.”
Sandy was delighted. He took the sovereign from the pocket of
his discarded pants and tossed it about affectionately.
“Wish we’d a couple o’ thousand o’
them,” he said.
“So we might have some day,” Kate answered,
“if things go on all right.” And she quoted the Wilsons
of Appletree. “They were worse off than we are, and look at
them now,” she said.
Kate was a hopeful woman.
Then they sat at the table and reckoned up the wealth the
selection would yield by the end of the season; and, while the wind
blew outside, and the ’possums squawked, and the night birds
whooped in the trees, they plotted and planned things for the
future.
* * * * * * * *
Next morning Sandy was grubbing at the bottom of the paddock. A
man chained by the leg to a log came along, carrying the log under
his arm. Sandy stared at him, and thought of gaol and the
police.
“Got an axe?” the stranger asked. Sandy nodded, and
the stranger lifted the implement, and, resting his leg on the log,
smashed the steel band from his ankle.
“You c’n have these,” he said, tossing the end
of the chain to Sandy. Sandy stared. The stranger stared at Sandy,
too.
“Those clothes o’ yours would look well on
me,” he said. “Sling them off, mate, and you can have
mine.” And he proceeded to undress in the open.
Sandy asked him if he was mad. The stranger pointed a revolver
at Sandy’s head and said: “Take them off, and be quick
about it!—”
Sandy hurriedly divested himself of his new shirt and trousers.
The man reached for them and threw his old rags to Sandy. Sandy
suddenly remembered the sovereign in the trousers pocket, and asked
the stranger to return it. The stranger took it out, spat on it,
and put it back again. Then he lifted Sandy’s billy-can and
began to drink. Sandy, acting on an inspiration, snatched up the
revolver.
“Off with my clothes!’ he shouted, shoving the
barrel close against the bottom of the billy. “Off with them,
y’ cur, or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Sandy meant it, too. But the stranger continued to drink.
“Before I count three,” Sandy said.
“One— two—th—”
The stranger lowered the billy from his head, squirted water
into Sandy’s eye, and turned and went calmly away.
Tears were on Sandy’s cheeks when he told Kate about
it.
“By heavens!” he said, “I’ve a good mind
t’ foller that cove!”
But Kate easily restrained him.
How I Wrote “On Our
Selection”
“What turned your thoughts to literature? What are your
methods of work? Had you any trouble in finding a publisher? What
have been your adventures with the critics? Which of your
characters do you like best? Does literature pay?” inquires
the Editor; and one reflects.
Gordon’s poems, and the stories and verses on the bush
from the pens of “Bulletin” writers of fourteen years
ago, must, in a large measure, be blamed for my intruding in
literature. ’Twas no fault of mine—nor of any of my
people. My father would gladly have made me a ploughman. He was not
proud. My mother, had circumstances been favourable, would
cheerfully have turned me out a clergyman. Mother was ambitious. I
am glad, for my own sake, circumstances were not favourable. If
there’s one thing in this happy-go-lucky merry-go-round of a
world of ours which would be more disagreeable to me than another,
it would be kicking myself along on a poor horse. Give me something
exciting—a German waggon or a switch-back
railway—anything rather than the dejected moke.
The Influence Of The Bush
Reared in the bush, the life and incidents revealed in the work
of these writers had a fascination for me. Intimate with much of
it—had lived some of it—I understood it all. It called
up memories of the past, and made me miserable in the city.
Contracting “Australian book” fever in a dangerous
form, I bought or borrowed all scraps of literature that came in my
way containing anything of station or selection life, travellers,
stockmen, sundowners, or shearers, and devoured them in bed at the
boarding-house. They delighted me. Eschewing selfishness, I
ventured to share my happiness with those about me; I read poems
and things about “sick stockmen,” and “jolly
country girls,” and “mulga and lignum,” and
“grinning skulls,” and “wild dogs” to my
friend and room-mate, B—, a keen law-student and an
enthusiast in Irish oratory, and lost his respect. In the lean but
kindly boarding-house-keeper, though, I found much sympathy: I read
some pieces to her. She enjoyed them. One passage I poured into her
drew tears, when I expected merriment. She wiped her eyes with her
apron, and broke into lamentations about the landlord, and rent,
and discontent amongst the boarders, and annoyed me.
I didn’t seek her sympathy any more.
I continued reading Australian literature till I felt I must
write something or burst. I didn’t burst; I wrote a sketch
and sent it, unsigned, to a Brisbane newspaper. Next day purchased
a copy of the publication, and with a fluttering heart retired to a
back lane. Flung the rag away disappointedly, and bought another
next day; bought one every day for a long fortnight, and was
working up bitter malevolence towards the editor, when—joy!
my contribution appeared, and saved him—and me from a watery
grave. Hurried to the “diggings” with it. A
fellow-lodger, a tailor, greeted me at the door with an infernal
draught-board. I ignored him, and bounced up the stairs, six at a
time, and burst in upon my learned friend, who, in the words of
Robert Emmet, was holding forth to a jury, or a judge or someone in
the bed-room.
I Appear In Print
“That’smine!” I gasped, shoving the
print into his uplifted hand.
He ceased declaiming to the wall and washstand, and, in a calm
mood, seated himself on the bed and commenced to read me. I wiped
myself dry, and fought for composure. There was an ugly twitch
lurking about his lips, all through the piece, which I didn’t
like.
He dropped the paper upon the floor and complimented me.
“You showed some brains anyway,” he sniggered,
“when you didn’tsign it.”
I picked the paper from the floor and moved to the verandah to
look over it again. An oldish boarder—a bachelor of the
stern, frigid type—was there, engrossed in a copy of the same
publication. I sat in a chair and stole glances at him, to see if
the old iceberg would read me. He passed me over several
times, then yawned, and grunted “Eh-hoh!” I felt
his opinion would be worth something. I called out my
reserve resources. Feigning reading awhile, I chuckled as one
enjoying himself.
“See this?” I said, pointing out my sketch to him.
He glanced sharply at the title, then back to his own rag, and made
a great noise tossing it about till he found the place. He seemed
anxious not to miss anything good. He bent his head and read. The
blood danced in my veins.
“Umph!” he grunted, throwing the print away,
“awful rubbish they do print sometimes!”
Still, I wasn’t cured of the malady. For years I
contributed, casually, to various local weeklies, and it
didn’t cost me anything—nor them either.
My screed at this stage, I fancy, showed signs of improvement. A
“poem” about “going on the land” brought
from B— some advice; he asked nothing for it, either. He was
subject, a little, to absent-mindedness. He said, “If you
want to become a writer, send something to the
‘Bulletin’; if they print it—well,
there’s some hope for you.”
I Attract Notice
I sent “something” to the “Bulletin”;
then studied its “answers to correspondents” closely
for weeks, and subjected my emotions to a lot more wear and tear. I
was hopeful. Somehow I felt sure my screed would attract notice. It
did. It attracted the Editor. “A.H.D., Brisbane,” he
said, “An opium-sodden dream, without beginning, middle, or
end.” Not exactly what I had expected, but I didn’t
swoon! I sat heavily on the bed, and began to think. I thought
B— was a fool. I also thought it prudent to cut that
“answer” out, and chew it up before he came in. Then I
kicked the “Bulletin” under the bed, and resolved to
forget it. And I believe I would have forgotten it if the next day
had been other but Sunday. The Sabbath isn’t always the day
of rest it’s made out to be! I was lounging on the balcony
with several brother-boarders; we were stealing glances at girls
tripping by to church service, and telling lies. A long, hulking
mercantile clerk—who, thank God, was not in my confidence,
and didn’t know my initials, stalked from his room with his
copy of the “Bulletin” under his arm, and joined
us.
“The ‘answers to correspondents’ in this
paper,” he said, planting his big feet on the railing,
“are the best things in it.”
Suspicion crept all over me. I felt lost. I was sure my sins had
found me out. But he was innocent.
“Listen here,” and he began to read those wretched
“answers” in a loud, cheerful key.
The others listened intently. They enjoyed him. He came to mine.
I knew he would. It got a great reception. I fancied the mirth
seemed louder, and a lot heartier. He read mine again. I chuckled a
little myself the second reading. ’Twas a sickly effort,
though—the worst I ever made (and I’ve heard J.
L. Toole). But before he reached the end of the column I was as
good as any of them. I led them.
“Wonder what some of those fellows think,” the
mercantile clerk drawled, philosophically, “when they read
those answers?” and his eye roamed from one to the other. But
it didn’t catch mine. A plucky, perky, cocky, little chap
instantly rose up and scoffed at him.
“Fakes,” he snapped, “fakes! Y’
don’t think they’regenuine, do
y’?”
I was glad he didn’t ask me.
Two years later, under my present pen-name, I took another
chance with the “Bulletin,” and survived. Joy! A cheque
came along. Great jubilating! B— and I went and had two
drinks apiece.
I felt I could write for a kingdom now. Some verses followed,
and the Editor replied, “Good; kept for illustration by
‘Hop.’” More wild rejoicing, and we filled
’em up again. Inspired with confidence, I beat out a heavy
packet of “poetry” and directed it at the Editor. It
was deadly. He dodged it, and warned me to be careful.
An Untouched Field
Matters rested for perhaps six months. Meanwhile I pondered well
an idea that came to me. I thought I saw a big field open—a
field, so far as I was aware, hitherto untouched by Australian
writers—a field all my own. Reared on a selection, I knew
well what a mortgage meant. Knew how those on the land had to toil,
how they had to fight against fire and flood, how they faced
adversity and misfortune, and how, when seasons smiled, they
rejoiced and shared each other’s society and successes. Why,
then, shouldn’t I tell these things—tell them with
sincerity, with sympathy, and—who knows?—prompt
legislative action in the interests of the struggling selector?
Such was my “idea,” anyway. I know now it was wrong to
dream such philanthropy; but I was young. I was sentimental. Since
then my mind has been expanded—have travelled
extensively—been all round the country, two hundred miles or
more, in company with a band of police of various colours, and
swags and billy-cans, and an unmitigated, unwashed scoundrel, with
handcuffs on, for whom I assisted to establish an alibi; and
I’ve been down to Sydney; and I’ve been in and out of
the Queensland Civil Service, and now run a magazine, and much
prefer it. Travel is a great teacher.
B— meantime having drifted north, I confided with a
solicitor’s clerk, a person of my own prejudices and
sympathies, and an ardent reader of things Australian. He shook his
head.
“A big field,” he admitted, “and one that
hasn’t been touched much, but” (he paused there)
“it would require skilful handling.”
I hadn’t reckoned on any “skilful handling,”
and that phase of the project was disheartening. But Vanity
sustained me. I began and wrote a sketch, that which now forms the
first chapter of “On Our Selection.” Showed it to a
brother Civil servant. He said it was “rot.” I had
confidence in him, but not sufficient to decide upon
destroying the MS. just then. I locked it carefully in a drawer at
the office, and left it for months. At regular periods my brother
servant reminded me of it. He would insert his head through the
door, and, with a grin, inquire what I had done with those
“lovely coruscations of wit”? I took it out one day, to
give the solicitor’s clerk a treat. He read it; and shook his
head thoughtfully, and said nothing. Confinement, I was convinced,
had not improved it. In a reckless moment I dragged it to the light
again, packed it, and mailed it to the editor of the
“Bulletin.” An hour later I reproached myself. Was sure
it would get me into trouble. To my surprise, though, it was
promptly printed and paid for. Dilatation and delight! Tried some
more. “Our First Harvest” and a “Splendid Year
for Corn” followed, and cheques for these were sent back
instead of cheek. The barrier was broken. I saw the “big
field” ahead, and sat and wrote for it in grim earnest. Then
came words of encouragement and advice from the keen, kindly
Editor:
“Dear Mr. Davis”—he wrote in his own
hand— “Herewith cheque for ‘Fourteen Years
Ago’—which we’ll keep awhile, for a special
occasion. Those selection sketches of yours should he very
interesting when collected and published one day.—Yours very
truly, J. F. Archibald.”
And later:
“‘Lady Comes to Shingle Hut’ printed this
(coming) week. It is a fine yarn; by such things is your name made.
Take my advice, and don’t consciously write below your
standard.”
May his days be long in the land!
Any trouble finding a publisher? None. He couldn’t
lose me.
The Truth Of “Our Selection”
Allowing for embroidery, the incidents related in “On Our
Selection” are for the most part true. Any of the characters,
with the exception of “Dad,” perhaps may be met with in
many places. The only one of the group strictly drawn from life is
“Cranky Jack,” who is still to be found on a farm on
the Darling Downs, where he continues to entertain those around him
with his eccentricities. But “Dad” I drew from several
sources. He’s a triangle, or a “trinity”: he is
three in one.
Does literature pay? Not so well as wool, or beer, or town
properties, or old clothes, perhaps. Still, it pays. And to
prospective Australian authors I say: Let your first book be equal
to “Robbery Under Arms,” or “While the Billy
Boils,” or “The Man from Snowy River”; your
second not worse, and your third a lot better; use your brains on
the publishers, and I see no reason why your incomes should not
average £600 per annum. Should England call, by all
means pack up and clear; but, until she does, play in your
own backyards—write inAustralia, onAustralia,
for Australia.
A Bush Tragedy
When Watson sacked me at Clune’s Crossing, I left the
cattle and was making back through the Carnarvon Ranges to
Chinchilla. I covered about eighty miles that day, and was camped
on the edge of a scrubby gully near a large water-hole. ’Twas
just dusk. My two horses were grazing close by. The fire sent up a
column of thin smoke, and I was sitting on my haunches staring into
it, half reproaching myself for having quarrelled with Watson, and
wondering how the wife would take it, when I felt a slight touch on
the shoulder. I started to my feet and found a woman standing
before me.
“You seem surprised to see me,” she said.
“You gave me a bit of a start,” I answered, fighting
for composure. “I didn’t expect to find a man within a
hundred miles of here, to say nothing about a woman.”
“We live just up there,” she continued, pointing
through the timber, “not a quarter of a mile away. I saw your
fire smoking from the house, and thought I would come and ask you
up for supper—come along.” And she turned and beckoned
me away.
Endeavouring to utter some kind of thanks, I followed.
We soon reached the house. It was an ordinary bush hut,
comprised of two rooms and a skillion. An irregular paling fence
surrounded it, and at the back of the building was an old shed, a
wood-heap, and a solitary peach tree. A pall hung over the place,
and I noticed there was not a dog of any kind about. The woman
shoved open the door and walked inside, removed her hat, and set
about readying the table.
“Sit over here,” she said, placing a box at the head
of the table for me, and I sat down to a good meal.
While I ate, the woman hummed, and engaged herself tidying the
room and replenishing the fire.
I finished, and was reaching for my hat, when she turned and
said,
“What I wanted you here for more than anything else, was
to tell you that my husband died at three o’clock today
and—”
“Died!” I said, clutching my hat and staring
hard at her.
“Yes, poor old Jim,” she went on. “He’s
in on the bed; and I would like you to stay in the house while I
run across and tell his old mate about it. He lives over in the
scrub.”
“Mad!” I said to myself; and, as an excuse to leave
the place, I offered to run the errand and break the news to the
man in the scrub, if she would direct me to the place.
“No,” she answered, fastening the strings of her
hat, “I would rather go myself. But step in and see poor old
Jim before I start.”
I couldn’t account for the feeling that came over me, but
I placed my hand in my shirt, where I carried a revolver, and
followed her into the bedroom. There on the bed was a dead man
covered to the chin with a white sheet. I thought it ghastly.
“Just about three he went off,” the woman said,
gazing into the face of the corpse.
I had seen enough, and returned to the front room.
“Well, if you’ll remain till I come back, I’ll
be obliged,” the woman said. Then she opened the door, closed
it quietly behind her, and hurried into the night.
Intending to leave the gruesome place as soon as she would be
well away, I sat by the fire and reflected. Outside the wind
moaned, and night birds whooped at intervals; inside, an
old-fashioned clock, standing on the mantelpiece above my head,
ticked, ticked, ticked. All else was silence.
“Strange!” I muttered, and rose to go, when the door
of the death chamber opened, and the dead man, with the white sheet
hanging loosely about him, walked out. I staggered back, and my
head struck the clock. It toppled over and fell to the floor with a
crash. The same moment my hand sought the revolver again.
“By God!” I said, pointing the weapon at the corpse
or the living man, or whatever he was, “I’ll drop you
if you don’t tell me what all this means!” And, keeping
him covered, I sidled for the door.
“Wait awhile,” he said calmly. “Don’t be
afraid. And take a pull at this.” He drew a bottle from the
folds of the sheet. “Your nerves have got a bit of a
shock.” And he grinned and showed his teeth. I lowered the
revolver an inch or two.
“I’m not dead,” he went on. “My wife
believes I died today, though, and God, wasn’t she
pleased!”
He sat down and commenced to explain.
“She’s not been faithful,” he whispered
hoarsely, “and the fellow she’s gone to fetch here
to-night is the cause of it. I’m going back to that bed
again, and don’t you leave this room till they come. If you
do, there’s a bullet in there waiting for you. Now
take a pull.”
The bottle he proffered contained rum, and I put it to my head
and drank.
The corpse returned to the bed and drew the sheet over
itself.
I had just lifted the fallen clock from the floor and replaced
it on the mantelpiece, when I heard a footstep outside. The door
opened, and the woman, followed by a tall young fellow, entered.
Scarcely noticing my presence, they passed into the bedroom. I
glanced through the door, and saw them, side by side, peering at
the form on the bed. After a while I heard the woman say, “If
the old dog gets his dues his soul will never go to heaven.”
The door then closed. A few moments more, and I heard the man gasp
as if surprised. Then a gun went off. The woman screamed. The door
flew open, and she rushed out. The “corpse”
followed.
“Stop her!” he said calmly.
I felt dazed. The woman screamed again, and stood, pale and
panting, beneath the clock. The husband raised the gun, took
aim—God! such a report! I put my hands to my head. I reeled.
I daren’t look round.
The husband went out and returned with a piece of tarpaulin.
“Give me a hand to put them in this,” he said.
I obeyed, and together we carried the burden out and placed it
on the wood-heap. The next moment there was a blaze that threw a
light for forty yards around.
“Never mention this to a soul,” the man said to me.
“You promise?”
I promised.
“Here’s five pounds to help you along. Now
leave.”
* * * * * * * * *
Five weeks later I had taken a job of mustering fat cattle at
— Station, and, the work being finished, was continuing my
journey to Chinchilla. I was jogging leisurely along the road,
watching the sinking sun, when a mounted policeman overtook me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
I thought of that awful business. My brain whirled, but I
strived to appear composed. Before I could make any answer he
covered me with his revolver.
“Hands up!” he cried.
I complied.
“Now then,” he said, fixing his eyes upon me,
“what about that murder at Flannigan’s?”
“A murder?” I answered, and a terrible lump rose in
my throat.
“Out with it!” he demanded firmly, “or out you
go. While I count three. One—two—three!”
I couldn’t speak.
He lowered the revolver.
“You’ll do,” he said, “and thank your
stars you didn’t squeak.”
Then he snatched the disguise from his face, and I stared at
Flannigan.
THE END
Project Gutenberg Australia