JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES

by Henry Lawson

Transcriber's Note: This etext was entered twice (manually) andelectronically compared, by Alan R. Light This method assures a low rateof errors in the text--often lower than in the original. Special thanksgo to Gary M. Johnson, of Takoma Park, Maryland, for his assistance inprocuring a copy of the original text, and to the readers ofsoc. Culture. Australian and rec. Arts. Books (USENET newsgroups) for theirhelp in preparing the glossary. Italicized words or phrases arecapitalized. Some obvious errors may have been corrected. 

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An incomplete glossary of Australian, British, or antique terms andconcepts which may prove helpful to understanding this book:

"A house where they took in cards on a tray" (from Joe Wilson'sCourtship): An upper class house, with servants who would take avisitor's card (on a tray) to announce their presence, or, if the familywas out, to keep a record of the visit. 

Anniversary Day: Mentioned in the text, is now known as Australia Day. It commemorates the establishment of the first English settlement inAustralia, at Port Jackson (Sydney Harbour), on 26 January 1788. 

Gin: An obvious abbreviation of "aborigine", it only refers to *female*aborigines, and is now considered derogatory. It was not consideredderogatory at the time Lawson wrote. 

Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackaroo was a "new chum" ornewcomer to Australia, who sought work on a station to gain experience. The term now applies to any young man working as a station hand. Afemale station hand is a Jillaroo. Variant: Jackeroo. 

Old-fashioned child: A child that acts old for their age. Americanswould say 'Precocious'. 

'Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were originallymistaken for possums. They are not especially related to the possums ofNorth and South America, other than both being marsupials. 

Public/Pub. : The traditional pub. In Australia was a hotel with a"public" bar--hence the name. The modern pub has often (not always)dispensed with the lodging, and concentrated on the bar. 

Tea: In addition to the regular meaning, Tea can also mean a light snackor a meal (i. E. , where Tea is served). In particular, Morning Tea (about10 AM) and Afternoon Tea (about 3 PM) are nothing more than a snack, butEvening Tea (about 6 PM) is a meal. When just "Tea" is used, it usuallymeans the evening meal. Variant: Tea-time. 

Tucker: Food. 

Shout: In addition to the regular meaning, it also refers to buyingdrinks for all the members of a group, etc. The use of this term can beconfusing, so the first instance is footnoted in the text. 

Sly-grog-shop: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store. 

Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. 

Store Bullock: Lawson makes several references to these. A bullock isa castrated bull. Bullocks were used in Australia for work that wastoo heavy for horses. 'Store' may refer to those cattle, and theirdescendants, brought to Australia by the British government, and sold tosettlers from the 'Store'--hence, the standard draft animal. 

Also: a hint with the seasons--remember that the seasons are reversedfrom those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be hot, butDecember is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude than theUnited States, so the winters are not harsh by US standards, and are noteven mild in the north. In fact, large parts of Australia are governedmore by "dry" versus "wet" than by Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter. 

--A. L. 

JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES

Author of "While the Billy Boils", "On the Track and Over theSliprails", "When the World was Wide, and other verses", "Verses, Popular and Humorous", "Children of the Bush", "When I was King, andother verses", etc. 

The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. 

 Some carry their swags in the Great North-West Where the bravest battle and die, And a few have gone to their last long rest, And a few have said "Good-bye!" The coast grows dim, and it may be long Ere the Gums again I see; So I put my soul in a farewell song To the chaps who barracked for me. 

 Their days are hard at the best of times, And their dreams are dreams of care-- God bless them all for their big soft hearts, And the brave, brave grins they wear! God keep me straight as a man can go, And true as a man may be! For the sake of the hearts that were always so, Of the men who had faith in me!

 And a ship-side word I would say, you chaps Of the blood of the Don't-give-in! The world will call it a boast, perhaps-- But I'll win, if a man can win! And not for gold nor the world's applause-- Though ways to the end they be-- I'll win, if a man might win, because Of the men who believed in me. 

Contents. 

 Prefatory Verses--

 The Author's Farewell to the Bushmen. 

 Part I. 

 Joe Wilson's Courtship. Brighten's Sister-In-Law. 'Water Them Geraniums'. I. A Lonely Track. II. 'Past Carin''. A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. II. Joe Wilson's Luck. III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. IV. The Buggy Comes Home. 

 Part II. 

 The Golden Graveyard. The Chinaman's Ghost. The Loaded Dog. Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. I. Dave Regan's Yarn. II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. The Ghostly Door. A Wild Irishman. The Babies in the Bush. A Bush Dance. The Buck-Jumper. Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. At Dead Dingo. Telling Mrs Baker. A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. The Little World Left Behind. 

 Concluding Verses-- The Never-Never Country. 

Part I. 

Joe Wilson's Courtship. 

There are many times in this world when a healthy boy is happy. When heis put into knickerbockers, for instance, and 'comes a man to-day, ' asmy little Jim used to say. When they're cooking something at home thathe likes. When the 'sandy-blight' or measles breaks out amongst thechildren, or the teacher or his wife falls dangerously ill--or dies, itdoesn't matter which--'and there ain't no school. ' When a boy is nakedand in his natural state for a warm climate like Australia, with threeor four of his schoolmates, under the shade of the creek-oaks in thebend where there's a good clear pool with a sandy bottom. When hisfather buys him a gun, and he starts out after kangaroos or 'possums. When he gets a horse, saddle, and bridle, of his own. When he has hisarm in splints or a stitch in his head--he's proud then, the proudestboy in the district. 

I wasn't a healthy-minded, average boy: I reckon I was born for a poetby mistake, and grew up to be a Bushman, and didn't know what was thematter with me--or the world--but that's got nothing to do with it. 

There are times when a man is happy. When he finds out that the girlloves him. When he's just married. When he's a lawful father for thefirst time, and everything is going on all right: some men make foolsof themselves then--I know I did. I'm happy to-night because I'm out ofdebt and can see clear ahead, and because I haven't been easy for a longtime. 

But I think that the happiest time in a man's life is when he's courtinga girl and finds out for sure that she loves him and hasn't a thoughtfor any one else. Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps, and keep them clean, for they're about the only days when there's achance of poetry and beauty coming into this life. Make the best of themand you'll never regret it the longest day you live. They're the daysthat the wife will look back to, anyway, in the brightest of times aswell as in the blackest, and there shouldn't be anything in those daysthat might hurt her when she looks back. Make the most of your courtingdays, you young chaps, for they will never come again. 

A married man knows all about it--after a while: he sees the woman worldthrough the eyes of his wife; he knows what an extra moment's pressureof the hand means, and, if he has had a hard life, and is inclined to becynical, the knowledge does him no good. It leads him into awful messessometimes, for a married man, if he's inclined that way, has three timesthe chance with a woman that a single man has--because the married manknows. He is privileged; he can guess pretty closely what a woman meanswhen she says something else; he knows just how far he can go; he can gofarther in five minutes towards coming to the point with a woman than aninnocent young man dares go in three weeks. Above all, the married manis more decided with women; he takes them and things for granted. Inshort he is--well, he is a married man. And, when he knows all this, howmuch better or happier is he for it? Mark Twain says that he lost allthe beauty of the river when he saw it with a pilot's eye, --and thereyou have it. 

But it's all new to a young chap, provided he hasn't been a youngblackguard. It's all wonderful, new, and strange to him. He's adifferent man. He finds that he never knew anything about women. He seesnone of woman's little ways and tricks in his girl. He is in heaven oneday and down near the other place the next; and that's the sort of thingthat makes life interesting. He takes his new world for granted. And, when she says she'll be his wife----!

Make the most of your courting days, you young chaps, for they've got alot of influence on your married life afterwards--a lot more than you'dthink. Make the best of them, for they'll never come any more, unlesswe do our courting over again in another world. If we do, I'll make themost of mine. 

But, looking back, I didn't do so badly after all. I never told youabout the days I courted Mary. The more I look back the more I come tothink that I made the most of them, and if I had no more to regret inmarried life than I have in my courting days, I wouldn't walk to and froin the room, or up and down the yard in the dark sometimes, or lie awakesome nights thinking. .. . Ah well!

I was between twenty-one and thirty then: birthdays had never been anyuse to me, and I'd left off counting them. You don't take much stock inbirthdays in the Bush. I'd knocked about the country for a few years, shearing and fencing and droving a little, and wasting my life withoutgetting anything for it. I drank now and then, and made a fool ofmyself. I was reckoned 'wild'; but I only drank because I felt lesssensitive, and the world seemed a lot saner and better and kinder whenI had a few drinks: I loved my fellow-man then and felt nearer to him. It's better to be thought 'wild' than to be considered eccentricor ratty. Now, my old mate, Jack Barnes, drank--as far as I couldsee--first because he'd inherited the gambling habit from his fatheralong with his father's luck: he'd the habit of being cheated and losingvery bad, and when he lost he drank. Till drink got a hold on him. Jackwas sentimental too, but in a different way. I was sentimental aboutother people--more fool I!--whereas Jack was sentimental about himself. Before he was married, and when he was recovering from a spree, he'dwrite rhymes about 'Only a boy, drunk by the roadside', and that sort ofthing; and he'd call 'em poetry, and talk about signing them and sendingthem to the 'Town and Country Journal'. But he generally tore them upwhen he got better. The Bush is breeding a race of poets, and I don'tknow what the country will come to in the end. 

Well. It was after Jack and I had been out shearing at Beenaway shed inthe Big Scrubs. Jack was living in the little farming town of Solong, and I was hanging round. Black, the squatter, wanted some fencing doneand a new stable built, or buggy and harness-house, at his placeat Haviland, a few miles out of Solong. Jack and I were good Bushcarpenters, so we took the job to keep us going till something elseturned up. 'Better than doing nothing, ' said Jack. 

'There's a nice little girl in service at Black's, ' he said. 'She's morelike an adopted daughter, in fact, than a servant. She's a real goodlittle girl, and good-looking into the bargain. I hear that young Blackis sweet on her, but they say she won't have anything to do with him. Iknow a lot of chaps that have tried for her, but they've never had anyluck. She's a regular little dumpling, and I like dumplings. They callher 'Possum. You ought to try a bear up in that direction, Joe. '

I was always shy with women--except perhaps some that I should havefought shy of; but Jack wasn't--he was afraid of no woman, good, bad, orindifferent. I haven't time to explain why, but somehow, whenever a girltook any notice of me I took it for granted that she was only playingwith me, and felt nasty about it. I made one or two mistakes, but--ahwell!

'My wife knows little 'Possum, ' said Jack. 'I'll get her to ask her outto our place and let you know. '

I reckoned that he wouldn't get me there then, and made a note to be onthe watch for tricks. I had a hopeless little love-story behind me, ofcourse. I suppose most married men can look back to their lost love; fewmarry the first flame. Many a married man looks back and thinks it wasdamned lucky that he didn't get the girl he couldn't have. Jack had beenmy successful rival, only he didn't know it--I don't think his wife knewit either. I used to think her the prettiest and sweetest little girl inthe district. 

But Jack was mighty keen on fixing me up with the little girl atHaviland. He seemed to take it for granted that I was going to fall inlove with her at first sight. He took too many things for granted as faras I was concerned, and got me into awful tangles sometimes. 

'You let me alone, and I'll fix you up, Joe, ' he said, as we rode upto the station. 'I'll make it all right with the girl. You're rathera good-looking chap. You've got the sort of eyes that take with girls, only you don't know it; you haven't got the go. If I had your eyes alongwith my other attractions, I'd be in trouble on account of a woman aboutonce a-week. '

'For God's sake shut up, Jack, ' I said. 

Do you remember the first glimpse you got of your wife? Perhaps not inEngland, where so many couples grow up together from childhood; but it'sdifferent in Australia, where you may hail from two thousand miles awayfrom where your wife was born, and yet she may be a countrywoman ofyours, and a countrywoman in ideas and politics too. I remember thefirst glimpse I got of Mary. 

It was a two-storey brick house with wide balconies and verandahs allround, and a double row of pines down to the front gate. Parallel at theback was an old slab-and-shingle place, one room deep and about eightrooms long, with a row of skillions at the back: the place was used forkitchen, laundry, servants' rooms, &c. This was the old homestead beforethe new house was built. There was a wide, old-fashioned, brick-flooredverandah in front, with an open end; there was ivy climbing up theverandah post on one side and a baby-rose on the other, and a grape-vinenear the chimney. We rode up to the end of the verandah, and Jack calledto see if there was any one at home, and Mary came trotting out; so itwas in the frame of vines that I first saw her. 

More than once since then I've had a fancy to wonder whether therose-bush killed the grape-vine or the ivy smothered 'em both in theend. I used to have a vague idea of riding that way some day to see. Youdo get strange fancies at odd times. 

Jack asked her if the boss was in. He did all the talking. I saw alittle girl, rather plump, with a complexion like a New England or BlueMountain girl, or a girl from Tasmania or from Gippsland in Victoria. Red and white girls were very scarce in the Solong district. She had thebiggest and brightest eyes I'd seen round there, dark hazel eyes, as Ifound out afterwards, and bright as a 'possum's. No wonder they calledher ''Possum'. I forgot at once that Mrs Jack Barnes was the prettiestgirl in the district. I felt a sort of comfortable satisfaction in thefact that I was on horseback: most Bushmen look better on horseback. Itwas a black filly, a fresh young thing, and she seemed as shy of girlsas I was myself. I noticed Mary glanced in my direction once or twiceto see if she knew me; but, when she looked, the filly took all myattention. Mary trotted in to tell old Black he was wanted, and afterJack had seen him, and arranged to start work next day, we started backto Solong. 

I expected Jack to ask me what I thought of Mary--but he didn't. Hesquinted at me sideways once or twice and didn't say anything for a longtime, and then he started talking of other things. I began to feel wildat him. He seemed so damnably satisfied with the way things were going. He seemed to reckon that I was a gone case now; but, as he didn't sayso, I had no way of getting at him. I felt sure he'd go home andtell his wife that Joe Wilson was properly gone on little 'Possum atHaviland. That was all Jack's way. 

Next morning we started to work. We were to build the buggy-house atthe back near the end of the old house, but first we had to take downa rotten old place that might have been the original hut in the Bushbefore the old house was built. There was a window in it, opposite thelaundry window in the old place, and the first thing I did was to takeout the sash. I'd noticed Jack yarning with 'Possum before he startedwork. While I was at work at the window he called me round to the otherend of the hut to help him lift a grindstone out of the way; and whenwe'd done it, he took the tips of my ear between his fingers and thumband stretched it and whispered into it--

'Don't hurry with that window, Joe; the strips are hardwood and hard toget off--you'll have to take the sash out very carefully so as not tobreak the glass. ' Then he stretched my ear a little more and put hismouth closer--

'Make a looking-glass of that window, Joe, ' he said. 

I was used to Jack, and when I went back to the window I started topuzzle out what he meant, and presently I saw it by chance. 

That window reflected the laundry window: the room was dark inside andthere was a good clear reflection; and presently I saw Mary come to thelaundry window and stand with her hands behind her back, thoughtfullywatching me. The laundry window had an old-fashioned hinged sash, and Ilike that sort of window--there's more romance about it, I think. Therewas thick dark-green ivy all round the window, and Mary looked prettierthan a picture. I squared up my shoulders and put my heels together andput as much style as I could into the work. I couldn't have turned roundto save my life. 

Presently Jack came round, and Mary disappeared. 

'Well?' he whispered. 

'You're a fool, Jack, ' I said. 'She's only interested in the old housebeing pulled down. '

'That's all right, ' he said. 'I've been keeping an eye on the businessround the corner, and she ain't interested when I'M round this end. '

'You seem mighty interested in the business, ' I said. 

'Yes, ' said Jack. 'This sort of thing just suits a man of my rank intimes of peace. '

'What made you think of the window?' I asked. 

'Oh, that's as simple as striking matches. I'm up to all those dodges. Why, where there wasn't a window, I've fixed up a piece of looking-glassto see if a girl was taking any notice of me when she thought I wasn'tlooking. '

He went away, and presently Mary was at the window again, and thistime she had a tray with cups of tea and a plate of cake andbread-and-butter. I was prizing off the strips that held the sash, very carefully, and my heart suddenly commenced to gallop, without anyreference to me. I'd never felt like that before, except once ortwice. It was just as if I'd swallowed some clockwork arrangement, unconsciously, and it had started to go, without warning. I reckon itwas all on account of that blarsted Jack working me up. He had aquiet way of working you up to a thing, that made you want to hit himsometimes--after you'd made an ass of yourself. 

I didn't hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help meout of the fix, but he didn't. 

'Mr--Mr Wilson!' said Mary. She had a sweet voice. 

I turned round. 

'I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea. '

'Oh, thank you!' I said, and I made a dive for the window, as if hurrywould help it. I trod on an old cask-hoop; it sprang up and dinted myshin and I stumbled--and that didn't help matters much. 

'Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson?' cried Mary. 

'Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you, ' I blurted out. 'It takesmore than that to hurt me. '

I was about the reddest shy lanky fool of a Bushman that was ever takenat a disadvantage on foot, and when I took the tray my hands shook sothat a lot of the tea was spilt into the saucers. I embarrassed her too, like the damned fool I was, till she must have been as red as I was, andit's a wonder we didn't spill the whole lot between us. I got awayfrom the window in as much of a hurry as if Jack had cut his leg with achisel and fainted, and I was running with whisky for him. I blunderedround to where he was, feeling like a man feels when he's just made anass of himself in public. The memory of that sort of thing hurts youworse and makes you jerk your head more impatiently than the thought ofa past crime would, I think. 

I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was. 

'Here, Jack!' I said. 'I've struck something all right; here's some teaand brownie--we'll hang out here all right. '

Jack took a cup of tea and a piece of cake and sat down to enjoy it, just as if he'd paid for it and ordered it to be sent out about thattime. 

He was silent for a while, with the sort of silence that always made mewild at him. Presently he said, as if he'd just thought of it--

'That's a very pretty little girl, 'Possum, isn't she, Joe? Do younotice how she dresses?--always fresh and trim. But she's got on herbest bib-and-tucker to-day, and a pinafore with frills to it. And it'sironing-day, too. It can't be on your account. If it was Saturday orSunday afternoon, or some holiday, I could understand it. But perhapsone of her admirers is going to take her to the church bazaar in Solongto-night. That's what it is. '

He gave me time to think over that. 

'But yet she seems interested in you, Joe, ' he said. 'Why didn't youoffer to take her to the bazaar instead of letting another chap get inahead of you? You miss all your chances, Joe. '

Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to havethought of it before. 

'Look here, Jack, ' I said. 'What have you been saying to that girl aboutme?'

'Oh, not much, ' said Jack. 'There isn't much to say about you. '

'What did you tell her?'

'Oh, nothing in particular. She'd heard all about you before. '

'She hadn't heard much good, I suppose, ' I said. 

'Well, that's true, as far as I could make out. But you've only gotyourself to blame. I didn't have the breeding and rearing of you. Ismoothed over matters with her as much as I could. '

'What did you tell her?' I said. 'That's what I want to know. '

'Well, to tell the truth, I didn't tell her anything much. I onlyanswered questions. '

'And what questions did she ask?'

'Well, in the first place, she asked if your name wasn't Joe Wilson; andI said it was, as far as I knew. Then she said she heard that you wrotepoetry, and I had to admit that that was true. '

'Look here, Jack, ' I said, 'I've two minds to punch your head. '

'And she asked me if it was true that you were wild, ' said Jack, 'and Isaid you was, a bit. She said it seemed a pity. She asked me if it wastrue that you drank, and I drew a long face and said that I was sorryto say it was true. She asked me if you had any friends, and I said nonethat I knew of, except me. I said that you'd lost all your friends; theystuck to you as long as they could, but they had to give you best, oneafter the other. '

'What next?'

'She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no, you were as tough asfencing-wire. She said you looked rather pale and thin, and asked me ifyou'd had an illness lately. And I said no--it was all on account ofthe wild, dissipated life you'd led. She said it was a pity you hadn'ta mother or a sister to look after you--it was a pity that somethingcouldn't be done for you, and I said it was, but I was afraid thatnothing could be done. I told her that I was doing all I could to keepyou straight. '

I knew enough of Jack to know that most of this was true. And so sheonly pitied me after all. I felt as if I'd been courting her for sixmonths and she'd thrown me over--but I didn't know anything about womenyet. 

'Did you tell her I was in jail?' I growled. 

'No, by Gum! I forgot that. But never mind I'll fix that up all right. I'll tell her that you got two years' hard for horse-stealing. Thatought to make her interested in you, if she isn't already. '

We smoked a while. 

'And was that all she said?' I asked. 

'Who?--Oh! 'Possum, ' said Jack rousing himself. 'Well--no; let methink---- We got chatting of other things--you know a married man'sprivileged, and can say a lot more to a girl than a single man can. Igot talking nonsense about sweethearts, and one thing led to anothertill at last she said, "I suppose Mr Wilson's got a sweetheart, MrBarnes?"'

'And what did you say?' I growled. 

'Oh, I told her that you were a holy terror amongst the girls, ' saidJack. 'You'd better take back that tray, Joe, and let us get to work. '

I wouldn't take back the tray--but that didn't mend matters, for Jacktook it back himself. 

I didn't see Mary's reflection in the window again, so I took the windowout. I reckoned that she was just a big-hearted, impulsive little thing, as many Australian girls are, and I reckoned that I was a fool forthinking for a moment that she might give me a second thought, exceptby way of kindness. Why! young Black and half a dozen better men than mewere sweet on her, and young Black was to get his father's station andthe money--or rather his mother's money, for she held the stuff (shekept it close too, by all accounts). Young Black was away at the time, and his mother was dead against him about Mary, but that didn't makeany difference, as far as I could see. I reckoned that it was onlyjust going to be a hopeless, heart-breaking, stand-far-off-and-worshipaffair, as far as I was concerned--like my first love affair, that Ihaven't told you about yet. I was tired of being pitied by good girls. You see, I didn't know women then. If I had known, I think I might havemade more than one mess of my life. 

Jack rode home to Solong every night. I was staying at a pub somedistance out of town, between Solong and Haviland. There were three orfour wet days, and we didn't get on with the work. I fought shy of Marytill one day she was hanging out clothes and the line broke. It was theold-style sixpenny clothes-line. The clothes were all down, but it wasclean grass, so it didn't matter much. I looked at Jack. 

'Go and help her, you capital Idiot!' he said, and I made the plunge. 

'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson!' said Mary, when I came to help. She had thebroken end of the line and was trying to hold some of the clothes offthe ground, as if she could pull it an inch with the heavy wet sheetsand table-cloths and things on it, or as if it would do any good if shedid. But that's the way with women--especially little women--some of 'emwould try to pull a store bullock if they got the end of the rope onthe right side of the fence. I took the line from Mary, and accidentallytouched her soft, plump little hand as I did so: it sent a thrill rightthrough me. She seemed a lot cooler than I was. 

Now, in cases like this, especially if you lose your head a bit, you gethold of the loose end of the rope that's hanging from the post with onehand, and the end of the line with the clothes on with the other, andtry to pull 'em far enough together to make a knot. And that's aboutall you do for the present, except look like a fool. Then I took offthe post end, spliced the line, took it over the fork, and pulled, whileMary helped me with the prop. I thought Jack might have come and takenthe prop from her, but he didn't; he just went on with his work as ifnothing was happening inside the horizon. 

She'd got the line about two-thirds full of clothes, it was a bit shortnow, so she had to jump and catch it with one hand and hold it downwhile she pegged a sheet she'd thrown over. I'd made the plunge now, so I volunteered to help her. I held down the line while she threwthe things over and pegged out. As we got near the post and higher Istraightened out some ends and pegged myself. Bushmen are handy at mostthings. We laughed, and now and again Mary would say, 'No, that's notthe way, Mr Wilson; that's not right; the sheet isn't far enough over;wait till I fix it, ' &c. I'd a reckless idea once of holding her upwhile she pegged, and I was glad afterwards that I hadn't made such afool of myself. 

'There's only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand, ' I said. 'Youcan't reach--I'll fix 'em up. '

She seemed to give a little gasp. 

'Oh, those things are not ready yet, ' she said, 'they're not rinsed, 'and she grabbed the basket and held it away from me. The things lookedthe same to me as the rest on the line; they looked rinsed enough andblued too. I reckoned that she didn't want me to take the trouble, orthought that I mightn't like to be seen hanging out clothes, and wasonly doing it out of kindness. 

'Oh, it's no trouble, ' I said, 'let me hang 'em out. I like it. I'vehung out clothes at home on a windy day, ' and I made a reach into thebasket. But she flushed red, with temper I thought, and snatched thebasket away. 

'Excuse me, Mr Wilson, ' she said, 'but those things are not ready yet!'and she marched into the wash-house. 

'Ah well! you've got a little temper of your own, ' I thought to myself. 

When I told Jack, he said that I'd made another fool of myself. He saidI'd both disappointed and offended her. He said that my line was tostand off a bit and be serious and melancholy in the background. 

That evening when we'd started home, we stopped some time yarning witha chap we met at the gate; and I happened to look back, and saw Maryhanging out the rest of the things--she thought that we were out ofsight. Then I understood why those things weren't ready while we wereround. 

For the next day or two Mary didn't take the slightest notice of me, and I kept out of her way. Jack said I'd disillusioned her--and hurt herdignity--which was a thousand times worse. He said I'd spoilt the thingaltogether. He said that she'd got an idea that I was shy and poetic, and I'd only shown myself the usual sort of Bush-whacker. 

I noticed her talking and chatting with other fellows once or twice, andit made me miserable. I got drunk two evenings running, and then, as itappeared afterwards, Mary consulted Jack, and at last she said to him, when we were together--

'Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?'

'No, ' said Jack. 

'Do you, Mr Wilson?' she asked, suddenly turning her big, bright eyes onme, and speaking to me for the first time since last washing-day. 

'Yes, ' I said, 'I do a little. ' Then there was a silence, and I had tosay something else. 

'Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?' I asked. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'but I can't get any one to play with me here of anevening, the men are generally playing cards or reading. ' Then she said, 'It's very dull these long winter evenings when you've got nothing todo. Young Mr Black used to play draughts, but he's away. '

I saw Jack winking at me urgently. 

'I'll play a game with you, if you like, ' I said, 'but I ain't much of aplayer. '

'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?'

We fixed it for that same evening. We got chummy over the draughts. Ihad a suspicion even then that it was a put-up job to keep me away fromthe pub. 

Perhaps she found a way of giving a hint to old Black without committingherself. Women have ways--or perhaps Jack did it. Anyway, next day theBoss came round and said to me--

'Look here, Joe, you've got no occasion to stay at the pub. Bring alongyour blankets and camp in one of the spare rooms of the old house. Youcan have your tucker here. '

He was a good sort, was Black the squatter: a squatter of the oldschool, who'd shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn't seewhy he should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old timeswith any of his old station hands that happened to come along. But he'dmarried an Englishwoman after the hardships were over, and she'd nevergot any Australian notions. 

Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixedup for me. I'm not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed thatgood-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint. After teaI had a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap. I don'tremember exactly how we both came to be there, or who sat downfirst. There was about two feet between us. We got very chummy andconfidential. She told me about her childhood and her father. 

He'd been an old mate of Black's, a younger son of a well-to-do Englishfamily (with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australiawith a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are, withmore or less. They think they're hard done by; they blue their thousandpounds in Melbourne or Sydney, and they don't make any more nowadays, for the Roarin' Days have been dead these thirty years. I wish I'd had athousand pounds to start on!

Mary's mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selectedup there in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I couldunderstand, and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary'sfather made money, and lost it, and drank--and died. Mary rememberedhim sitting on the verandah one evening with his hand on her head, andsinging a German song (the 'Lorelei', I think it was) softly, as if tohimself. Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept out ofthe room; and, when he died, the children were adopted round (there wasa little money coming from England). 

Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live with a sortof cousin in town, in a house where they took in cards on a tray, andthen she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first. I'd had no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas of whatthe world ought to be, and she seemed interested. 

Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky untilI remembered that I'd told her I had no one to care for me; then Isuspected pity again. 

But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers weredead, and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black, and things went on very satisfactorily. 

And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted coverand a looking-glass. 

I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I wasround, but Mary didn't seem aware of it. 

We got very chummy. Mary wasn't comfortable at Haviland. Old Blackwas very fond of her and always took her part, but she wanted to beindependent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney and getting intothe hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney, but she had nomoney. There was a little money coming to her when she was twenty-one--afew pounds--and she was going to try and get it before that time. 

'Look here, Miss Brand, ' I said, after we'd watched the moon rise. 'I'lllend you the money. I've got plenty--more than I know what to do with. '

But I saw I'd hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while, lookingbefore her; then she said it was time to go in, and said 'Good-night, MrWilson. '

I reckoned I'd done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards that shewas only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money mighthave been taken for a hint. She didn't understand me yet, and I didn'tknow human nature. I didn't say anything to Jack--in fact about thistime I left off telling him about things. He didn't seem hurt; he workedhard and seemed happy. 

I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure goodnature. I'd be a happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps, ifI'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night on the wood-heapwith Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her--but I got to love her. Iwent through all the ups and downs of it. One day I was having tea inthe kitchen, and Mary and another girl, named Sarah, reached me a cleanplate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate because she was first, andMary seemed very nasty about it, and that gave me great hopes. But allnext evening she played draughts with a drover that she'd chummed upwith. I pretended to be interested in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seemto work. 

A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station. He had a goodpea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary to shoot at atarget. They seemed to get very chummy. I had a nice time for three orfour days, I can tell you. I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock withthe pleuro. The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called 'MrWilson' to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking. Ifit hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much. 

Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls wentout 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't. Imooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge, and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer, and damnedthe world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening wasthe only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper. I got somiserable that I enjoyed it. 

I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured. I ran against Maryaccidentally and had to say something. 

'How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked. 

'Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson, ' she said. Then she asked, 'Howdid you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'

I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it. Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something. But aboutthis time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room andturned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table. I used to keepan eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room. I straightenedup, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash, I'd slip down to theriver after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day, and rub it up tolook as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table. I feltso full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack, till onemorning he remarked casually--

'I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook tidyingup your room this morning and taking your collars and things to thewash-house. '

I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day, and I had sucha bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning to look thehopelessness square in the face and live the thing down. 

It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in a goodday's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having a smoke and ayarn with the chaps before he started home. We sat on an old log alongby the fence at the back of the house. There was Jimmy Nowlett thebullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover, and big Jim Bullock thefencer, and one or two others. Mary and the station girls and one ortwo visitors were sitting under the old verandah. The Jackaroo wasthere too, so I felt happy. It was the girls who used to bring the chapshanging round. They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night. Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station: he wasa big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy: it wasreckoned that there was foreign blood in him. He went by the name ofRomany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too. He had the nastiesttemper and the best violin in the district, and the chaps put up withhim a lot because they wanted him to play at Bush dances. The moon hadrisen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky where we were. We saw Romanyloom up, riding in from the gate; he rode round the end of thecoach-house and across towards where we were--I suppose he was going totie up his horse at the fence; but about half-way across the grass hedisappeared. It struck me that there was something peculiar about theway he got down, and I heard a sound like a horse stumbling. 

'What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett. 'He couldn'thave fell off his horse--or else he's drunk. '

A couple of chaps got up and went to see. Then there was that waiting, mysterious silence that comes when something happens in the dark andnobody knows what it is. I went over, and the thing dawned on me. I'dstretched a wire clothes-line across there during the day, and hadforgotten all about it for the moment. Romany had no idea of the line, and, as he rode up, it caught him on a level with his elbows and scrapedhim off his horse. He was sitting on the grass, swearing in a surprisedvoice, and the horse looked surprised too. Romany wasn't hurt, but thesudden shock had spoilt his temper. He wanted to know who'd put up thatbloody line. He came over and sat on the log. The chaps smoked a while. 

'What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullockpresently. 'Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?'

'Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan. 

'I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany. 

'Well, ' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if we'd put up a sign to beware of the lineyou couldn't have seen it in the dark. '

'Unless it was a transparency with a candle behind it, ' said Dave Regan. 'But why didn't you get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along?It wouldn't have jolted yer so much. '

All this with the Bush drawl, and between the puffs of their pipes. But I didn't take any interest in it. I was brooding over Mary and theJackaroo. 

'I've heard of men getting down over their horse's head, ' saidDave presently, in a reflective sort of way--'in fact I've done itmyself--but I never saw a man get off backwards over his horse's rump. '

But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him to playthe fiddle next night, so they dropped it. 

Mary was singing an old song. I always thought she had a sweet voice, and I'd have enjoyed it if that damned Jackaroo hadn't been listeningtoo. We listened in silence until she'd finished. 

'That gal's got a nice voice, ' said Jimmy Nowlett. 

'Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to benasty. 'Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better. '

I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me, nudged me to keep quiet. Thechaps didn't like Romany's talk about 'Possum at all. They were all fondof her: she wasn't a pet or a tomboy, for she wasn't built that way, but they were fond of her in such a way that they didn't like to hearanything said about her. They said nothing for a while, but it meant alot. Perhaps the single men didn't care to speak for fear that it wouldbe said that they were gone on Mary. But presently Jimmy Nowlett gave abig puff at his pipe and spoke--

'I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?'

'Oh, she tried it on, but it didn't go, ' said Romany. 'I've met her sortbefore. She's setting her cap at that Jackaroo now. Some girls will runafter anything with trousers on, ' and he stood up. 

Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming, for he grabbed my arm, andwhispered, 'Sit still, Joe, damn you! He's too good for you!' but I wason my feet and facing Romany as if a giant hand had reached down andwrenched me off the log and set me there. 

'You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said. 

Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the other fellows round usbefore a blow got home. 'Hold on, you damned fools!' they said. 'Keepquiet till we get away from the house!' There was a little clear flatdown by the river and plenty of light there, so we decided to go downthere and have it out. 

Now I never was a fighting man; I'd never learnt to use my hands. Iscarcely knew how to put them up. Jack often wanted to teach me, but Iwouldn't bother about it. He'd say, 'You'll get into a fight some day, Joe, or out of one, and shame me;' but I hadn't the patience to learn. He'd wanted me to take lessons at the station after work, but he used toget excited, and I didn't want Mary to see him knocking me about. Beforehe was married Jack was always getting into fights--he generally tackleda better man and got a hiding; but he didn't seem to care so long ashe made a good show--though he used to explain the thing away from ascientific point of view for weeks after. To tell the truth, I had ahorror of fighting; I had a horror of being marked about the face; Ithink I'd sooner stand off and fight a man with revolvers than fight himwith fists; and then I think I would say, last thing, 'Don't shoot mein the face!' Then again I hated the idea of hitting a man. It seemedbrutal to me. I was too sensitive and sentimental, and that was whatthe matter was. Jack seemed very serious on it as we walked down to theriver, and he couldn't help hanging out blue lights. 

'Why didn't you let me teach you to use your hands?' he said. 'Theonly chance now is that Romany can't fight after all. If you'd waiteda minute I'd have been at him. ' We were a bit behind the rest, and Jackstarted giving me points about lefts and rights, and 'half-arms', andthat sort of thing. 'He's left-handed, and that's the worst of it, ' saidJack. 'You must only make as good a show as you can, and one of us willtake him on afterwards. '

But I just heard him and that was all. It was to be my first fight sinceI was a boy, but, somehow, I felt cool about it--sort of dulled. If thechaps had known all they would have set me down as a cur. I thought ofthat, but it didn't make any difference with me then; I knew it was athing they couldn't understand. I knew I was reckoned pretty soft. ButI knew one thing that they didn't know. I knew that it was going to bea fight to a finish, one way or the other. I had more brains andimagination than the rest put together, and I suppose that that was thereal cause of most of my trouble. I kept saying to myself, 'You'll haveto go through with it now, Joe, old man! It's the turning-point of yourlife. ' If I won the fight, I'd set to work and win Mary; if I lost, I'dleave the district for ever. A man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes; Iused to get excited over little things, because of the very paltrinessof them, but I was mostly cool in a crisis--Jack was the reverse. Ilooked ahead: I wouldn't be able to marry a girl who could look back andremember when her husband was beaten by another man--no matter what sortof brute the other man was. 

I never in my life felt so cool about a thing. Jack kept whisperinginstructions, and showing with his hands, up to the last moment, but itwas all lost on me. 

Looking back, I think there was a bit of romance about it: Mary singingunder the vines to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward going down to theriver in the moonlight to fight for her. 

It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by the river. We took offour coats and were ready. There was no swearing or barracking. It seemedan understood thing with the men that if I went out first round Jackwould fight Romany; and if Jack knocked him out somebody else wouldfight Jack to square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn't mind obliging forone; he was a mate of Jack's, but he didn't mind who he fought so longas it was for the sake of fair play--or 'peace and quietness', as hesaid. Jim was very good-natured. He backed Romany, and of course Jackbacked me. 

As far as I could see, all Romany knew about fighting was to jerk onearm up in front of his face and duck his head by way of a feint, andthen rush and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength and lengthof reach, and my first lesson was a very short one. I went down earlyin the round. But it did me good; the blow and the look I'd seenin Romany's eyes knocked all the sentiment out of me. Jack saidnothing, --he seemed to regard it as a hopeless job from the first. Next round I tried to remember some things Jack had told me, and made abetter show, but I went down in the end. 

I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up. 

'How are you, Joe?' he whispered. 

'I'm all right, ' I said. 

'It's all right, ' whispered Jack in a voice as if I was going to behanged, but it would soon be all over. 'He can't use his hands much morethan you can--take your time, Joe--try to remember something I told you, for God's sake!'

When two men fight who don't know how to use their hands, they stand ashow of knocking each other about a lot. I got some awful thumps, but mostly on the body. Jimmy Nowlett began to get excited and jumpround--he was an excitable little fellow. 

'Fight! you----!' he yelled. 'Why don't you fight? That ain't fightin'. Fight, and don't try to murder each other. Use your crimson hands or, byGod, I'll chip you! Fight, or I'll blanky well bullock-whip the pair ofyou;' then his language got awful. They said we went like windmills, andthat nearly every one of the blows we made was enough to kill a bullockif it had got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they held him back. 

Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow was well up on the headand didn't matter much--I had a good thick skull. And I had one good eyeyet. 

'For God's sake, hit him!' whispered Jack--he was trembling like a leaf. 'Don't mind what I told you. I wish I was fighting him myself! Get ablow home, for God's sake! Make a good show this round and I'll stop thefight. '

That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me. 

I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn't going to be beaten whileI could think. I was wonderfully cool, and learning to fight. There'snothing like a fight to teach a man. I was thinking fast, and learningmore in three seconds than Jack's sparring could have taught me in threeweeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight, but they don't--nottill afterwards. I fancy that a fighting man, if he isn't altogether ananimal, suffers more mentally than he does physically. 

While I was getting my wind I could hear through the moonlight and stillair the sound of Mary's voice singing up at the house. I thought hardinto the future, even as I fought. The fight only seemed something thatwas passing. 

I was on my feet again and at it, and presently I lunged out and feltsuch a jar in my arm that I thought it was telescoped. I thought I'd putout my wrist and elbow. And Romany was lying on the broad of his back. 

I heard Jack draw three breaths of relief in one. He said nothing ashe straightened me up, but I could feel his heart beating. He saidafterwards that he didn't speak because he thought a word might spoilit. 

I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he FELT I was allright when he lifted me. 

Then Romany went down, then we fell together, and the chaps separatedus. I got another knock-down blow in, and was beginning to enjoy thenovelty of it, when Romany staggered and limped. 

'I've done, ' he said. 'I've twisted my ankle. ' He'd caught his heelagainst a tuft of grass. 

'Shake hands, ' yelled Jimmy Nowlett. 

I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse. 

'If yer don't shake hands with Wilson, I'll lamb yer!' howled Jimmy; butJack told him to let the man alone, and Romany got on his horse somehowand rode off. 

I saw Jim Bullock stoop and pick up something from the grass, and heardhim swear in surprise. There was some whispering, and presently Jimsaid--

'If I thought that, I'd kill him. '

'What is it?' asked Jack. 

Jim held up a butcher's knife. It was common for a man to carry abutcher's knife in a sheath fastened to his belt. 

'Why did you let your man fight with a butcher's knife in his belt?'asked Jimmy Nowlett. 

But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and wedecided it that way. 

'Any way, ' said Jimmy Nowlett, 'if he'd stuck Joe in hot blood before usall it wouldn't be so bad as if he sneaked up and stuck him in the backin the dark. But you'd best keep an eye over yer shoulder for a year ortwo, Joe. That chap's got Eye-talian blood in him somewhere. And now thebest thing you chaps can do is to keep your mouth shut and keep all thisdark from the gals. '

Jack hurried me on ahead. He seemed to act queer, and when I glancedat him I could have sworn that there was water in his eyes. I said thatJack had no sentiment except for himself, but I forgot, and I'm sorry Isaid it. 

'What's up, Jack?' I asked. 

'Nothing, ' said Jack. 

'What's up, you old fool?' I said. 

'Nothing, ' said Jack, 'except that I'm damned proud of you, Joe, youold ass!' and he put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a shake. 'I didn't know it was in you, Joe--I wouldn't have said it before, or listened to any other man say it, but I didn't think you had thepluck--God's truth, I didn't. Come along and get your face fixed up. '

We got into my room quietly, and Jack got a dish of water, and told oneof the chaps to sneak a piece of fresh beef from somewhere. 

Jack was as proud as a dog with a tin tail as he fussed round me. He fixed up my face in the best style he knew, and he knew a goodmany--he'd been mended himself so often. 

While he was at work we heard a sudden hush and a scraping of feetamongst the chaps that Jack had kicked out of the room, and a girl'svoice whispered, 'Is he hurt? Tell me. I want to know, --I might be ableto help. '

It made my heart jump, I can tell you. Jack went out at once, and therewas some whispering. When he came back he seemed wild. 

'What is it, Jack?' I asked. 

'Oh, nothing, ' he said, 'only that damned slut of a half-caste cookoverheard some of those blanky fools arguing as to how Romany's knifegot out of the sheath, and she's put a nice yarn round amongst thegirls. There's a regular bobbery, but it's all right now. JimmyNowlett's telling 'em lies at a great rate. '

Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar andbrown paper was handed in. 

One of the chaps brought some beer and whisky from the pub, and we hada quiet little time in my room. Jack wanted to stay all night, but Ireminded him that his little wife was waiting for him in Solong, so hesaid he'd be round early in the morning, and went home. 

I felt the reaction pretty bad. I didn't feel proud of the affair atall. I thought it was a low, brutal business all round. Romany was aquiet chap after all, and the chaps had no right to chyack him. Perhapshe'd had a hard life, and carried a big swag of trouble that we didn'tknow anything about. He seemed a lonely man. I'd gone through enoughmyself to teach me not to judge men. I made up my mind to tell him how Ifelt about the matter next time we met. Perhaps I made my usual mistakeof bothering about 'feelings' in another party that hadn't any feelingsat all--perhaps I didn't; but it's generally best to chance it on thekind side in a case like this. Altogether I felt as if I'd made anotherfool of myself and been a weak coward. I drank the rest of the beer andwent to sleep. 

About daylight I woke and heard Jack's horse on the gravel. He cameround the back of the buggy-shed and up to my door, and then, suddenly, a girl screamed out. I pulled on my trousers and 'lastic-side boots andhurried out. It was Mary herself, dressed, and sitting on an old stonestep at the back of the kitchen with her face in her hands, and Jack wasoff his horse and stooping by her side with his hand on her shoulder. She kept saying, 'I thought you were----! I thought you were----!' Ididn't catch the name. An old single-barrel, muzzle-loader shot-gun waslying in the grass at her feet. It was the gun they used to keep loadedand hanging in straps in a room of the kitchen ready for a shot at acunning old hawk that they called ''Tarnal Death', and that used to bealways after the chickens. 

When Mary lifted her face it was as white as note-paper, and her eyesseemed to grow wilder when she caught sight of me. 

'Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes, ' she gasped. Then she gave a littleghost of a laugh and stood up, and some colour came back. 

'Oh, I'm a little fool!' she said quickly. 'I thought I heard old'Tarnal Death at the chickens, and I thought it would be a great thingif I got the gun and brought him down; so I got up and dressed quietlyso as not to wake Sarah. And then you came round the corner andfrightened me. I don't know what you must think of me, Mr Barnes. '

'Never mind, ' said Jack. 'You go and have a sleep, or you won't beable to dance to-night. Never mind the gun--I'll put that away. ' And hesteered her round to the door of her room off the brick verandah whereshe slept with one of the other girls. 

'Well, that's a rum start!' I said. 

'Yes, it is, ' said Jack; 'it's very funny. Well, how's your face thismorning, Joe?'

He seemed a lot more serious than usual. 

We were hard at work all the morning cleaning out the big wool-shed andgetting it ready for the dance, hanging hoops for the candles, makingseats, &c. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I could. One sideof my face was a sight and the other wasn't too classical. I felt as ifI had been stung by a swarm of bees. 

'You're a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no mistake, Joe, ' saidJimmy Nowlett--he was going to play the accordion that night. 'You oughtto fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your face'll go downin about three weeks. My lower jaw is crooked yet; but that fightstraightened my nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a boy--soI didn't lose much beauty by it. '

When we'd done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said--

'Look here, Joe! if you won't come to the dance to-night--and I can'tsay you'd ornament it--I tell you what you'll do. You get little Maryaway on the quiet and take her out for a stroll--and act like a man. Thejob's finished now, and you won't get another chance like this. '

'But how am I to get her out?' I said. 

'Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-treenear the river-gate, say about half-past ten. '

'What good'll that do?'

'Never you mind. You just do as you're told, that's all you've got todo, ' said Jack, and he went home to get dressed and bring his wife. 

After the dancing started that night I had a peep in once or twice. Thefirst time I saw Mary dancing with Jack, and looking serious; and thesecond time she was dancing with the blarsted Jackaroo dude, and lookingexcited and happy. I noticed that some of the girls, that I could seesitting on a stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave Maryblack looks as the Jackaroo swung her past. It struck me pretty forciblythat I should have taken fighting lessons from him instead of from poorRomany. I went away and walked about four miles down the river road, getting out of the way into the Bush whenever I saw any chap ridingalong. I thought of poor Romany and wondered where he was, and thoughtthat there wasn't much to choose between us as far as happiness wasconcerned. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the Bush, and feelinglike I did. I wished I could shake hands with him. 

But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back to the river slip-railsand leant over them, in the shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking atthe rows of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn't expect anything, inspite of what Jack said. 

I didn't like the idea of hanging myself: I'd been with a party whofound a man hanging in the Bush, and it was no place for a woman roundwhere he was. And I'd helped drag two bodies out of the Cudgeegong riverin a flood, and they weren't sleeping beauties. I thought it was a pitythat a chap couldn't lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful position inthe moonlight and die just by thinking of it--and die with his eyesand mouth shut. But then I remembered that I wouldn't make a beautifulcorpse, anyway it went, with the face I had on me. 

I was just getting comfortably miserable when I heard a step behind me, and my heart gave a jump. And I gave a start too. 

'Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?' said a timid little voice. 

'Yes, ' I said. 'Is that you, Mary?'

And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she didnot seem to notice it. 

'Did I frighten you?' I asked. 

'No--yes--just a little, ' she said. 'I didn't know there was anyone----' then she stopped. 

'Why aren't you dancing?' I asked her. 

'Oh, I'm tired, ' she said. 'It was too hot in the wool-shed. I thoughtI'd like to come out and get my head cool and be quiet a little while. '

'Yes, ' I said, 'it must be hot in the wool-shed. '

She stood looking out over the willows. Presently she said, 'It must bevery dull for you, Mr Wilson--you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said----'Then she gave a little gasp and stopped--as if she was just going to puther foot in it. 

'How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!' she said. 

'Yes, ' I said, 'doesn't it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river. '

'Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I'd like it very much. '

I didn't notice it then, but, now I come to think of it, it was abeautiful scene: there was a horseshoe of high blue hills round behindthe house, with the river running round under the slopes, and in frontwas a rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges, and a soft bluepeak away over the ridges ever so far in the distance. 

I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best sideturned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn't say anything fora good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log in aquiet place out of sight of the house. 

'Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary, ' I said. 

'If you like, Mr Wilson, ' she said. 

There was about a foot of log between us. 

'What a beautiful night!' she said. 

'Yes, ' I said, 'isn't it?'

Presently she said, 'I suppose you know I'm going away next month, MrWilson?'

I felt suddenly empty. 'No, ' I said, 'I didn't know that. '

'Yes, ' she said, 'I thought you knew. I'm going to try and get into thehospital to be trained for a nurse, and if that doesn't come off I'llget a place as assistant public-school teacher. '

We didn't say anything for a good while. 

'I suppose you won't be sorry to go, Miss Brand?' I said. 

'I--I don't know, ' she said. 'Everybody's been so kind to me here. '

She sat looking straight before her, and I fancied her eyes glistened. I put my arm round her shoulders, but she didn't seem to notice it. Infact, I scarcely noticed it myself at the time. 

'So you think you'll be sorry to go away?' I said. 

'Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I'll fret for a while. It's been my home, youknow. '

I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so as she couldn'tpretend not to know it was there. But she didn't seem to notice. 

'Ah, well, ' I said, 'I suppose I'll be on the wallaby again next week. '

'Will you, Mr Wilson?' she said. Her voice seemed very soft. 

I slipped my arm round her waist, under her arm. My heart was going likeclockwork now. 

Presently she said--

'Don't you think it's time to go back now, Mr Wilson?'

'Oh, there's plenty of time!' I said. I shifted up, and put my armfarther round, and held her closer. She sat straight up, looking rightin front of her, but she began to breathe hard. 

'Mary, ' I said. 

'Yes, ' she said. 

'Call me Joe, ' I said. 

'I--I don't like to, ' she said. 'I don't think it would be right. '

So I just turned her face round and kissed her. She clung to me andcried. 

'What is it, Mary?' I asked. 

She only held me tighter and cried. 

'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Ain't you well? Ain't you happy?'

'Yes, Joe, ' she said, 'I'm very happy. ' Then she said, 'Oh, your poorface! Can't I do anything for it?'

'No, ' I said. 'That's all right. My face doesn't hurt me a bit now. '

But she didn't seem right. 

'What is it, Mary?' I said. 'Are you tired? You didn't sleep lastnight----' Then I got an inspiration. 

'Mary, ' I said, 'what were you doing out with the gun this morning?'

And after some coaxing it all came out, a bit hysterical. 

'I couldn't sleep--I was frightened. Oh! I had such a terrible dreamabout you, Joe! I thought Romany came back and got into your room andstabbed you with his knife. I got up and dressed, and about daybreakI heard a horse at the gate; then I got the gun down from thewall--and--and Mr Barnes came round the corner and frightened me. He'ssomething like Romany, you know. '

Then I got as much of her as I could into my arms. 

And, oh, but wasn't I happy walking home with Mary that night! She wastoo little for me to put my arm round her waist, so I put it roundher shoulder, and that felt just as good. I remember I asked her who'dcleaned up my room and washed my things, but she wouldn't tell. 

She wouldn't go back to the dance yet; she said she'd go into her roomand rest a while. There was no one near the old verandah; and when shestood on the end of the floor she was just on a level with my shoulder. 

'Mary, ' I whispered, 'put your arms round my neck and kiss me. '

She put her arms round my neck, but she didn't kiss me; she only hid herface. 

'Kiss me, Mary!' I said. 

'I--I don't like to, ' she whispered. 

'Why not, Mary?'

Then I felt her crying or laughing, or half crying and half laughing. I'm not sure to this day which it was. 

'Why won't you kiss me, Mary? Don't you love me?'

'Because, ' she said, 'because--because I--I don't--I don't think it'sright for--for a girl to--to kiss a man unless she's going to be hiswife. '

Then it dawned on me! I'd forgot all about proposing. 

'Mary, ' I said, 'would you marry a chap like me?'

And that was all right. 

 *****

Next morning Mary cleared out my room and sorted out my things, anddidn't take the slightest notice of the other girls' astonishment. 

But she made me promise to speak to old Black, and I did the sameevening. I found him sitting on the log by the fence, having a yarn onthe quiet with an old Bushman; and when the old Bushman got up and wentaway, I sat down. 

'Well, Joe, ' said Black, 'I see somebody's been spoiling your face forthe dance. ' And after a bit he said, 'Well, Joe, what is it? Do you wantanother job? If you do, you'll have to ask Mrs Black, or Bob' (Bob washis eldest son); 'they're managing the station for me now, you know. ' Hecould be bitter sometimes in his quiet way. 

'No, ' I said; 'it's not that, Boss. '

'Well, what is it, Joe?'

'I--well the fact is, I want little Mary. '

He puffed at his pipe for a long time, then I thought he spoke. 

'What did you say, Boss?' I said. 

'Nothing, Joe, ' he said. 'I was going to say a lot, but it wouldn't beany use. My father used to say a lot to me before I was married. '

I waited a good while for him to speak. 

'Well, Boss, ' I said, 'what about Mary?'

'Oh! I suppose that's all right, Joe, ' he said. 'I--I beg your pardon. Igot thinking of the days when I was courting Mrs Black. '

Brighten's Sister-In-Law. 

Jim was born on Gulgong, New South Wales. We used to say 'on'Gulgong--and old diggers still talked of being 'on th' Gulgong'--thoughthe goldfield there had been worked out for years, and the place wasonly a dusty little pastoral town in the scrubs. Gulgong was about thelast of the great alluvial 'rushes' of the 'roaring days'--and drearyand dismal enough it looked when I was there. The expression 'on' camefrom being on the 'diggings' or goldfield--the workings or the goldfieldwas all underneath, of course, so we lived (or starved) ON them--not innor at 'em. 

Mary and I had been married about two years when Jim came----His namewasn't 'Jim', by the way, it was 'John Henry', after an uncle godfather;but we called him Jim from the first--(and before it)--because Jim was apopular Bush name, and most of my old mates were Jims. The Bush is fullof good-hearted scamps called Jim. 

We lived in an old weather-board shanty that had been a sly-grog-shop, and the Lord knows what else! in the palmy days of Gulgong; and I dida bit of digging ('fossicking', rather), a bit of shearing, a bit offencing, a bit of Bush-carpentering, tank-sinking, --anything, just tokeep the billy boiling. 

We had a lot of trouble with Jim with his teeth. He was bad with everyone of them, and we had most of them lanced--couldn't pull him throughwithout. I remember we got one lanced and the gum healed over beforethe tooth came through, and we had to get it cut again. He was a pluckylittle chap, and after the first time he never whimpered when the doctorwas lancing his gum: he used to say 'tar' afterwards, and want to bringthe lance home with him. 

The first turn we got with Jim was the worst. I had had the wife and Jimout camping with me in a tent at a dam I was making at Cattle Creek; Ihad two men working for me, and a boy to drive one of the tip-drays, and I took Mary out to cook for us. And it was lucky for us that thecontract was finished and we got back to Gulgong, and within reach ofa doctor, the day we did. We were just camping in the house, with ourgoods and chattels anyhow, for the night; and we were hardly back homean hour when Jim took convulsions for the first time. 

Did you ever see a child in convulsions? You wouldn't want to see itagain: it plays the devil with a man's nerves. I'd got the beds fixed upon the floor, and the billies on the fire--I was going to make some tea, and put a piece of corned beef on to boil over night--when Jim(he'd been queer all day, and his mother was trying to hush him tosleep)--Jim, he screamed out twice. He'd been crying a good deal, andI was dog-tired and worried (over some money a man owed me) or I'd havenoticed at once that there was something unusual in the way the childcried out: as it was I didn't turn round till Mary screamed 'Joe!Joe!' You know how a woman cries out when her child is in danger ordying--short, and sharp, and terrible. 'Joe! Look! look! Oh, my God! ourchild! Get the bath, quick! quick! it's convulsions!'

Jim was bent back like a bow, stiff as a bullock-yoke, in his mother'sarms, and his eyeballs were turned up and fixed--a thing I saw twiceafterwards, and don't want ever to see again. 

I was falling over things getting the tub and the hot water, when thewoman who lived next door rushed in. She called to her husband to runfor the doctor, and before the doctor came she and Mary had got Jim intoa hot bath and pulled him through. 

The neighbour woman made me up a shake-down in another room, and stayedwith Mary that night; but it was a long while before I got Jim andMary's screams out of my head and fell asleep. 

You may depend I kept the fire in, and a bucket of water hot over it, for a good many nights after that; but (it always happens like this)there came a night, when the fright had worn off, when I was too tiredto bother about the fire, and that night Jim took us by surprise. Ourwood-heap was done, and I broke up a new chair to get a fire, and hadto run a quarter of a mile for water; but this turn wasn't so bad as thefirst, and we pulled him through. 

You never saw a child in convulsions? Well, you don't want to. It mustbe only a matter of seconds, but it seems long minutes; and half anhour afterwards the child might be laughing and playing with you, or stretched out dead. It shook me up a lot. I was always prettyhigh-strung and sensitive. After Jim took the first fit, every time hecried, or turned over, or stretched out in the night, I'd jump: I wasalways feeling his forehead in the dark to see if he was feverish, orfeeling his limbs to see if he was 'limp' yet. Mary and I often laughedabout it--afterwards. I tried sleeping in another room, but for nightsafter Jim's first attack I'd be just dozing off into a sound sleep, when I'd hear him scream, as plain as could be, and I'd hear Mary cry, 'Joe!--Joe!'--short, sharp, and terrible--and I'd be up and into theirroom like a shot, only to find them sleeping peacefully. Then I'd feelJim's head and his breathing for signs of convulsions, see to the fireand water, and go back to bed and try to sleep. For the first few nightsI was like that all night, and I'd feel relieved when daylight came. I'd be in first thing to see if they were all right; then I'd sleep tilldinner-time if it was Sunday or I had no work. But then I was run downabout that time: I was worried about some money for a wool-shed I put upand never got paid for; and, besides, I'd been pretty wild before I metMary. 

I was fighting hard then--struggling for something better. Both Mary andI were born to better things, and that's what made the life so hard forus. 

Jim got on all right for a while: we used to watch him well, and havehis teeth lanced in time. 

It used to hurt and worry me to see how--just as he was getting fatand rosy and like a natural happy child, and I'd feel proud to take himout--a tooth would come along, and he'd get thin and white and pale andbigger-eyed and old-fashioned. We'd say, 'He'll be safe when he gets hiseye-teeth': but he didn't get them till he was two; then, 'He'll be safewhen he gets his two-year-old teeth': they didn't come till he was goingon for three. 

He was a wonderful little chap--Yes, I know all about parents thinkingthat their child is the best in the world. If your boy is small for hisage, friends will say that small children make big men; that he's avery bright, intelligent child, and that it's better to have a bright, intelligent child than a big, sleepy lump of fat. And if your boy isdull and sleepy, they say that the dullest boys make the cleverestmen--and all the rest of it. I never took any notice of that sort ofclatter--took it for what it was worth; but, all the same, I don'tthink I ever saw such a child as Jim was when he turned two. He waseverybody's favourite. They spoilt him rather. I had my own ideas aboutbringing up a child. I reckoned Mary was too soft with Jim. She'd say, 'Put that' (whatever it was) 'out of Jim's reach, will you, Joe?' andI'd say, 'No! leave it there, and make him understand he's not to haveit. Make him have his meals without any nonsense, and go to bed at aregular hour, ' I'd say. Mary and I had many a breeze over Jim. She'dsay that I forgot he was only a baby: but I held that a baby could betrained from the first week; and I believe I was right. 

But, after all, what are you to do? You'll see a boy that was brought upstrict turn out a scamp; and another that was dragged up anyhow (by thehair of the head, as the saying is) turn out well. Then, again, whena child is delicate--and you might lose him any day--you don't like tospank him, though he might be turning out a little fiend, as delicatechildren often do. Suppose you gave a child a hammering, and the samenight he took convulsions, or something, and died--how'd you feel aboutit? You never know what a child is going to take, any more than you cantell what some women are going to say or do. 

I was very fond of Jim, and we were great chums. Sometimes I'd sitand wonder what the deuce he was thinking about, and often, the way hetalked, he'd make me uneasy. When he was two he wanted a pipe above allthings, and I'd get him a clean new clay and he'd sit by my side, on theedge of the verandah, or on a log of the wood-heap, in the cool of theevening, and suck away at his pipe, and try to spit when he saw me doit. He seemed to understand that a cold empty pipe wasn't quite thething, yet to have the sense to know that he couldn't smoke tobaccoyet: he made the best he could of things. And if he broke a clay pipehe wouldn't have a new one, and there'd be a row; the old one had to bemended up, somehow, with string or wire. If I got my hair cut, he'dwant his cut too; and it always troubled him to see me shave--as if hethought there must be something wrong somewhere, else he ought to haveto be shaved too. I lathered him one day, and pretended to shave him:he sat through it as solemn as an owl, but didn't seem to appreciateit--perhaps he had sense enough to know that it couldn't possibly be thereal thing. He felt his face, looked very hard at the lather I scrapedoff, and whimpered, 'No blood, daddy!'

I used to cut myself a good deal: I was always impatient over shaving. 

Then he went in to interview his mother about it. She understood hislingo better than I did. 

But I wasn't always at ease with him. Sometimes he'd sit looking intothe fire, with his head on one side, and I'd watch him and wonder whathe was thinking about (I might as well have wondered what a Chinamanwas thinking about) till he seemed at least twenty years older than me:sometimes, when I moved or spoke, he'd glance round just as if to seewhat that old fool of a dadda of his was doing now. 

I used to have a fancy that there was something Eastern, orAsiatic--something older than our civilisation or religion--aboutold-fashioned children. Once I started to explain my idea to a woman Ithought would understand--and as it happened she had an old-fashionedchild, with very slant eyes--a little tartar he was too. I supposeit was the sight of him that unconsciously reminded me of my infernaltheory, and set me off on it, without warning me. Anyhow, it got memixed up in an awful row with the woman and her husband--and all theirtribe. It wasn't an easy thing to explain myself out of it, and the rowhasn't been fixed up yet. There were some Chinamen in the district. 

I took a good-size fencing contract, the frontage of a ten-mile paddock, near Gulgong, and did well out of it. The railway had got as far as theCudgeegong river--some twenty miles from Gulgong and two hundredfrom the coast--and 'carrying' was good then. I had a couple ofdraught-horses, that I worked in the tip-drays when I was tank-sinking, and one or two others running in the Bush. I bought a broken-down waggoncheap, tinkered it up myself--christened it 'The Same Old Thing'--andstarted carrying from the railway terminus through Gulgong and along thebush roads and tracks that branch out fanlike through the scrubs to theone-pub towns and sheep and cattle stations out there in the howlingwilderness. It wasn't much of a team. There were the two heavy horsesfor 'shafters'; a stunted colt, that I'd bought out of the pound forthirty shillings; a light, spring-cart horse; an old grey mare, withpoints like a big red-and-white Australian store bullock, and with thegrit of an old washerwoman to work; and a horse that had spanked alongin Cob & Co. 's mail-coach in his time. I had a couple there that didn'tbelong to me: I worked them for the feeding of them in the dry weather. And I had all sorts of harness, that I mended and fixed up myself. Itwas a mixed team, but I took light stuff, got through pretty quick, andfreight rates were high. So I got along. 

Before this, whenever I made a few pounds I'd sink a shaft somewhere, prospecting for gold; but Mary never let me rest till she talked me outof that. 

I made up my mind to take on a small selection farm--that an old mate ofmine had fenced in and cleared, and afterwards chucked up--about thirtymiles out west of Gulgong, at a place called Lahey's Creek. (The placeswere all called Lahey's Creek, or Spicer's Flat, or Murphy's Flat, orRyan's Crossing, or some such name--round there. ) I reckoned I'd havea run for the horses and be able to grow a bit of feed. I always had adread of taking Mary and the children too far away from a doctor--or agood woman neighbour; but there were some people came to live on Lahey'sCreek, and besides, there was a young brother of Mary's--a young scamp(his name was Jim, too, and we called him 'Jimmy' at first to make roomfor our Jim--he hated the name 'Jimmy' or James). He came to live withus--without asking--and I thought he'd find enough work at Lahey'sCreek to keep him out of mischief. He wasn't to be depended on much--hethought nothing of riding off, five hundred miles or so, 'to have a lookat the country'--but he was fond of Mary, and he'd stay by her till Igot some one else to keep her company while I was on the road. He wouldbe a protection against 'sundowners' or any shearers who happened towander that way in the 'D. T. 's' after a spree. Mary had a married sistercome to live at Gulgong just before we left, and nothing would suit herand her husband but we must leave little Jim with them for a month orso--till we got settled down at Lahey's Creek. They were newly married. 

Mary was to have driven into Gulgong, in the spring-cart, at the endof the month, and taken Jim home; but when the time came she wasn't toowell--and, besides, the tyres of the cart were loose, and I hadn't timeto get them cut, so we let Jim's time run on a week or so longer, till Ihappened to come out through Gulgong from the river with a small load offlour for Lahey's Creek way. The roads were good, the weather grand--nochance of it raining, and I had a spare tarpaulin if it did--I wouldonly camp out one night; so I decided to take Jim home with me. 

Jim was turning three then, and he was a cure. He was so old-fashionedthat he used to frighten me sometimes--I'd almost think that there wassomething supernatural about him; though, of course, I never took anynotice of that rot about some children being too old-fashioned to live. There's always the ghoulish old hag (and some not so old nor haggisheither) who'll come round and shake up young parents with such croaksas, 'You'll never rear that child--he's too bright for his age. ' To thedevil with them! I say. 

But I really thought that Jim was too intelligent for his age, and Ioften told Mary that he ought to be kept back, and not let talk too muchto old diggers and long lanky jokers of Bushmen who rode in and hungtheir horses outside my place on Sunday afternoons. 

I don't believe in parents talking about their own childreneverlastingly--you get sick of hearing them; and their kids aregenerally little devils, and turn out larrikins as likely as not. 

But, for all that, I really think that Jim, when he was three years old, was the most wonderful little chap, in every way, that I ever saw. 

For the first hour or so, along the road, he was telling me all abouthis adventures at his auntie's. 

'But they spoilt me too much, dad, ' he said, as solemn as a native bear. 'An' besides, a boy ought to stick to his parrans!'

I was taking out a cattle-pup for a drover I knew, and the pup took up agood deal of Jim's time. 

Sometimes he'd jolt me, the way he talked; and other times I'd haveto turn away my head and cough, or shout at the horses, to keep fromlaughing outright. And once, when I was taken that way, he said--

'What are you jerking your shoulders and coughing, and grunting, andgoing on that way for, dad? Why don't you tell me something?'

'Tell you what, Jim?'

'Tell me some talk. '

So I told him all the talk I could think of. And I had to brighten up, I can tell you, and not draw too much on my imagination--for Jim was aterror at cross-examination when the fit took him; and he didn't thinktwice about telling you when he thought you were talking nonsense. Oncehe said--

'I'm glad you took me home with you, dad. You'll get to know Jim. '

'What!' I said. 

'You'll get to know Jim. '

'But don't I know you already?'

'No, you don't. You never has time to know Jim at home. '

And, looking back, I saw that it was cruel true. I had known in my heartall along that this was the truth; but it came to me like a blow fromJim. You see, it had been a hard struggle for the last year or so; andwhen I was home for a day or two I was generally too busy, or too tiredand worried, or full of schemes for the future, to take much notice ofJim. Mary used to speak to me about it sometimes. 'You never take noticeof the child, ' she'd say. 'You could surely find a few minutes of anevening. What's the use of always worrying and brooding? Your brain willgo with a snap some day, and, if you get over it, it will teach you alesson. You'll be an old man, and Jim a young one, before you realisethat you had a child once. Then it will be too late. '

This sort of talk from Mary always bored me and made me impatient withher, because I knew it all too well. I never worried for myself--onlyfor Mary and the children. And often, as the days went by, I said tomyself, 'I'll take more notice of Jim and give Mary more of my time, just as soon as I can see things clear ahead a bit. ' And the hard dayswent on, and the weeks, and the months, and the years---- Ah, well!

Mary used to say, when things would get worse, 'Why don't you talkto me, Joe? Why don't you tell me your thoughts, instead of shuttingyourself up in yourself and brooding--eating your heart out? It's hardfor me: I get to think you're tired of me, and selfish. I might be crossand speak sharp to you when you are in trouble. How am I to know, if youdon't tell me?'

But I didn't think she'd understand. 

And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and dozing, with the gumsclosing over our heads here and there, and the ragged patches ofsunlight and shade passing up, over the horses, over us, on the front ofthe load, over the load, and down on to the white, dusty road again--Jimand I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges, some fifteenmiles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek forthe night. I got the horses out and took the harness off. Jim wantedbadly to help me, but I made him stay on the load; for one of thehorses--a vicious, red-eyed chestnut--was a kicker: he'd broken aman's leg. I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts, and thechaff-and-corn into them; and there stood the horses all round withtheir rumps north, south, and west, and their heads between the shafts, munching and switching their tails. We use double shafts, you know, forhorse-teams--two pairs side by side, --and prop them up, and stretch bagsbetween them, letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes. I threw thespare tarpaulin over the wheels on one side, letting about half ofit lie on the ground in case of damp, and so making a floor and abreak-wind. I threw down bags and the blankets and 'possum rug againstthe wheel to make a camp for Jim and the cattle-pup, and got a gin-casewe used for a tucker-box, the frying-pan and billy down, and made a goodfire at a log close handy, and soon everything was comfortable. Ryan'sCrossing was a grand camp. I stood with my pipe in my mouth, my handsbehind my back, and my back to the fire, and took the country in. 

Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range: the banks herewere deep and green, and the water ran clear over the granite bars, boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat covered with thosegnarled, grey-barked, dry-rotted 'native apple-trees' (about as muchlike apple-trees as the native bear is like any other), and a nasty bitof sand-dusty road that I was always glad to get over in wet weather. To the left on our side of the creek were reedy marshes, with frogscroaking, and across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges endedin steep 'sidings' coming down to the creek-bank, and to the main roadthat skirted them, running on west up over a 'saddle' in the ridges andon towards Dubbo. The road by Lahey's Creek to a place called Cobborahbranched off, through dreary apple-tree and stringy-bark flats, to theleft, just beyond the crossing: all these fanlike branch tracks from theCudgeegong were inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line, andso they gave small carriers a chance, now that Cob & Co. 's coaches andthe big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus. There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big onesover a deep water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks haverough barked trunks, like English elms, but are much taller, and higherto the branches--and the leaves are reedy; Kendel, the Australianpoet, calls them the 'she-oak harps Aeolian'. Those trees are alwayssigh-sigh-sighing--more of a sigh than a sough or the 'whoosh' ofgum-trees in the wind. You always hear them sighing, even when you can'tfeel any wind. It's the same with telegraph wires: put your head againsta telegraph-post on a dead, still day, and you'll hear and feel thefar-away roar of the wires. But then the oaks are not connected with thedistance, where there might be wind; and they don't ROAR in a gale, onlysigh louder and softer according to the wind, and never seem to go aboveor below a certain pitch, --like a big harp with all the strings thesame. I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voicetelephoned to them, so to speak, through the ground. 

I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on thetarpaulin, playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me withhis legs wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to thefire. 

He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old, wise expression in his big brown eyes--just as if he'd been a child fora hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks andunderstanding them in a fatherly sort of way. 

'Dad!' he said presently--'Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be aman?'

'Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped. 

'Because I don't want to. '

I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy. But Iremembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man. 

'Jim, ' I said, to break the silence, 'do you hear what the she-oakssay?'

'No, I don't. Is they talking?'

'Yes, ' I said, without thinking. 

'What is they saying?' he asked. 

I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea. Ithought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug, comfortingthe pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me. Jimsang out from the waggon--

'Don't cook too much, dad--I mightn't be hungry. '

I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean newflour-bag, in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on therug looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he wastired out, and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and puthis plate on it. But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said--

'I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all. '

It made me uneasy--I never liked to see a child of mine turn from hisfood. They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraidthat that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck. 

'Sick, Jim?' I asked. 

'No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me. '

'Have some tea, sonny?'

'Yes, dad. '

I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottlefrom his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-poton the gin-case. 

'Jim's tired, dad, ' he said. 

I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night. It had turneda bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round--it was made tocover a high load, the flour in the waggon didn't come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground. I fixed Jim up acomfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon: when I went to lifthim in he was lying back, looking up at the stars in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn't like. Whenever Jim was extraold-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger. 

'How do you feel now, sonny?'

It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars. 

'Jim's better, dad. ' Then he said something like, 'The stars are lookingat me. ' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots, and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for thenight. 

'Kiss me 'night-night, daddy, ' he said. 

I'd rather he hadn't asked me--it was a bad sign. As I was going to thefire he called me back. 

'What is it, Jim?'

'Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy. '

I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he'd broughtfrom Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, hetook all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And ''night-night' and'daddy' were two-year-old language to Jim. I'd thought he'd forgottenthose words--he seemed to be going back. 

'Are you quite warm enough, Jim?'

'Yes, dad. '

I started to walk up and down--I always did this when I was extraworried. 

I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact frommyself. Presently he called me again. 

'What is it, Jim?'

'Take the blankets off me, fahver--Jim's sick!' (They'd been teachinghim to say father. )

I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die(she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said--

'Take the blankets off me, muvver--I'm dying. '

And I couldn't get that out of my head. 

I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head--he seemedcool enough. 

'Where do you feel bad, sonny?'

No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice as if hewere talking in his sleep--

'Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!'

I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept--in arestless, feverish sort of way. 

I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over thefire; I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and gotit full of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade (we alwayscarried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather) and turned acorner of the tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin downinto the hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst. I had a tin ofmustard, and meant to fight a good round for Jim, if death came along. 

I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim. His headwas burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone. 

Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward betweenthe waggon and the fire, and repeating what I'd heard Mary say the lasttime we fought for Jim: 'God! don't take my child! God! don't take myboy!' I'd never had much faith in doctors, but, my God! I wanted onethen. The nearest was fifteen miles away. 

I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation;and--Well, I don't ask you to take much stock in this, though most oldBushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night; and--Now, it mighthave been that I was all unstrung, or it might have been a patch of skyoutlined in the gently moving branches, or the blue smoke rising up. ButI saw the figure of a woman, all white, come down, down, nearly to thelimbs of the trees, point on up the main road, and then float up and upand vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead! Then it flashed onme----

Four or five miles up the road, over the 'saddle', was an old shantythat had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line got round asfar as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads. A mannamed Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming, and as much sly-grog selling as he could. He was married--but it wasn'tthat: I'd thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out, spiritlesswoman, and both were pretty 'ratty' from hardship and loneliness--theyweren't likely to be of any use to me. But it was this: I'd heard talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten's wife who'd goneout to live with them lately: she'd been a hospital matron in the city, they said; and there were yarns about her. Some said she got the sackfor exposing the doctors--or carrying on with them--I didn't rememberwhich. The fact of a city woman going out to live in such a place, withsuch people, was enough to make talk among women in a town twenty milesaway, but then there must have been something extra about her, elseBushmen wouldn't have talked and carried her name so far; and I wanteda woman out of the ordinary now. I even reasoned this way, thinkinglike lightning, as I knelt over Jim between the big back wheels of thewaggon. 

I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding hack, following theteam. In a minute I had her saddled and bridled; I tied the end of ahalf-full chaff-bag, shook the chaff into each end and dumped it on tothe pommel as a cushion or buffer for Jim; I wrapped him in a blanket, and scrambled into the saddle with him. 

The next minute we were stumbling down the steep bank, clattering andsplashing over the crossing, and struggling up the opposite bank to thelevel. The mare, as I told you, was an old racer, but broken-winded--shemust have run without wind after the first half mile. She had the oldracing instinct in her strong, and whenever I rode in company I'd haveto pull her hard else she'd race the other horse or burst. She ran lowfore and aft, and was the easiest horse I ever rode. She ran likewheels on rails, with a bit of a tremble now and then--like a railwaycarriage--when she settled down to it. 

The chaff-bag had slipped off, in the creek I suppose, and I let thebridle-rein go and held Jim up to me like a baby the whole way. Let thestrongest man, who isn't used to it, hold a baby in one position forfive minutes--and Jim was fairly heavy. But I never felt the ache in myarms that night--it must have gone before I was in a fit state of mindto feel it. And at home I'd often growled about being asked to hold thebaby for a few minutes. I could never brood comfortably and nurse a babyat the same time. It was a ghostly moonlight night. There's no timber inthe world so ghostly as the Australian Bush in moonlight--or just aboutdaybreak. The all-shaped patches of moonlight falling between ragged, twisted boughs; the ghostly blue-white bark of the 'white-box' trees; adead naked white ring-barked tree, or dead white stump starting out hereand there, and the ragged patches of shade and light on the road thatmade anything, from the shape of a spotted bullock to a nakedcorpse laid out stark. Roads and tracks through the Bush made bymoonlight--every one seeming straighter and clearer than the real one:you have to trust to your horse then. Sometimes the naked white trunk ofa red stringy-bark tree, where a sheet of bark had been taken off, wouldstart out like a ghost from the dark Bush. And dew or frost glisteningon these things, according to the season. Now and again a great greykangaroo, that had been feeding on a green patch down by the road, wouldstart with a 'thump-thump', and away up the siding. 

The Bush seemed full of ghosts that night--all going my way--and beingleft behind by the mare. Once I stopped to look at Jim: I just satback and the mare 'propped'--she'd been a stock-horse, and was usedto 'cutting-out'. I felt Jim's hands and forehead; he was in a burningfever. I bent forward, and the old mare settled down to it again. I keptsaying out loud--and Mary and me often laughed about it (afterwards):'He's limp yet!--Jim's limp yet!' (the words seemed jerked out of me bysheer fright)--'He's limp yet!' till the mare's feet took it up. Then, just when I thought she was doing her best and racing her hardest, shesuddenly started forward, like a cable tram gliding along on its own andthe grip put on suddenly. It was just what she'd do when I'd be ridingalone and a strange horse drew up from behind--the old racing instinct. I FELT the thing too! I felt as if a strange horse WAS there! Andthen--the words just jerked out of me by sheer funk--I started saying, 'Death is riding to-night!. .. Death is racing to-night!. .. Death isriding to-night!' till the hoofs took that up. And I believe the oldmare felt the black horse at her side and was going to beat him or breakher heart. 

I was mad with anxiety and fright: I remember I kept saying, 'I'll bekinder to Mary after this! I'll take more notice of Jim!' and the restof it. 

I don't know how the old mare got up the last 'pinch'. She must haveslackened pace, but I never noticed it: I just held Jim up to me andgripped the saddle with my knees--I remember the saddle jerked from thedesperate jumps of her till I thought the girth would go. We topped thegap and were going down into a gully they called Dead Man's Hollow, andthere, at the back of a ghostly clearing that opened from the roadwhere there were some black-soil springs, was a long, low, oblongweatherboard-and-shingle building, with blind, broken windows in thegable-ends, and a wide steep verandah roof slanting down almost to thelevel of the window-sills--there was something sinister about it, Ithought--like the hat of a jail-bird slouched over his eyes. The placelooked both deserted and haunted. I saw no light, but that was becauseof the moonlight outside. The mare turned in at the corner of theclearing to take a short cut to the shanty, and, as she struggled acrosssome marshy ground, my heart kept jerking out the words, 'It's deserted!They've gone away! It's deserted!' The mare went round to the back andpulled up between the back door and a big bark-and-slab kitchen. Someone shouted from inside--

'Who's there?'

'It's me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law--I've got the boy--he'ssick and dying!'

Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. 'What boy?' he asked. 

'Here, take him, ' I shouted, 'and let me get down. '

'What's the matter with him?' asked Brighten, and he seemed to hangback. And just as I made to get my leg over the saddle, Jim's head wentback over my arm, he stiffened, and I saw his eyeballs turned up andglistening in the moonlight. 

I felt cold all over then and sick in the stomach--but CLEAR-HEADED ina way: strange, wasn't it? I don't know why I didn't get down and rushinto the kitchen to get a bath ready. I only felt as if the worst hadcome, and I wished it were over and gone. I even thought of Mary and thefuneral. 

Then a woman ran out of the house--a big, hard-looking woman. She hadon a wrapper of some sort, and her feet were bare. She laid her hand onJim, looked at his face, and then snatched him from me and ran into thekitchen--and me down and after her. As great good luck would have it, they had some dirty clothes on to boil in a kerosene tin--dish-cloths orsomething. 

Brighten's sister-in-law dragged a tub out from under the table, wrenched the bucket off the hook, and dumped in the water, dish-clothsand all, snatched a can of cold water from a corner, dashed that in, and felt the water with her hand--holding Jim up to her hip all thetime--and I won't say how he looked. She stood him in the tub andstarted dashing water over him, tearing off his clothes between thesplashes. 

'Here, that tin of mustard--there on the shelf!' she shouted to me. 

She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, and went onsplashing and spanking Jim. 

It seemed an eternity. And I? Why, I never thought clearer in my life. Ifelt cold-blooded--I felt as if I'd like an excuse to go outside tillit was all over. I thought of Mary and the funeral--and wished that thatwas past. All this in a flash, as it were. I felt that it would be agreat relief, and only wished the funeral was months past. I felt--well, altogether selfish. I only thought for myself. 

Brighten's sister-in-law splashed and spanked him hard--hard enough tobreak his back I thought, and--after about half an hour it seemed--theend came: Jim's limbs relaxed, he slipped down into the tub, and thepupils of his eyes came down. They seemed dull and expressionless, likethe eyes of a new baby, but he was back for the world again. 

I dropped on the stool by the table. 

'It's all right, ' she said. 'It's all over now. I wasn't going to lethim die. ' I was only thinking, 'Well it's over now, but it will come onagain. I wish it was over for good. I'm tired of it. '

She called to her sister, Mrs Brighten, a washed-out, helpless littlefool of a woman, who'd been running in and out and whimpering all thetime--

'Here, Jessie! bring the new white blanket off my bed. And you, Brighten, take some of that wood off the fire, and stuff something inthat hole there to stop the draught. '

Brighten--he was a nuggety little hairy man with no expression to beseen for whiskers--had been running in with sticks and back logs fromthe wood-heap. He took the wood out, stuffed up the crack, and wentinside and brought out a black bottle--got a cup from the shelf, and putboth down near my elbow. 

Mrs Brighten started to get some supper or breakfast, or whatever itwas, ready. She had a clean cloth, and set the table tidily. I noticedthat all the tins were polished bright (old coffee- and mustard-tinsand the like, that they used instead of sugar-basins and tea-caddies andsalt-cellars), and the kitchen was kept as clean as possible. She wasall right at little things. I knew a haggard, worked-out Bushwoman whoput her whole soul--or all she'd got left--into polishing old tins tillthey dazzled your eyes. 

I didn't feel inclined for corned beef and damper, and post-and-railtea. So I sat and squinted, when I thought she wasn't looking, atBrighten's sister-in-law. She was a big woman, her hands and feet werebig, but well-shaped and all in proportion--they fitted her. She was ahandsome woman--about forty I should think. She had a square chin, anda straight thin-lipped mouth--straight save for a hint of a turn downat the corners, which I fancied (and I have strange fancies) had been asign of weakness in the days before she grew hard. There was no signof weakness now. She had hard grey eyes and blue-black hair. She hadn'tspoken yet. She didn't ask me how the boy took ill or I got there, orwho or what I was--at least not until the next evening at tea-time. 

She sat upright with Jim wrapped in the blanket and laid across herknees, with one hand under his neck and the other laid lightly on him, and she just rocked him gently. 

She sat looking hard and straight before her, just as I've seen a tiredneedlewoman sit with her work in her lap, and look away back into thepast. And Jim might have been the work in her lap, for all she seemed tothink of him. Now and then she knitted her forehead and blinked. 

Suddenly she glanced round and said--in a tone as if I was her husbandand she didn't think much of me--

'Why don't you eat something?'

'Beg pardon?'

'Eat something!'

I drank some tea, and sneaked another look at her. I was beginning tofeel more natural, and wanted Jim again, now that the colour was comingback into his face, and he didn't look like an unnaturally stiff andstaring corpse. I felt a lump rising, and wanted to thank her. I sneakedanother look at her. 

She was staring straight before her, --I never saw a woman's face changeso suddenly--I never saw a woman's eyes so haggard and hopeless. Thenher great chest heaved twice, I heard her draw a long shuddering breath, like a knocked-out horse, and two great tears dropped from her wideopen eyes down her cheeks like rain-drops on a face of stone. And in thefirelight they seemed tinged with blood. 

I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently (I hadn'tseen her look round) she said--

'Go to bed. '

'Beg pardon?' (Her face was the same as before the tears. )

'Go to bed. There's a bed made for you inside on the sofa. '

'But--the team--I must----'

'What?'

'The team. I left it at the camp. I must look to it. '

'Oh! Well, Brighten will ride down and bring it up in the morning--orsend the half-caste. Now you go to bed, and get a good rest. The boywill be all right. I'll see to that. '

I went out--it was a relief to get out--and looked to the mare. Brightenhad got her some corn* and chaff in a candle-box, but she couldn't eatyet. She just stood or hung resting one hind-leg and then the other, with her nose over the box--and she sobbed. I put my arms round her neckand my face down on her ragged mane, and cried for the second time sinceI was a boy. 

 * Maize or Indian corn--wheat is never called corn in Australia. --

As I started to go in I heard Brighten's sister-in-law say, suddenly andsharply--

'Take THAT away, Jessie. '

And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the blackbottle. 

The moon had gone behind the range. I stood for a minute between thehouse and the kitchen and peeped in through the kitchen window. 

She had moved away from the fire and sat near the table. She bent overJim and held him up close to her and rocked herself to and fro. 

I went to bed and slept till the next afternoon. I woke just in timeto hear the tail-end of a conversation between Jim and Brighten'ssister-in-law. He was asking her out to our place and she promising tocome. 

'And now, ' says Jim, 'I want to go home to "muffer" in "The Same Ol'Fling". '

'What?'

Jim repeated. 

'Oh! "The Same Old Thing", --the waggon. '

The rest of the afternoon I poked round the gullies with old Brighten, looking at some 'indications' (of the existence of gold) he had found. It was no use trying to 'pump' him concerning his sister-in-law;Brighten was an 'old hand', and had learned in the old Bush-ranging andcattle-stealing days to know nothing about other people's business. And, by the way, I noticed then that the more you talk and listen to a badcharacter, the more you lose your dislike for him. 

I never saw such a change in a woman as in Brighten's sister-in-lawthat evening. She was bright and jolly, and seemed at least ten yearsyounger. She bustled round and helped her sister to get tea ready. Sherooted out some old china that Mrs Brighten had stowed away somewhere, and set the table as I seldom saw it set out there. She propped Jim upwith pillows, and laughed and played with him like a great girl. Shedescribed Sydney and Sydney life as I'd never heard it described before;and she knew as much about the Bush and old digging days as I did. Shekept old Brighten and me listening and laughing till nearly midnight. And she seemed quick to understand everything when I talked. If shewanted to explain anything that we hadn't seen, she wouldn't say that itwas 'like a--like a'--and hesitate (you know what I mean); she'd hit theright thing on the head at once. A squatter with a very round, flamingred face and a white cork hat had gone by in the afternoon: she saidit was 'like a mushroom on the rising moon. ' She gave me a lot of goodhints about children. 

But she was quiet again next morning. I harnessed up, and she dressedJim and gave him his breakfast, and made a comfortable place for himon the load with the 'possum rug and a spare pillow. She got up on thewheel to do it herself. Then was the awkward time. I'd half start tospeak to her, and then turn away and go fixing up round the horses, andthen make another false start to say good-bye. At last she took Jim upin her arms and kissed him, and lifted him on the wheel; but he put hisarms tight round her neck, and kissed her--a thing Jim seldom didwith anybody, except his mother, for he wasn't what you'd call anaffectionate child, --he'd never more than offer his cheek to me, in hisold-fashioned way. I'd got up the other side of the load to take himfrom her. 

'Here, take him, ' she said. 

I saw his mouth twitching as I lifted him. Jim seldom cried nowadays--nomatter how much he was hurt. I gained some time fixing Jim comfortable. 

'You'd better make a start, ' she said. 'You want to get home early withthat boy. '

I got down and went round to where she stood. I held out my hand andtried to speak, but my voice went like an ungreased waggon wheel, and Igave it up, and only squeezed her hand. 

'That's all right, ' she said; then tears came into her eyes, and shesuddenly put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. 'You beoff--you're only a boy yourself. Take care of that boy; be kind to yourwife, and take care of yourself. '

'Will you come to see us?'

'Some day, ' she said. 

I started the horses, and looked round once more. She was looking up atJim, who was waving his hand to her from the top of the load. And I sawthat haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her eyes in spite of thetears. 

I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot, when I told it toMary--I didn't want to upset her. But, some time after I brought Jimhome from Gulgong, and while I was at home with the team for a few days, nothing would suit Mary but she must go over to Brighten's shanty andsee Brighten's sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morning in thespring-cart: it was a long way, and they stayed at Brighten's overnightand didn't get back till late the next afternoon. I'd got the place in apig-muck, as Mary said, 'doing for' myself, and I was having a snoozeon the sofa when they got back. The first thing I remember was some onestroking my head and kissing me, and I heard Mary saying, 'My poor boy!My poor old boy!'

I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had gone off again. But itseems that Mary was only referring to me. Then she started to pull greyhairs out of my head and put 'em in an empty match-box--to see how manyshe'd get. She used to do this when she felt a bit soft. I don'tknow what she said to Brighten's sister-in-law or what Brighten'ssister-in-law said to her, but Mary was extra gentle for the next fewdays. 

'Water Them Geraniums'. 

I. A Lonely Track. 

The time Mary and I shifted out into the Bush from Gulgong to 'settle onthe land' at Lahey's Creek. 

I'd sold the two tip-drays that I used for tank-sinking and dam-making, and I took the traps out in the waggon on top of a small load of rationsand horse-feed that I was taking to a sheep-station out that way. Marydrove out in the spring-cart. You remember we left little Jim withhis aunt in Gulgong till we got settled down. I'd sent James (Mary'sbrother) out the day before, on horseback, with two or three cows andsome heifers and steers and calves we had, and I'd told him to clean upa bit, and make the hut as bright and cheerful as possible before Marycame. 

We hadn't much in the way of furniture. There was the four-poster cedarbedstead that I bought before we were married, and Mary was rather proudof it: it had 'turned' posts and joints that bolted together. There wasa plain hardwood table, that Mary called her 'ironing-table', upsidedown on top of the load, with the bedding and blankets between thelegs; there were four of those common black kitchen-chairs--with applespainted on the hard board backs--that we used for the parlour; there wasa cheap batten sofa with arms at the ends and turned rails between theuprights of the arms (we were a little proud of the turned rails); andthere was the camp-oven, and the three-legged pot, and pans and buckets, stuck about the load and hanging under the tail-board of the waggon. 

There was the little Wilcox & Gibb's sewing-machine--my present to Marywhen we were married (and what a present, looking back to it!). Therewas a cheap little rocking-chair, and a looking-glass and somepictures that were presents from Mary's friends and sister. She had hermantel-shelf ornaments and crockery and nick-nacks packed away, in thelinen and old clothes, in a big tub made of half a cask, and a boxthat had been Jim's cradle. The live stock was a cat in one box, and inanother an old rooster, and three hens that formed cliques, two againstone, turn about, as three of the same sex will do all over the world. Ihad my old cattle-dog, and of course a pup on the load--I always had apup that I gave away, or sold and didn't get paid for, or had 'touched'(stolen) as soon as it was old enough. James had his three spidery, sneaking, thieving, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs with him. I was takingout three months' provisions in the way of ration-sugar, tea, flour, andpotatoes, &c. 

I started early, and Mary caught up to me at Ryan's Crossing on SandyCreek, where we boiled the billy and had some dinner. 

Mary bustled about the camp and admired the scenery and talked too much, for her, and was extra cheerful, and kept her face turned from me asmuch as possible. I soon saw what was the matter. She'd been cryingto herself coming along the road. I thought it was all on account ofleaving little Jim behind for the first time. She told me that shecouldn't make up her mind till the last moment to leave him, and that, a mile or two along the road, she'd have turned back for him, only thatshe knew her sister would laugh at her. She was always terribly anxiousabout the children. 

We cheered each other up, and Mary drove with me the rest of the wayto the creek, along the lonely branch track, across native-apple-treeflats. It was a dreary, hopeless track. There was no horizon, nothingbut the rough ashen trunks of the gnarled and stunted trees in alldirections, little or no undergrowth, and the ground, save for thecoarse, brownish tufts of dead grass, as bare as the road, for it wasa dry season: there had been no rain for months, and I wondered what Ishould do with the cattle if there wasn't more grass on the creek. 

In this sort of country a stranger might travel for miles withoutseeming to have moved, for all the difference there is in the scenery. The new tracks were 'blazed'--that is, slices of bark cut off from bothsides of trees, within sight of each other, in a line, to mark the trackuntil the horses and wheel-marks made it plain. A smart Bushman, witha sharp tomahawk, can blaze a track as he rides. But a Bushman a littleused to the country soon picks out differences amongst the trees, halfunconsciously as it were, and so finds his way about. 

Mary and I didn't talk much along this track--we couldn't have heardeach other very well, anyway, for the 'clock-clock' of the waggon andthe rattle of the cart over the hard lumpy ground. And I suppose weboth began to feel pretty dismal as the shadows lengthened. I'd noticedlately that Mary and I had got out of the habit of talking to eachother--noticed it in a vague sort of way that irritated me (as vaguethings will irritate one) when I thought of it. But then I thought, 'Itwon't last long--I'll make life brighter for her by-and-by. '

As we went along--and the track seemed endless--I got brooding, ofcourse, back into the past. And I feel now, when it's too late, thatMary must have been thinking that way too. I thought of my earlyboyhood, of the hard life of 'grubbin'' and 'milkin'' and 'fencin'' and'ploughin'' and 'ring-barkin'', &c. , and all for nothing. The few monthsat the little bark-school, with a teacher who couldn't spell. The cursedambition or craving that tortured my soul as a boy--ambition or cravingfor--I didn't know what for! For something better and brighter, anyhow. And I made the life harder by reading at night. 

It all passed before me as I followed on in the waggon, behind Mary inthe spring-cart. I thought of these old things more than I thought ofher. She had tried to help me to better things. And I tried too--I hadthe energy of half-a-dozen men when I saw a road clear before me, but shied at the first check. Then I brooded, or dreamed of making ahome--that one might call a home--for Mary--some day. Ah, well!----

And what was Mary thinking about, along the lonely, changeless miles? Inever thought of that. Of her kind, careless, gentleman father, perhaps. Of her girlhood. Of her homes--not the huts and camps she lived in withme. Of our future?--she used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal of ourfuture--but not lately. These things didn't strike me at the time--I wasso deep in my own brooding. Did she think now--did she begin to feelnow that she had made a great mistake and thrown away her life, but mustmake the best of it? This might have roused me, had I thought of it. Butwhenever I thought Mary was getting indifferent towards me, I'd think, 'I'll soon win her back. We'll be sweethearts again--when thingsbrighten up a bit. '

It's an awful thing to me, now I look back to it, to think how far apartwe had grown, what strangers we were to each other. It seems, now, asthough we had been sweethearts long years before, and had parted, andhad never really met since. 

The sun was going down when Mary called out--

'There's our place, Joe!'

She hadn't seen it before, and somehow it came new and with a shock tome, who had been out here several times. Ahead, through the trees tothe right, was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of the creek, darker for the dead grey grass and blue-grey bush on the barren ridge inthe background. Across the creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter--awater-course with a chain of water-holes after rain), across on theother bank, stood the hut, on a narrow flat between the spur and thecreek, and a little higher than this side. The land was much better thanon our old selection, and there was good soil along the creek on bothsides: I expected a rush of selectors out here soon. A few acres roundthe hut was cleared and fenced in by a light two-rail fence of timbersplit from logs and saplings. The man who took up this selection left itbecause his wife died here. 

It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and he had roofed itwith shingles which he split in spare times. There was no verandah, butI built one later on. At the end of the house was a big slab-and-barkshed, bigger than the hut itself, with a kitchen, a skillion for tools, harness, and horse-feed, and a spare bedroom partitioned off with sheetsof bark and old chaff-bags. The house itself was floored roughly, withcracks between the boards; there were cracks between the slabs allround--though he'd nailed strips of tin, from old kerosene-tins, oversome of them; the partitioned-off bedroom was lined with old chaff-bagswith newspapers pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling, calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters andbattens, and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hotand harbour insects and reptiles--snakes sometimes. There was onesmall glass window in the 'dining-room' with three panes and a sheetof greased paper, and the rest were rough wooden shutters. There was apretty good cow-yard and calf-pen, and--that was about all. There wasno dam or tank (I made one later on); there was a water-cask, with thehoops falling off and the staves gaping, at the corner of the house, andspouting, made of lengths of bent tin, ran round under the eaves. Waterfrom a new shingle roof is wine-red for a year or two, and water froma stringy-bark roof is like tan-water for years. In dry weather theselector had got his house water from a cask sunk in the gravel atthe bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek. And the longer thedrought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink, if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles--even ten miles to water is nothing in someplaces. 

James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old 'Spot'(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night, make a firein the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough. He helped meunharness and water and feed the horses, and then started to get thefurniture off the waggon and into the house. James wasn't lazy--solong as one thing didn't last too long; but he was too uncomfortablypractical and matter-of-fact for me. Mary and I had some tea in thekitchen. The kitchen was permanently furnished with a table of splitslabs, adzed smooth on top, and supported by four stakes driven into theground, a three-legged stool and a block of wood, and two longstools made of half-round slabs (sapling trunks split in halves) withauger-holes bored in the round side and sticks stuck into them for legs. The floor was of clay; the chimney of slabs and tin; the fireplacewas about eight feet wide, lined with clay, and with a blackened poleacross, with sooty chains and wire hooks on it for the pots. 

Mary didn't seem able to eat. She sat on the three-legged stool near thefire, though it was warm weather, and kept her face turned from me. Mary was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had been: she wasthinner now. She had big dark hazel eyes that shone a little too muchwhen she was pleased or excited. I thought at times that there wassomething very German about her expression; also something aristocraticabout the turn of her nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when shespoke. There was nothing aristocratic about me. Mary was German infigure and walk. I used sometimes to call her 'Little Duchy' and 'PigeonToes'. She had a will of her own, as shown sometimes by the obstinateknit in her forehead between the eyes. 

Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble. 

'What is it, Mary?'

She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed, andirritated--suffering from a reaction. 

'Now, what is it, Mary?' I asked; 'I'm sick of this sort of thing. Haven't you got everything you wanted? You've had your own way. What'sthe matter with you now?'

'You know very well, Joe. '

'But I DON'T know, ' I said. I knew too well. 

She said nothing. 

'Look here, Mary, ' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder, 'don't go onlike that; tell me what's the matter?'

'It's only this, ' she said suddenly, 'I can't stand this life here; itwill kill me!'

I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table. 

'This is more than a man can stand!' I shouted. 'You know very well thatit was you that dragged me out here. You run me on to this! Why weren'tyou content to stay in Gulgong?'

'And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly. 

(I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place Gulgong was. Awretched remnant of a town on an abandoned goldfield. One street, eachside of the dusty main road; three or four one-storey square brickcottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron that glared in the heat--fourrooms and a passage--the police-station, bank-manager and schoolmaster'scottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down weather-board shanties--the threepubs. , the two stores, and the post-office. The town tailing off intoweather-board boxes with tin tops, and old bark huts--relics of thedigging days--propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when at home, mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about the verandahposts of the pubs. , saying, ''Ullo, Bill!' or ''Ullo, Jim!'--orsometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened each other's andgirls' characters with their tongues, and criticised the aristocracy'swashing hung out on the line: 'And the colour of the clothes! Does thatwoman wash her clothes at all? or only soak 'em and hang 'em out?'--thatwas Gulgong. )

'Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary. 

'You know very well, Joe, ' said Mary quietly. 

(I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me. I had had an ideaof getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores--I was a fair woolexpert--but Mary was afraid of the drink. I could keep well away from itso long as I worked hard in the Bush. I had gone to Sydney twice sinceI met Mary, once before we were married, and she forgave me when I cameback; and once afterwards. I got a billet there then, and was going tosend for her in a month. After eight weeks she raised the money somehowand came to Sydney and brought me home. I got pretty low down thattime. )

'But, Mary, ' I said, 'it would have been different this time. You wouldhave been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone. '

'As long as you take a glass there is danger, ' she said. 

'Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for, if you can'tstand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked. 

'Well, ' she said, 'why weren't you more decided?'

I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then. 

'Good God!' I shouted, 'this is more than any man can stand. I'll chuckit all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing. '

'So am I, Joe, ' said Mary wearily. 

We quarrelled badly then--that first hour in our new home. I know nowwhose fault it was. 

I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek. I didn'tfeel bitter against Mary--I had spoken too cruelly to her to feel thatway. Looking back, I could see plainly that if I had taken her adviceall through, instead of now and again, things would have been all rightwith me. I had come away and left her crying in the hut, and Jamestelling her, in a brotherly way, that it was all her fault. The troublewas that I never liked to 'give in' or go half-way to make it up--nothalf-way--it was all the way or nothing with our natures. 

'If I don't make a stand now, ' I'd say, 'I'll never be master. I gave upthe reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again. '

What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after, when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still; and, amongstother things, I kept saying, 'I'll give in, Mary--I'll give in, ' andthen I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad, and took me from theroom. But that time was to come. 

As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang inmy ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the housethat evening--

'Why did I bring her here?'

I was not fit to 'go on the land'. The place was only fit for somestolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife, who had noambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place. I had only driftedhere through carelessness, brooding, and discontent. 

I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the onlyneighbours--a wretched selector's family, about four miles down thecreek, --and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had anyfresh meat. 

A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in, ona patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice of the selector'swife--I had seen her several times: she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I supposed, the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardshipand loneliness was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to gofarther than she could see through the trunks of the 'apple-trees'. 

'You, An-nay!' (Annie. )

'Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom). 

'Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'

'Well, didn't I?'

'Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'

'I did, I tell yer--the water won't soak inter the ashes. '

Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there. I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves behind somesticks against the bark wall near the door; and in spite of the sticksthe fowls used to get in and scratch beds under the geraniums, andscratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there--with an idea ofhelping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water, when fresh waterwas scarce--till you might as well try to water a dish of fat. 

Then the woman's voice again--

'You, Tom-may!' (Tommy. )

Silence, save for an echo on the ridge. 

'Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'

'Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek. 

'Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they wantany meat or any think?' in one long screech. 

'Well--I karnt find the horse. '

'Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and. And-don't-forgit-to-tell-Mrs-Wi'son-that-mother'll-be-up-as-soon-as-she-can. '

I didn't feel like going to the woman's house that night. I felt--andthe thought came like a whip-stroke on my heart--that this was what Marywould come to if I left her here. 

I turned and started to walk home, fast. I'd made up my mind. I'd takeMary straight back to Gulgong in the morning--I forgot about the load Ihad to take to the sheep station. I'd say, 'Look here, Girlie' (that'swhat I used to call her), 'we'll leave this wretched life; we'll leavethe Bush for ever! We'll go to Sydney, and I'll be a man! and work myway up. ' And I'd sell waggon, horses, and all, and go. 

When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary had the only kerosenelamp, a slush lamp, and two tallow candles going. She had got both roomswashed out--to James's disgust, for he had to move the furniture andboxes about. She had a lot of things unpacked on the table; she hadlaid clean newspapers on the mantel-shelf--a slab on two pegs over thefireplace--and put the little wooden clock in the centre and some ofthe ornaments on each side, and was tacking a strip of vandyked Americanoil-cloth round the rough edge of the slab. 

'How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape. '

I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks. I went out in thekitchen, drank a pint of cold tea, and sat down. 

Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone. 

II. 'Past Carin''. 

Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things always look brighterin the morning--more so in the Australian Bush, I should think, than inmost other places. It is when the sun goes down on the dark bed of thelonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like a sea of fire and then fades, and then glows out again, like a bank of coals, and then burns away toashes--it is then that old things come home to one. And strange, new-oldthings too, that haunt and depress you terribly, and that you can'tunderstand. I often think how, at sunset, the past must come home tonew-chum blacksheep, sent out to Australia and drifted into the Bush. I used to think that they couldn't have much brains, or the lonelinesswould drive them mad. 

I'd decided to let James take the team for a trip or two. He could drivealright; he was a better business man, and no doubt would manage betterthan me--as long as the novelty lasted; and I'd stay at home for aweek or so, till Mary got used to the place, or I could get a girl fromsomewhere to come and stay with her. The first weeks or few months ofloneliness are the worst, as a rule, I believe, as they say the firstweeks in jail are--I was never there. I know it's so with tramping orhard graft*: the first day or two are twice as hard as any of the rest. But, for my part, I could never get used to loneliness and dulness; thelast days used to be the worst with me: then I'd have to make a move, ordrink. When you've been too much and too long alone in a lonely place, you begin to do queer things and think queer thoughts--provided you haveany imagination at all. You'll sometimes sit of an evening and watch thelonely track, by the hour, for a horseman or a cart or some one that'snever likely to come that way--some one, or a stranger, that you can'tand don't really expect to see. I think that most men who have beenalone in the Bush for any length of time--and married couples too--aremore or less mad. With married couples it is generally the husband whois painfully shy and awkward when strangers come. The woman seems tostand the loneliness better, and can hold her own with strangers, as arule. It's only afterwards, and looking back, that you see how queer yougot. Shepherds and boundary-riders, who are alone for months, MUST havetheir periodical spree, at the nearest shanty, else they'd go ravingmad. Drink is the only break in the awful monotony, and the yearly orhalf-yearly spree is the only thing they've got to look forward to: itkeeps their minds fixed on something definite ahead. 

 * 'Graft', work. The term is now applied, in Australia, to all sorts of work, from bullock-driving to writing poetry. 

But Mary kept her head pretty well through the first months ofloneliness. WEEKS, rather, I should say, for it wasn't as bad as itmight have been farther up-country: there was generally some one cameof a Sunday afternoon--a spring-cart with a couple of women, or maybea family, --or a lanky shy Bush native or two on lanky shy horses. Ona quiet Sunday, after I'd brought Jim home, Mary would dress him andherself--just the same as if we were in town--and make me get up on oneend and put on a collar and take her and Jim for a walk along the creek. She said she wanted to keep me civilised. She tried to make a gentlemanof me for years, but gave it up gradually. 

Well. It was the first morning on the creek: I was greasing thewaggon-wheels, and James out after the horse, and Mary hanging outclothes, in an old print dress and a big ugly white hood, when I heardher being hailed as 'Hi, missus!' from the front slip-rails. 

It was a boy on horseback. He was a light-haired, very much freckled boyof fourteen or fifteen, with a small head, but with limbs, especiallyhis bare sun-blotched shanks, that might have belonged to a grownman. He had a good face and frank grey eyes. An old, nearly blackcabbage-tree hat rested on the butts of his ears, turning them out atright angles from his head, and rather dirty sprouts they were. He worea dirty torn Crimean shirt; and a pair of man's moleskin trousers rolledup above the knees, with the wide waistband gathered under a greenhidebelt. I noticed, later on, that, even when he wore trousers short enoughfor him, he always rolled 'em up above the knees when on horseback, forsome reason of his own: to suggest leggings, perhaps, for he had themrolled up in all weathers, and he wouldn't have bothered to save themfrom the sweat of the horse, even if that horse ever sweated. 

He was seated astride a three-bushel bag thrown across the ridge-pole ofa big grey horse, with a coffin-shaped head, and built astern somethingafter the style of a roughly put up hip-roofed box-bark humpy. * Hiscolour was like old box-bark, too, a dirty bluish-grey; and, one time, when I saw his rump looming out of the scrub, I really thought it wassome old shepherd's hut that I hadn't noticed there before. When hecantered it was like the humpy starting off on its corner-posts. 

 * 'Humpy', a rough hut. 

'Are you Mrs Wilson?' asked the boy. 

'Yes, ' said Mary. 

'Well, mother told me to ride acrost and see if you wanted anythink. Wekilled lars' night, and I've fetched a piece er cow. '

'Piece of WHAT?' asked Mary. 

He grinned, and handed a sugar-bag across the rail with something heavyin the bottom of it, that nearly jerked Mary's arm out when she tookit. It was a piece of beef, that looked as if it had been cut off with awood-axe, but it was fresh and clean. 

'Oh, I'm so glad!' cried Mary. She was always impulsive, save to mesometimes. 'I was just wondering where we were going to get any freshmeat. How kind of your mother! Tell her I'm very much obliged to herindeed. ' And she felt behind her for a poor little purse she had. 'Andnow--how much did your mother say it would be?'

The boy blinked at her, and scratched his head. 

'How much will it be, ' he repeated, puzzled. 'Oh--how much does it weighI-s'pose-yer-mean. Well, it ain't been weighed at all--we ain't got noscales. A butcher does all that sort of think. We just kills it, andcooks it, and eats it--and goes by guess. What won't keep we salts downin the cask. I reckon it weighs about a ton by the weight of it if yerwanter know. Mother thought that if she sent any more it would go badbefore you could scoff it. I can't see----'

'Yes, yes, ' said Mary, getting confused. 'But what I want to know is, how do you manage when you sell it?'

He glared at her, and scratched his head. 'Sell it? Why, we only goeshalves in a steer with some one, or sells steers to the butcher--ormaybe some meat to a party of fencers or surveyors, or tank-sinkers, orthem sorter people----'

'Yes, yes; but what I want to know is, how much am I to send your motherfor this?'

'How much what?'

'Money, of course, you stupid boy, ' said Mary. 'You seem a very stupidboy. '

Then he saw what she was driving at. He began to fling his heelsconvulsively against the sides of his horse, jerking his body backwardand forward at the same time, as if to wind up and start some clockworkmachinery inside the horse, that made it go, and seemed to needrepairing or oiling. 

'We ain't that sorter people, missus, ' he said. 'We don't sell meatto new people that come to settle here. ' Then, jerking his thumbcontemptuously towards the ridges, 'Go over ter Wall's if yer wanter buymeat; they sell meat ter strangers. ' (Wall was the big squatter over theridges. )

'Oh!' said Mary, 'I'm SO sorry. Thank your mother for me. She IS kind. '

'Oh, that's nothink. She said to tell yer she'll be up as soon as shecan. She'd have come up yisterday evening--she thought yer'd feel lonelycomin' new to a place like this--but she couldn't git up. '

The machinery inside the old horse showed signs of starting. Youalmost heard the wooden joints CREAK as he lurched forward, like an oldpropped-up humpy when the rotting props give way; but at the sound ofMary's voice he settled back on his foundations again. It must have beena very poor selection that couldn't afford a better spare horse thanthat. 

'Reach me that lump er wood, will yer, missus?' said the boy, and hepointed to one of my 'spreads' (for the team-chains) that lay inside thefence. 'I'll fling it back agin over the fence when I git this ole cowstarted. '

'But wait a minute--I've forgotten your mother's name, ' said Mary. 

He grabbed at his thatch impatiently. 'Me mother--oh!--the old woman'sname's Mrs Spicer. (Git up, karnt yer!)' He twisted himself round, andbrought the stretcher down on one of the horse's 'points' (and he hadmany) with a crack that must have jarred his wrist. 

'Do you go to school?' asked Mary. There was a three-days-a-week schoolover the ridges at Wall's station. 

'No!' he jerked out, keeping his legs going. 'Me--why I'm going on furfifteen. The last teacher at Wall's finished me. I'm going to Queenslandnext month drovin'. ' (Queensland border was over three hundred milesaway. )

'Finished you? How?' asked Mary. 

'Me edgercation, of course! How do yer expect me to start this horsewhen yer keep talkin'?'

He split the 'spread' over the horse's point, threw the pieces over thefence, and was off, his elbows and legs flinging wildly, and the oldsaw-stool lumbering along the road like an old working bullock trying acanter. That horse wasn't a trotter. 

And next month he DID start for Queensland. He was a younger son and asurplus boy on a wretched, poverty-stricken selection; and as there was'northin' doin'' in the district, his father (in a burst of fatherlykindness, I suppose) made him a present of the old horse and a newpair of Blucher boots, and I gave him an old saddle and a coat, and hestarted for the Never-Never Country. 

And I'll bet he got there. But I'm doubtful if the old horse did. 

Mary gave the boy five shillings, and I don't think he had anything moreexcept a clean shirt and an extra pair of white cotton socks. 

'Spicer's farm' was a big bark humpy on a patchy clearing in the nativeapple-tree scrub. The clearing was fenced in by a light 'dog-legged'fence (a fence of sapling poles resting on forks and X-shaped uprights), and the dusty ground round the house was almost entirely covered withcattle-dung. There was no attempt at cultivation when I came to live onthe creek; but there were old furrow-marks amongst the stumps of anothershapeless patch in the scrub near the hut. There was a wretched saplingcow-yard and calf-pen, and a cow-bail with one sheet of bark over it forshelter. There was no dairy to be seen, and I suppose the milk was setin one of the two skillion rooms, or lean-to's behind the hut, --theother was 'the boys' bedroom'. The Spicers kept a few cows and steers, and had thirty or forty sheep. Mrs Spicer used to drive down the creekonce a-week, in her rickety old spring-cart, to Cobborah, with butterand eggs. The hut was nearly as bare inside as it was out--just a frameof 'round-timber' (sapling poles) covered with bark. The furniture waspermanent (unless you rooted it up), like in our kitchen: a rough slabtable on stakes driven into the ground, and seats made the sameway. Mary told me afterwards that the beds in the bag-and-barkpartitioned-off room ('mother's bedroom') were simply poles laid sideby side on cross-pieces supported by stakes driven into the ground, withstraw mattresses and some worn-out bed-clothes. Mrs Spicer had an oldpatchwork quilt, in rags, and the remains of a white one, and Mary saidit was pitiful to see how these things would be spread over the beds--tohide them as much as possible--when she went down there. A packing-case, with something like an old print skirt draped round it, and a crackedlooking-glass (without a frame) on top, was the dressing-table. There were a couple of gin-cases for a wardrobe. The boys' beds werethree-bushel bags stretched between poles fastened to uprights. Thefloor was the original surface, tramped hard, worn uneven with muchsweeping, and with puddles in rainy weather where the roof leaked. MrsSpicer used to stand old tins, dishes, and buckets under as many ofthe leaks as she could. The saucepans, kettles, and boilers were oldkerosene-tins and billies. They used kerosene-tins, too, cut longways inhalves, for setting the milk in. The plates and cups were of tin;there were two or three cups without saucers, and a crockery plate ortwo--also two mugs, cracked and without handles, one with 'For a GoodBoy' and the other with 'For a Good Girl' on it; but all these were kepton the mantel-shelf for ornament and for company. They were the onlyornaments in the house, save a little wooden clock that hadn't gone foryears. Mrs Spicer had a superstition that she had 'some things packedaway from the children. '

The pictures were cut from old copies of the 'Illustrated Sydney News'and pasted on to the bark. I remember this, because I remembered, longago, the Spencers, who were our neighbours when I was a boy, had thewalls of their bedroom covered with illustrations of the American CivilWar, cut from illustrated London papers, and I used to 'sneak' into'mother's bedroom' with Fred Spencer whenever we got the chance, andgloat over the prints. I gave him a blade of a pocket-knife once, fortaking me in there. 

I saw very little of Spicer. He was a big, dark, dark-haired andwhiskered man. I had an idea that he wasn't a selector at all, only a'dummy' for the squatter of the Cobborah run. You see, selectors wereallowed to take up land on runs, or pastoral leases. The squatterskept them off as much as possible, by all manner of dodges and paltrypersecution. The squatter would get as much freehold as he could afford, 'select' as much land as the law allowed one man to take up, and thenemploy dummies (dummy selectors) to take up bits of land that he fanciedabout his run, and hold them for him. 

Spicer seemed gloomy and unsociable. He was seldom at home. He wasgenerally supposed to be away shearin', or fencin', or workin' onsomebody's station. It turned out that the last six months he was awayit was on the evidence of a cask of beef and a hide with the brand cutout, found in his camp on a fencing contract up-country, and which heand his mates couldn't account for satisfactorily, while the squattercould. Then the family lived mostly on bread and honey, or bread andtreacle, or bread and dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter and everyegg was needed for the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar. Mary found that out, but couldn't help them much--except by 'stuffing'the children with bread and meat or bread and jam whenever they came upto our place--for Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride that lies down inthe end and turns its face to the wall and dies. 

Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she washungry, she denied it--but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with herexplained things. The little fellow said--

'Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked; but if yergive us anythink to eat, we was to take it an' say thenk yer, MrsWilson. '

'I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me, Mrs Wilson, ' said Annie. 'Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson. '

She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested, and her facewas 'burnt to a brick', as they say out there. She had brown eyes, nearly red, and a little wild-looking at times, and a sharp face--groundsharp by hardship--the cheeks drawn in. She had an expressionlike--well, like a woman who had been very curious and suspicious at onetime, and wanted to know everybody's business and hear everything, andhad lost all her curiosity, without losing the expression or the quicksuspicious movements of the head. I don't suppose you understand. Ican't explain it any other way. She was not more than forty. 

I remember the first morning I saw her. I was going up the creek to lookat the selection for the first time, and called at the hut to see if shehad a bit of fresh mutton, as I had none and was sick of 'corned beef'. 

'Yes--of--course, ' she said, in a sharp nasty tone, as if to say, 'Isthere anything more you want while the shop's open?' I'd met just thesame sort of woman years before while I was carrying swag between theshearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out west of the Darling river, so Ididn't turn on my heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak again. 

'Come--inside, ' she said, 'and sit down. I see you've got the waggonoutside. I s'pose your name's Wilson, ain't it? You're thinkin' abouttakin' on Harry Marshfield's selection up the creek, so I heard. Waittill I fry you a chop and boil the billy. '

Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like a voice coming out ofa phonograph--I heard one in Sydney the other day--and not like a voicecoming out of her. But sometimes when she got outside her everydaylife on this selection she spoke in a sort of--in a sort of lostgroping-in-the-dark kind of voice. 

She didn't talk much this time--just spoke in a mechanical way of thedrought, and the hard times, 'an' butter 'n' eggs bein' down, an' herhusban' an' eldest son bein' away, an' that makin' it so hard for her. '

I don't know how many children she had. I never got a chance to countthem, for they were nearly all small, and shy as piccaninnies, and usedto run and hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly as black aspiccaninnies too. She must have averaged a baby a-year for years--andGod only knows how she got over her confinements! Once, they said, sheonly had a black gin with her. She had an elder boy and girl, but sheseldom spoke of them. The girl, 'Liza', was 'in service in Sydney. ' I'mafraid I knew what that meant. The elder son was 'away'. He had been abit of a favourite round there, it seemed. 

Some one might ask her, 'How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?' or, 'Heard ofJack lately? and where is he now?'

'Oh, he's somewheres up country, ' she'd say in the 'groping' voice, or'He's drovin' in Queenslan', ' or 'Shearin' on the Darlin' the last timeI heerd from him. ' 'We ain't had a line from him since--les' see--sinceChris'mas 'fore last. '

And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of waytowards the west--towards 'up-country' and 'Out-Back'. *

 * 'Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be. 

The eldest girl at home was nine or ten, with a little old face andlines across her forehead: she had an older expression than her mother. Tommy went to Queensland, as I told you. The eldest son at home, Bill(older than Tommy), was 'a bit wild. '

I've passed the place in smothering hot mornings in December, when thedroppings about the cow-yard had crumpled to dust that rose in thewarm, sickly, sunrise wind, and seen that woman at work in the cow-yard, 'bailing up' and leg-roping cows, milking, or hauling at a rope roundthe neck of a half-grown calf that was too strong for her (and she wastough as fencing-wire), or humping great buckets of sour milk to thepigs or the 'poddies' (hand-fed calves) in the pen. I'd get off thehorse and give her a hand sometimes with a young steer, or a cranky oldcow that wouldn't 'bail-up' and threatened her with her horns. She'dsay--

'Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. Do yer think we're ever goin' to have any rain?'

I've ridden past the place on bitter black rainy mornings in June orJuly, and seen her trudging about the yard--that was ankle-deep in blackliquid filth--with an old pair of Blucher boots on, and an old coat ofher husband's, or maybe a three-bushel bag over her shoulders. I've seenher climbing on the roof by means of the water-cask at the corner, andtrying to stop a leak by shoving a piece of tin in under the bark. Andwhen I'd fixed the leak--

'Thenk yer, Mr Wilson. This drop of rain's a blessin'! Come in and havea dry at the fire and I'll make yer a cup of tea. ' And, if I was in ahurry, 'Come in, man alive! Come in! and dry yerself a bit till the rainholds up. Yer can't go home like this! Yer'll git yer death o' cold. '

I've even seen her, in the terrible drought, climbing she-oaks andapple-trees by a makeshift ladder, and awkwardly lopping off boughs tofeed the starving cattle. 

'Jist tryin' ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes. '

They said that when the pleuro-pneumonia was in the district and amongsther cattle she bled and physicked them herself, and fed those that weredown with slices of half-ripe pumpkins (from a crop that had failed). 

'An', one day, ' she told Mary, 'there was a big barren heifer (that wecalled Queen Elizabeth) that was down with the ploorer. She'd been downfor four days and hadn't moved, when one mornin' I dumped some wheatenchaff--we had a few bags that Spicer brought home--I dumped it in frontof her nose, an'--would yer b'lieve me, Mrs Wilson?--she stumbled onterher feet an' chased me all the way to the house! I had to pick up meskirts an' run! Wasn't it redic'lus?'

They had a sense of the ridiculous, most of those poor sun-driedBushwomen. I fancy that that helped save them from madness. 

'We lost nearly all our milkers, ' she told Mary. 'I remember one dayTommy came running to the house and screamed: 'Marther! [mother] there'sanother milker down with the ploorer!' Jist as if it was great news. Well, Mrs Wilson, I was dead-beat, an' I giv' in. I jist sat downto have a good cry, and felt for my han'kerchief--it WAS a rag of ahan'kerchief, full of holes (all me others was in the wash). Withoutseein' what I was doin' I put me finger through one hole in thehan'kerchief an' me thumb through the other, and poked me fingers intome eyes, instead of wipin' them. Then I had to laugh. '

There's a story that once, when the Bush, or rather grass, fires wereout all along the creek on Spicer's side, Wall's station hands were upabove our place, trying to keep the fire back from the boundary, andtowards evening one of the men happened to think of the Spicers: theysaw smoke down that way. Spicer was away from home, and they had a smallcrop of wheat, nearly ripe, on the selection. 

'My God! that poor devil of a woman will be burnt out, if she ain'talready!' shouted young Billy Wall. 'Come along, three or four of youchaps'--(it was shearing-time, and there were plenty of men on thestation). 

They raced down the creek to Spicer's, and were just in time to save thewheat. She had her sleeves tucked up, and was beating out the burninggrass with a bough. She'd been at it for an hour, and was as black as agin, they said. She only said when they'd turned the fire: 'Thenk yer!Wait an' I'll make some tea. '

 *****

After tea the first Sunday she came to see us, Mary asked--

'Don't you feel lonely, Mrs Spicer, when your husband goes away?'

'Well--no, Mrs Wilson, ' she said in the groping sort of voice. 'I uster, once. I remember, when we lived on the Cudgeegong river--we lived ina brick house then--the first time Spicer had to go away from home Inearly fretted my eyes out. And he was only goin' shearin' for a month. I muster bin a fool; but then we were only jist married a little while. He's been away drovin' in Queenslan' as long as eighteen months at atime since then. But' (her voice seemed to grope in the dark morethan ever) 'I don't mind, --I somehow seem to have got past carin'. Besides--besides, Spicer was a very different man then to what he isnow. He's got so moody and gloomy at home, he hardly ever speaks. '

Mary sat silent for a minute thinking. Then Mrs Spicer roused herself--

'Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! You mustn't take any notice ofme, Mrs Wilson, --I don't often go on like this. I do believe I'm gittin'a bit ratty at times. It must be the heat and the dulness. '

But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time 'when Spicer was adifferent man to what he was now. '

I walked home with her a piece along the creek. She said nothing fora long time, and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way. Then she saidsuddenly--

'What-did-you-bring-her-here-for? She's only a girl. '

'I beg pardon, Mrs Spicer. '

'Oh, I don't know what I'm talkin' about! I b'lieve I'm gittin' ratty. You mustn't take any notice of me, Mr Wilson. '

She wasn't much company for Mary; and often, when she had a child withher, she'd start taking notice of the baby while Mary was talking, whichused to exasperate Mary. But poor Mrs Spicer couldn't help it, and sheseemed to hear all the same. 

Her great trouble was that she 'couldn't git no reg'lar schoolin' forthe children. '

'I learns 'em at home as much as I can. But I don't git a minute tocall me own; an' I'm ginerally that dead-beat at night that I'm fit fornothink. '

Mary had some of the children up now and then later on, and taught thema little. When she first offered to do so, Mrs Spicer laid hold of thehandiest youngster and said--

'There--do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin' to teach yer, an'it's more than yer deserve!' (the youngster had been 'cryin'' oversomething). 'Now, go up an' say "Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson. " And if yerain't good, and don't do as she tells yer, I'll break every bone in yeryoung body!'

The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped. 

The children were sent by turns over to Wall's to Sunday-school. WhenTommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots, and there wasno end of rows about them in the family--for the mother made him lendthem to his sister Annie, to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. Therewere only about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family, andthese were saved for great occasions. The children were always as cleanand tidy as possible when they came to our place. 

And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God'searth is the children of very poor people made to appear well: thebroken worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) piecesof string for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretchedthreadbare frocks. Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand--andno matter where they are--I always see the worn face of the mother. 

Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came. I'd sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she cameback with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often. She came upseveral times when Mary was ill, to lend a hand. She wouldn't sit downand condole with Mary, or waste her time asking questions, or talkingabout the time when she was ill herself. She'd take off her hat--ashapeless little lump of black straw she wore for visiting--giveher hair a quick brush back with the palms of her hands, roll up hersleeves, and set to work to 'tidy up'. She seemed to take most pleasurein sorting out our children's clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps sheused to dress her own like that in the days when Spicer was a differentman from what he was now. She seemed interested in the fashion-platesof some women's journals we had, and used to study them with an interestthat puzzled me, for she was not likely to go in for fashion. She nevertalked of her early girlhood; but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie, from Cudgeegong, came out to see Wall'swife, and drove up the creek to our place on his way back to see howMary and the baby were getting on. Mary got out some crockery and sometable-napkins that she had packed away for occasions like this; andshe said that the way Mrs Spicer handled the things, and helped set thetable (though she did it in a mechanical sort of way), convinced herthat she had been used to table-napkins at one time in her life. 

Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would saysuddenly--

'Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson. '

'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

'Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismalsafterwards. '

'Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'

'Oh, -I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any noticeof me. ' And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children--and Mary too, sometimes, as if she mistook her for a child--and go. 

Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand. 

Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down againnext day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said--

'I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson. The children can do for me. '

'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

'Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me. '

We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down onSunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enoughfor them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children runningto the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming--

'Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart. '

And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out thefront door, and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of'broom-stuff'--coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges--with a stickstuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round in frontof the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least one flickof the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster andscrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towelround her finger and dig out his ears--as if she was anxious to have himhear every word that was going to be said. 

No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say, 'I was jistexpectin' yer, Mrs Wilson. ' And she was original in that, anyway. 

She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used tospread on the table when we were there, as a matter of course ('Theothers is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'), but I sawby the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather a wonderful thingto them. 'I must really git some more knives an' forks next time I'm inCobborah, ' she'd say. 'The children break an' lose 'em till I'm ashamedto ask Christians ter sit down ter the table. '

She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them ratherghastly, but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them. But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children to'Drive out them fowls, karnt yer, ' or 'Take yer maulies [hands] outerthe sugar, ' or 'Don't touch Mrs Wilson's baby with them dirty maulies, 'or 'Don't stand starin' at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an' ears in thatvulgar way. '

Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It wasa habit, but they didn't seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagginghabit. I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, mostwilling, and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she naggedthat child from daylight till dark--and after it. Taking it all round, I think that the nagging habit in a mother is often worse on ordinarychildren, and more deadly on sensitive youngsters, than the drinkinghabit in a father. 

One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew whoused to go wrong in his head every now and again, and try to commitsuicide. Once, when the station-hand, who was watching him, had his eyeoff him for a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable. Themen ran in and found him hanging and kicking. 'They let him hang fora while, ' said Mrs Spicer, 'till he went black in the face and stoppedkicking. Then they cut him down and threw a bucket of water over him. '

'Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?' asked Mary. 

'To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him oftryin' to hang himself again. '

'Well, that's the coolest thing I ever heard of, ' said Mary. 

'That's jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson, ' said Mrs Spicer. 

'One morning, ' said Mrs Spicer, 'Spicer had gone off on his horsesomewhere, and I was alone with the children, when a man came to thedoor and said--

'"For God's sake, woman, give me a drink!"

'Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new chum--hisclothes was good, but he looked as if he'd been sleepin' in them in theBush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin', so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on hishead till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said, "Thenk yer, mum. "

'I was so surprised that I didn't know what to say, so I jist said, "Would you like some more coffee?"

'"Yes, thenk yer, " he said--"about two quarts. "

'I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his headas long as he could, and when he got right end up he said, "Thenk yer, mum--it's a fine day, " and then he walked off. He had two saddle-strapsin his hands. '

'Why, what did he stand on his head for?' asked Mary. 

'To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of thecoffee. He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall's to tell them thatthere was a man wanderin' about the Bush in the horrors of drink, andto get some one to ride for the police. But they was too late, for hehanged himself that night. '

'O Lord!' cried Mary. 

'Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall'sbranches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows. Hangin'to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps. '

Mary stared at her, speechless. 

'Tommy came home yellin' with fright. I sent him over to Wall's at once. After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slippedaway and went down there. They came back screamin' at the tops of theirvoices. I did give it to them. I reckon they won't want ter see a deadbody again in a hurry. Every time I'd mention it they'd huddle together, or ketch hold of me skirts and howl. 

'"Yer'll go agen when I tell yer not to, " I'd say. 

'"Oh no, mother, " they'd howl. 

'"Yer wanted ter see a man hangin', " I said. 

'"Oh, don't, mother! Don't talk about it. "

'"Yer wouldn't be satisfied till yer see it, " I'd say; "yer had to seeit or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain't yer?"

'"Oh, don't, mother!"

'"Yer run all the way there, I s'pose?"

'"Don't, mother!"

'"But yer run faster back, didn't yer?"

'"Oh, don't, mother. "

'But, ' said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, 'I'd been down to see it myselfbefore they was up. '

'And ain't you afraid to live alone here, after all these horriblethings?' asked Mary. 

'Well, no; I don't mind. I seem to have got past carin' for anythinknow. I felt it a little when Tommy went away--the first time I feltanythink for years. But I'm over that now. '

'Haven't you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?'

'Oh yes. There's me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brothernear Dubbo; he's got a station. They wanted to take me an' the childrenbetween them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn't bringmy mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together asmuch as possible. There's enough of them gone, God knows. But it's acomfort to know that there's some one to see to them if anythink happensto me. '

 *****

One day--I was on my way home with the team that day--Annie Spicer camerunning up the creek in terrible trouble. 

'Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terribl's happened at home! A trooper'(mounted policeman--they called them 'mounted troopers' out there), 'atrooper's come and took Billy!' Billy was the eldest son at home. 

'What?'

'It's true, Mrs Wilson. '

'What for? What did the policeman say?'

'He--he--he said, "I--I'm very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but--I--I wantWilliam. "'

It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed fromWall's station and sold down-country. 

'An' mother took on awful, ' sobbed Annie; 'an' now she'll only sitstock-still an' stare in front of her, and won't take no notice of anyof us. Oh! it's awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he'd tell AuntEmma' (Mrs Spicer's sister at Cobborah), 'and send her out. But I had tocome to you, an' I've run all the way. '

James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down. 

Mary told me all about it when I came home. 

'I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in myarms. Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn't cry like a woman. I heard a manat Haviland cry at his brother's funeral, and it was just like that. Shecame round a bit after a while. Her sister's with her now. .. . Oh, Joe!you must take me away from the Bush. '

Later on Mary said--

'How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!'

 *****

Next morning I rode across to Wall's station and tackled the old man;but he was a hard man, and wouldn't listen to me--in fact, he orderedme off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him. Butyoung Billy Wall rode after me. 

'Look here, Joe!' he said, 'it's a blanky shame. All for the sake of ahorse! And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn't got enough to put upwith already! I wouldn't do it for twenty horses. I'LL tackle the boss, and if he won't listen to me, I'll walk off the run for the last time, if I have to carry my swag. '

Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young BillySpicer off up-country. 

But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom came up toour place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak; and then she would talkof nothing but her last trouble, till her visits were painful to lookforward to. 

'If it only could have been kep' quiet--for the sake of the otherchildren; they are all I think of now. I tried to bring 'em all updecent, but I s'pose it was my fault, somehow. It's the disgrace that'skillin' me--I can't bear it. '

I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl named MaggieCharlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall's station (I must tellyou about her some other time; James was 'shook after her'), and we gottalkin' about Mrs Spicer. Maggie was very warm about old Wall. 

'I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day, ' said Mary. 'She seems better lately. '

'Why!' cried Maggie Charlsworth, 'if that ain't Annie coming running upalong the creek. Something's the matter!'

We all jumped up and ran out. 

'What is it, Annie?' cried Mary. 

'Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother's asleep, and we can't wake her!'

'What?'

'It's--it's the truth, Mrs Wilson. '

'How long has she been asleep?'

'Since lars' night. '

'My God!' cried Mary, 'SINCE LAST NIGHT?'

'No, Mrs Wilson, not all the time; she woke wonst, about daylight thismornin'. She called me and said she didn't feel well, and I'd have tomanage the milkin'. '

'Was that all she said?'

'No. She said not to go for you; and she said to feed the pigs andcalves; and she said to be sure and water them geraniums. '

Mary wanted to go, but I wouldn't let her. James and I saddled ourhorses and rode down the creek. 

 *****

Mrs Spicer looked very little different from what she did when I lastsaw her alive. It was some time before we could believe that she wasdead. But she was 'past carin'' right enough. 

A Double Buggy at Lahey's Creek. 

I. Spuds, and a Woman's Obstinacy. 

Ever since we were married it had been Mary's great ambition to have abuggy. The house or furniture didn't matter so much--out there in theBush where we were--but, where there were no railways or coaches, andthe roads were long, and mostly hot and dusty, a buggy was the greatthing. I had a few pounds when we were married, and was going to getone then; but new buggies went high, and another party got hold of asecond-hand one that I'd had my eye on, so Mary thought it over and atlast she said, 'Never mind the buggy, Joe; get a sewing-machine and I'llbe satisfied. I'll want the machine more than the buggy, for a while. Wait till we're better off. '

After that, whenever I took a contract--to put up a fence or wool-shed, or sink a dam or something--Mary would say, 'You ought to knock a buggyout of this job, Joe;' but something always turned up--bad weather orsickness. Once I cut my foot with the adze and was laid up; and, anothertime, a dam I was making was washed away by a flood before I finishedit. Then Mary would say, 'Ah, well--never mind, Joe. Wait till we arebetter off. ' But she felt it hard the time I built a wool-shed anddidn't get paid for it, for we'd as good as settled about anothersecond-hand buggy then. 

I always had a fancy for carpentering, and was handy with tools. I madea spring-cart--body and wheels--in spare time, out of colonial hardwood, and got Little the blacksmith to do the ironwork; I painted the cartmyself. It wasn't much lighter than one of the tip-drays I had, but itWAS a spring-cart, and Mary pretended to be satisfied with it: anyway, Ididn't hear any more of the buggy for a while. 

I sold that cart, for fourteen pounds, to a Chinese gardener who wanteda strong cart to carry his vegetables round through the Bush. It wasjust before our first youngster came: I told Mary that I wanted themoney in case of extra expense--and she didn't fret much at losingthat cart. But the fact was, that I was going to make another try fora buggy, as a present for Mary when the child was born. I thought ofgetting the turn-out while she was laid up, keeping it dark from hertill she was on her feet again, and then showing her the buggy standingin the shed. But she had a bad time, and I had to have the doctorregularly, and get a proper nurse, and a lot of things extra; so thebuggy idea was knocked on the head. I was set on it, too: I'd thought ofhow, when Mary was up and getting strong, I'd say one morning, 'Go roundand have a look in the shed, Mary; I've got a few fowls for you, ' orsomething like that--and follow her round to watch her eyes when she sawthe buggy. I never told Mary about that--it wouldn't have done any good. 

Later on I got some good timber--mostly scraps that were given tome--and made a light body for a spring-cart. Galletly, the coach-builderat Cudgeegong, had got a dozen pairs of American hickory wheels up fromSydney, for light spring-carts, and he let me have a pair for cost priceand carriage. I got him to iron the cart, and he put it throughthe paint-shop for nothing. He sent it out, too, at the tail of TomTarrant's big van--to increase the surprise. We were swells then fora while; I heard no more of a buggy until after we'd been settled atLahey's Creek for a couple of years. 

I told you how I went into the carrying line, and took up a selection atLahey's Creek--for a run for the horses and to grow a bit of feed--andshifted Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong, with Mary's youngscamp of a brother James to keep them company while I was on the road. The first year I did well enough carrying, but I never cared for it--itwas too slow; and, besides, I was always anxious when I was away fromhome. The game was right enough for a single man--or a married one whosewife had got the nagging habit (as many Bushwomen have--God help 'em!), and who wanted peace and quietness sometimes. Besides, other smallcarriers started (seeing me getting on); and Tom Tarrant, thecoach-driver at Cudgeegong, had another heavy spring-van built, and putit on the roads, and he took a lot of the light stuff. 

The second year I made a rise--out of 'spuds', of all the things in theworld. It was Mary's idea. Down at the lower end of our selection--Marycalled it 'the run'--was a shallow watercourse called Snake's Creek, drymost of the year, except for a muddy water-hole or two; and, just abovethe junction, where it ran into Lahey's Creek, was a low piece of goodblack-soil flat, on our side--about three acres. The flat was fairlyclear when I came to the selection--save for a few logs that had beenwashed up there in some big 'old man' flood, way back in black-fellows'times; and one day, when I had a spell at home, I got the horses andtrace-chains and dragged the logs together--those that wouldn't splitfor fencing timber--and burnt them off. I had a notion to get the flatploughed and make a lucern-paddock of it. There was a good water-hole, under a clump of she-oak in the bend, and Mary used to take her stoolsand tubs and boiler down there in the spring-cart in hot weather, andwash the clothes under the shade of the trees--it was cooler, andsaved carrying water to the house. And one evening after she'd done thewashing she said to me--

'Look here, Joe; the farmers out here never seem to get a new idea: theydon't seem to me ever to try and find out beforehand what the market isgoing to be like--they just go on farming the same old way and puttingin the same old crops year after year. They sow wheat, and, if it comeson anything like the thing, they reap and thresh it; if it doesn't, they mow it for hay--and some of 'em don't have the brains to do that intime. Now, I was looking at that bit of flat you cleared, and it struckme that it wouldn't be a half bad idea to get a bag of seed-potatoes, and have the land ploughed--old Corny George would do it cheap--andget them put in at once. Potatoes have been dear all round for the lastcouple of years. '

I told her she was talking nonsense, that the ground was no good forpotatoes, and the whole district was too dry. 'Everybody I know hastried it, one time or another, and made nothing of it, ' I said. 

'All the more reason why you should try it, Joe, ' said Mary. 'Just tryone crop. It might rain for weeks, and then you'll be sorry you didn'ttake my advice. '

'But I tell you the ground is not potato-ground, ' I said. 

'How do you know? You haven't sown any there yet. '

'But I've turned up the surface and looked at it. It's not rich enough, and too dry, I tell you. You need swampy, boggy ground for potatoes. Doyou think I don't know land when I see it?'

'But you haven't TRIED to grow potatoes there yet, Joe. How do youknow----'

I didn't listen to any more. Mary was obstinate when she got an ideainto her head. It was no use arguing with her. All the time I'd betalking she'd just knit her forehead and go on thinking straight ahead, on the track she'd started, --just as if I wasn't there, --and it used tomake me mad. She'd keep driving at me till I took her advice or lost mytemper, --I did both at the same time, mostly. 

I took my pipe and went out to smoke and cool down. 

A couple of days after the potato breeze, I started with the team downto Cudgeegong for a load of fencing-wire I had to bring out; and afterI'd kissed Mary good-bye, she said--

'Look here, Joe, if you bring out a bag of seed-potatoes, James and Iwill slice them, and old Corny George down the creek would bring hisplough up in the dray and plough the ground for very little. We couldput the potatoes in ourselves if the ground were only ploughed. '

I thought she'd forgotten all about it. There was no time to argue--I'dbe sure to lose my temper, and then I'd either have to waste an hourcomforting Mary or go off in a 'huff', as the women call it, and bemiserable for the trip. So I said I'd see about it. She gave me anotherhug and a kiss. 'Don't forget, Joe, ' she said as I started. 'Think itover on the road. ' I reckon she had the best of it that time. 

About five miles along, just as I turned into the main road, I heardsome one galloping after me, and I saw young James on his hack. I got astart, for I thought that something had gone wrong at home. I remember, the first day I left Mary on the creek, for the first five or six milesI was half-a-dozen times on the point of turning back--only I thoughtshe'd laugh at me. 

'What is it, James?' I shouted, before he came up--but I saw he wasgrinning. 

'Mary says to tell you not to forget to bring a hoe out with you. '

'You clear off home!' I said, 'or I'll lay the whip about your younghide; and don't come riding after me again as if the run was on fire. '

'Well, you needn't get shirty with me!' he said. '*I* don't want to haveanything to do with a hoe. ' And he rode off. 

I DID get thinking about those potatoes, though I hadn't meant to. Iknew of an independent man in that district who'd made his money outof a crop of potatoes; but that was away back in the roaring'Fifties--'54--when spuds went up to twenty-eight shillings ahundredweight (in Sydney), on account of the gold rush. We might getgood rain now, and, anyway, it wouldn't cost much to put the potatoesin. If they came on well, it would be a few pounds in my pocket; if thecrop was a failure, I'd have a better show with Mary next time she wasstruck by an idea outside housekeeping, and have something to grumbleabout when I felt grumpy. 

I got a couple of bags of potatoes--we could use those that wereleft over; and I got a small iron plough and a harrow that Little theblacksmith had lying in his yard and let me have cheap--only abouta pound more than I told Mary I gave for them. When I took advice, Igenerally made the mistake of taking more than was offered, or addingnotions of my own. It was vanity, I suppose. If the crop came on well Icould claim the plough-and-harrow part of the idea, anyway. (It didn'tstrike me that if the crop failed Mary would have the plough and harrowagainst me, for old Corny would plough the ground for ten or fifteenshillings. ) Anyway, I'd want a plough and harrow later on, and I mightas well get it now; it would give James something to do. 

I came out by the western road, by Guntawang, and up the creek home; andthe first thing I saw was old Corny George ploughing the flat. AndMary was down on the bank superintending. She'd got James with thetrace-chains and the spare horses, and had made him clear off everystick and bush where another furrow might be squeezed in. Old Cornylooked pretty grumpy on it--he'd broken all his ploughshares but one, inthe roots; and James didn't look much brighter. Mary had an old felthat and a new pair of 'lastic-side boots of mine on, and the boots werecovered with clay, for she'd been down hustling James to get a rottenold stump out of the way by the time Corny came round with his nextfurrow. 

'I thought I'd make the boots easy for you, Joe, ' said Mary. 

'It's all right, Mary, ' I said. 'I'm not going to growl. ' Those bootswere a bone of contention between us; but she generally got them offbefore I got home. 

Her face fell a little when she saw the plough and harrow in the waggon, but I said that would be all right--we'd want a plough anyway. 

'I thought you wanted old Corny to plough the ground, ' she said. 

'I never said so. '

'But when I sent Jim after you about the hoe to put the spuds in, youdidn't say you wouldn't bring it, ' she said. 

I had a few days at home, and entered into the spirit of the thing. WhenCorny was done, James and I cross-ploughed the land, and got a stump ortwo, a big log, and some scrub out of the way at the upper end and addednearly an acre, and ploughed that. James was all right at most Bushwork:he'd bullock so long as the novelty lasted; he liked ploughing orfencing, or any graft he could make a show at. He didn't care forgrubbing out stumps, or splitting posts and rails. We sliced thepotatoes of an evening--and there was trouble between Mary and Jamesover cutting through the 'eyes'. There was no time for the hoe--andbesides it wasn't a novelty to James--so I just ran furrows and theydropped the spuds in behind me, and I turned another furrow over them, and ran the harrow over the ground. I think I hilled those spuds, too, with furrows--or a crop of Indian corn I put in later on. 

It rained heavens-hard for over a week: we had regular showers allthrough, and it was the finest crop of potatoes ever seen in thedistrict. I believe at first Mary used to slip down at daybreak to seeif the potatoes were up; and she'd write to me about them, on the road. I forget how many bags I got; but the few who had grown potatoes in thedistrict sent theirs to Sydney, and spuds went up to twelve and fifteenshillings a hundredweight in that district. I made a few quid out ofmine--and saved carriage too, for I could take them out on the waggon. Then Mary began to hear (through James) of a buggy that some one had forsale cheap, or a dogcart that somebody else wanted to get rid of--andlet me know about it, in an offhand way. 

II. Joe Wilson's Luck. 

There was good grass on the selection all the year. I'd picked upa small lot--about twenty head--of half-starved steers for next tonothing, and turned them on the run; they came on wonderfully, and mybrother-in-law (Mary's sister's husband), who was running a butcheryat Gulgong, gave me a good price for them. His carts ran out twenty orthirty miles, to little bits of gold-rushes that were going on at th'Home Rule, Happy Valley, Guntawang, Tallawang, and Cooyal, and thoseplaces round there, and he was doing well. 

Mary had heard of a light American waggonette, when the steers went--atray-body arrangement, and she thought she'd do with that. 'It wouldbe better than the buggy, Joe, ' she said--'there'd be more room forthe children, and, besides, I could take butter and eggs to Gulgong, or Cobborah, when we get a few more cows. ' Then James heard of a smallflock of sheep that a selector--who was about starved off his selectionout Talbragar way--wanted to get rid of. James reckoned he could getthem for less than half-a-crown a-head. We'd had a heavy shower of rain, that came over the ranges and didn't seem to go beyond our boundaries. Mary said, 'It's a pity to see all that grass going to waste, Joe. Better get those sheep and try your luck with them. Leave some moneywith me, and I'll send James over for them. Never mind about thebuggy--we'll get that when we're on our feet. '

So James rode across to Talbragar and drove a hard bargain with thatunfortunate selector, and brought the sheep home. There were about twohundred, wethers and ewes, and they were young and looked a good breedtoo, but so poor they could scarcely travel; they soon picked up, though. The drought was blazing all round and Out-Back, and I think thatmy corner of the ridges was the only place where there was any grass tospeak of. We had another shower or two, and the grass held out. Chapsbegan to talk of 'Joe Wilson's luck'. 

I would have liked to shear those sheep; but I hadn't time to get a shedor anything ready--along towards Christmas there was a bit of a boomin the carrying line. Wethers in wool were going as high as thirteento fifteen shillings at the Homebush yards at Sydney, so I arranged totruck the sheep down from the river by rail, with another small lot thatwas going, and I started James off with them. He took the west road, anddown Guntawang way a big farmer who saw James with the sheep (and whowas speculating, or adding to his stock, or took a fancy to the wool)offered James as much for them as he reckoned I'd get in Sydney, afterpaying the carriage and the agents and the auctioneer. James put thesheep in a paddock and rode back to me. He was all there where ridingwas concerned. I told him to let the sheep go. James made a Greenershot-gun, and got his saddle done up, out of that job. 

I took up a couple more forty-acre blocks--one in James's name, toencourage him with the fencing. There was a good slice of land in anangle between the range and the creek, farther down, which everybodythought belonged to Wall, the squatter, but Mary got an idea, and wentto the local land office and found out that it was 'unoccupied Crownland', and so I took it up on pastoral lease, and got a few moresheep--I'd saved some of the best-looking ewes from the last lot. 

One evening--I was going down next day for a load of fencing-wire formyself--Mary said, --

'Joe! do you know that the Matthews have got a new double buggy?'

The Matthews were a big family of cockatoos, along up the main road, andI didn't think much of them. The sons were all 'bad-eggs', though theold woman and girls were right enough. 

'Well, what of that?' I said. 'They're up to their neck in debt, andcamping like black-fellows in a big bark humpy. They do well to goflashing round in a double buggy. '

'But that isn't what I was going to say, ' said Mary. 'They want to selltheir old single buggy, James says. I'm sure you could get it for six orseven pounds; and you could have it done up. '

'I wish James to the devil!' I said. 'Can't he find anything better todo than ride round after cock-and-bull yarns about buggies?'

'Well, ' said Mary, 'it was James who got the steers and the sheep. '

Well, one word led to another, and we said things we didn't mean--butcouldn't forget in a hurry. I remember I said something about Maryalways dragging me back just when I was getting my head above water andstruggling to make a home for her and the children; and that hurt her, and she spoke of the 'homes' she'd had since she was married. And thatcut me deep. 

It was about the worst quarrel we had. When she began to cry I got myhat and went out and walked up and down by the creek. I hated anythingthat looked like injustice--I was so sensitive about it that it mademe unjust sometimes. I tried to think I was right, but I couldn't--itwouldn't have made me feel any better if I could have thought so. I gotthinking of Mary's first year on the selection and the life she'd hadsince we were married. 

When I went in she'd cried herself to sleep. I bent over and, 'Mary, ' Iwhispered. 

She seemed to wake up. 

'Joe--Joe!' she said. 

'What is it Mary?' I said. 

'I'm pretty well sure that old Spot's calf isn't in the pen. Make Jamesgo at once!'

Old Spot's last calf was two years old now; so Mary was talking in hersleep, and dreaming she was back in her first year. 

We both laughed when I told her about it afterwards; but I didn't feellike laughing just then. 

Later on in the night she called out in her sleep, --

'Joe--Joe! Put that buggy in the shed, or the sun will blister thevarnish!'

I wish I could say that that was the last time I ever spoke unkindly toMary. 

Next morning I got up early and fried the bacon and made the tea, andtook Mary's breakfast in to her--like I used to do, sometimes, when wewere first married. She didn't say anything--just pulled my head downand kissed me. 

When I was ready to start Mary said, --

'You'd better take the spring-cart in behind the dray and get the tyrescut and set. They're ready to drop off, and James has been wedging themup till he's tired of it. The last time I was out with the childrenI had to knock one of them back with a stone: there'll be an accidentyet. '

So I lashed the shafts of the cart under the tail of the waggon, andmean and ridiculous enough the cart looked, going along that way. Itsuggested a man stooping along handcuffed, with his arms held out anddown in front of him. 

It was dull weather, and the scrubs looked extra dreary and endless--andI got thinking of old things. Everything was going all right with me, but that didn't keep me from brooding sometimes--trying to hatch outstones, like an old hen we had at home. I think, taking it all round, Iused to be happier when I was mostly hard-up--and more generous. When Ihad ten pounds I was more likely to listen to a chap who said, 'Lend mea pound-note, Joe, ' than when I had fifty; THEN I fought shy of carelesschaps--and lost mates that I wanted afterwards--and got the name ofbeing mean. When I got a good cheque I'd be as miserable as a miser overthe first ten pounds I spent; but when I got down to the last I'd buythings for the house. And now that I was getting on, I hated to spenda pound on anything. But then, the farther I got away from poverty thegreater the fear I had of it--and, besides, there was always before usall the thought of the terrible drought, with blazing runs as bare anddusty as the road, and dead stock rotting every yard, all along thebarren creeks. 

I had a long yarn with Mary's sister and her husband that night inGulgong, and it brightened me up. I had a fancy that that sort of abrother-in-law made a better mate than a nearer one; Tom Tarrant hadone, and he said it was sympathy. But while we were yarning I couldn'thelp thinking of Mary, out there in the hut on the Creek, with no one totalk to but the children, or James, who was sulky at home, or BlackMary or Black Jimmy (our black boy's father and mother), who weren'toversentimental. Or maybe a selector's wife (the nearest was fivemiles away), who could talk only of two or three things--'lambin'' and'shearin'' and 'cookin' for the men', and what she said to her old man, and what he said to her--and her own ailments--over and over again. 

It's a wonder it didn't drive Mary mad!--I know I could never listen tothat woman more than an hour. Mary's sister said, --

'Now if Mary had a comfortable buggy, she could drive in with thechildren oftener. Then she wouldn't feel the loneliness so much. '

I said 'Good night' then and turned in. There was no getting away fromthat buggy. Whenever Mary's sister started hinting about a buggy, Ireckoned it was a put-up job between them. 

III. The Ghost of Mary's Sacrifice. 

When I got to Gudgeegong I stopped at Galletly's coach-shop to leave thecart. The Galletlys were good fellows: there were two brothers--one wasa saddler and harness-maker. Big brown-bearded men--the biggest men inthe district, 'twas said. 

Their old man had died lately and left them some money; they had men, and only worked in their shops when they felt inclined, or there was aspecial work to do; they were both first-class tradesmen. I went intothe painter's shop to have a look at a double buggy that Galletly hadbuilt for a man who couldn't pay cash for it when it was finished--andGalletly wouldn't trust him. 

There it stood, behind a calico screen that the coach-painters used tokeep out the dust when they were varnishing. It was a first-class pieceof work--pole, shafts, cushions, whip, lamps, and all complete. If youonly wanted to drive one horse you could take out the pole and put inthe shafts, and there you were. There was a tilt over the front seat;if you only wanted the buggy to carry two, you could fold down the backseat, and there you had a handsome, roomy, single buggy. It would gonear fifty pounds. 

While I was looking at it, Bill Galletly came in, and slapped me on theback. 

'Now, there's a chance for you, Joe!' he said. 'I saw you rubbing yourhead round that buggy the last time you were in. You wouldn't get abetter one in the colonies, and you won't see another like it in thedistrict again in a hurry--for it doesn't pay to build 'em. Now you're afull-blown squatter, and it's time you took little Mary for a fly roundin her own buggy now and then, instead of having her stuck out there inthe scrub, or jolting through the dust in a cart like some old MotherFlourbag. '

He called her 'little Mary' because the Galletly family had known herwhen she was a girl. 

I rubbed my head and looked at the buggy again. It was a greattemptation. 

'Look here, Joe, ' said Bill Galletly in a quieter tone. 'I'll tell youwhat I'll do. I'll let YOU have the buggy. You can take it out and sendalong a bit of a cheque when you feel you can manage it, and the restlater on, --a year will do, or even two years. You've had a hard pull, and I'm not likely to be hard up for money in a hurry. '

They were good fellows the Galletlys, but they knew their men. Ihappened to know that Bill Galletly wouldn't let the man he built thebuggy for take it out of the shop without cash down, though he was abig-bug round there. But that didn't make it easier for me. 

Just then Robert Galletly came into the shop. He was rather quieter thanhis brother, but the two were very much alike. 

'Look here, Bob, ' said Bill; 'here's a chance for you to get rid of yourharness. Joe Wilson's going to take that buggy off my hands. '

Bob Galletly put his foot up on a saw-stool, took one hand out of hispockets, rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on the palm of hishand, and bunched up his big beard with his fingers, as he always didwhen he was thinking. Presently he took his foot down, put his handback in his pocket, and said to me, 'Well, Joe, I've got a double set ofharness made for the man who ordered that damned buggy, and if you likeI'll let you have it. I suppose when Bill there has squeezed all hecan out of you I'll stand a show of getting something. He's a regularShylock, he is. '

I pushed my hat forward and rubbed the back of my head and stared at thebuggy. 

'Come across to the Royal, Joe, ' said Bob. 

But I knew that a beer would settle the business, so I said I'd get thewool up to the station first and think it over, and have a drink when Icame back. 

I thought it over on the way to the station, but it didn't seem goodenough. I wanted to get some more sheep, and there was the new run tobe fenced in, and the instalments on the selections. I wanted lots ofthings that I couldn't well do without. Then, again, the farther I gotaway from debt and hard-upedness the greater the horror I had of it. Ihad two horses that would do; but I'd have to get another later on, andaltogether the buggy would run me nearer a hundred than fifty pounds. Supposing a dry season threw me back with that buggy on my hands. Besides, I wanted a spell. If I got the buggy it would only mean anextra turn of hard graft for me. No, I'd take Mary for a trip to Sydney, and she'd have to be satisfied with that. 

I'd got it settled, and was just turning in through the big whitegates to the goods-shed when young Black, the squatter, dashed past thestation in his big new waggonette, with his wife and a driver and a lotof portmanteaus and rugs and things. They were going to do the grandin Sydney over Christmas. Now it was young Black who was so shook afterMary when she was in service with the Blacks before the old man died, and if I hadn't come along--and if girls never cared for vagabonds--Marywould have been mistress of Haviland homestead, with servants to wait onher; and she was far better fitted for it than the one that was there. She would have been going to Sydney every holiday and putting up at theold Royal, with every comfort that a woman could ask for, and seeinga play every night. And I'd have been knocking around amongst the bigstations Out-Back, or maybe drinking myself to death at the shanties. 

The Blacks didn't see me as I went by, ragged and dusty, and with anold, nearly black, cabbage-tree hat drawn over my eyes. I didn't carea damn for them, or any one else, at most times, but I had moods when Ifelt things. 

One of Black's big wool teams was just coming away from the shed, andthe driver, a big, dark, rough fellow, with some foreign blood in him, didn't seem inclined to wheel his team an inch out of the middle of theroad. I stopped my horses and waited. He looked at me and I looked athim--hard. Then he wheeled off, scowling, and swearing at his horses. I'd given him a hiding, six or seven years before, and he hadn'tforgotten it. And I felt then as if I wouldn't mind trying to give someone a hiding. 

The goods clerk must have thought that Joe Wilson was pretty grumpy thatday. I was thinking of Mary, out there in the lonely hut on a barrencreek in the Bush--for it was little better--with no one to speak toexcept a haggard, worn-out Bushwoman or two, that came to see heron Sunday. I thought of the hardships she went through in the firstyear--that I haven't told you about yet; of the time she was ill, and Iaway, and no one to understand; of the time she was alone with James andJim sick; and of the loneliness she fought through out there. I thoughtof Mary, outside in the blazing heat, with an old print dress and afelt hat, and a pair of 'lastic-siders of mine on, doing the work ofa station manager as well as that of a housewife and mother. And hercheeks were getting thin, and her colour was going: I thought of thegaunt, brick-brown, saw-file voiced, hopeless and spiritless Bushwomen Iknew--and some of them not much older than Mary. 

When I went back down into the town, I had a drink with Bill Galletly atthe Royal, and that settled the buggy; then Bob shouted, * and I took theharness. Then I shouted, to wet the bargain. When I was going, Bob said, 'Send in that young scamp of a brother of Mary's with the horses: ifthe collars don't fit I'll fix up a pair of makeshifts, and alter theothers. ' I thought they both gripped my hand harder than usual, but thatmight have been the beer. 

 * 'Shout', to buy a round of drinks. --A. L. , 1997. 

IV. The Buggy Comes Home. 

I 'whipped the cat' a bit, the first twenty miles or so, but then, Ithought, what did it matter? What was the use of grinding to save moneyuntil we were too old to enjoy it. If we had to go down in the worldagain, we might as well fall out of a buggy as out of a dray--there'd besome talk about it, anyway, and perhaps a little sympathy. When Mary hadthe buggy she wouldn't be tied down so much to that wretched hole in theBush; and the Sydney trips needn't be off either. I could drive down toWallerawang on the main line, where Mary had some people, and leave thebuggy and horses there, and take the train to Sydney; or go right on, bythe old coach-road, over the Blue Mountains: it would be a grand drive. I thought best to tell Mary's sister at Gulgong about the buggy; I toldher I'd keep it dark from Mary till the buggy came home. She enteredinto the spirit of the thing, and said she'd give the world to be ableto go out with the buggy, if only to see Mary open her eyes when she sawit; but she couldn't go, on account of a new baby she had. I was ratherglad she couldn't, for it would spoil the surprise a little, I thought. I wanted that all to myself. 

I got home about sunset next day, and, after tea, when I'd finishedtelling Mary all the news, and a few lies as to why I didn't bring thecart back, and one or two other things, I sat with James, out on a logof the wood-heap, where we generally had our smokes and interviews, andtold him all about the buggy. He whistled, then he said--

'But what do you want to make it such a Bushranging business for?Why can't you tell Mary now? It will cheer her up. She's been prettymiserable since you've been away this trip. '

'I want it to be a surprise, ' I said. 

'Well, I've got nothing to say against a surprise, out in a hole likethis; but it 'ud take a lot to surprise me. What am I to say to Maryabout taking the two horses in? I'll only want one to bring the cartout, and she's sure to ask. '

'Tell her you're going to get yours shod. '

'But he had a set of slippers only the other day. She knows as muchabout horses as we do. I don't mind telling a lie so long as a chap hasonly got to tell a straight lie and be done with it. But Mary asks somany questions. '

'Well, drive the other horse up the creek early, and pick him up as yougo. '

'Yes. And she'll want to know what I want with two bridles. But I'll fixher--YOU needn't worry. '

'And, James, ' I said, 'get a chamois leather and sponge--we'll want 'emanyway--and you might give the buggy a wash down in the creek, cominghome. It's sure to be covered with dust. '

'Oh!--orlright. '

'And if you can, time yourself to get here in the cool of the evening, or just about sunset. '

'What for?'

I'd thought it would be better to have the buggy there in the coolof the evening, when Mary would have time to get excited and get overit--better than in the blazing hot morning, when the sun rose as hot asat noon, and we'd have the long broiling day before us. 

'What do you want me to come at sunset for?' asked James. 'Do you wantme to camp out in the scrub and turn up like a blooming sundowner?'

'Oh well, ' I said, 'get here at midnight if you like. '

We didn't say anything for a while--just sat and puffed at our pipes. Then I said, --

'Well, what are you thinking about?'

I'm thinking it's time you got a new hat, the sun seems to get inthrough your old one too much, ' and he got out of my reach and went tosee about penning the calves. Before we turned in he said, --

'Well, what am I to get out of the job, Joe?'

He had his eye on a double-barrel gun that Franca the gunsmith inCudgeegong had--one barrel shot, and the other rifle; so I said, --

'How much does Franca want for that gun?'

'Five-ten; but I think he'd take my single barrel off it. Anyway, I cansqueeze a couple of quid out of Phil Lambert for the single barrel. '(Phil was his bosom chum. )

'All right, ' I said. 'Make the best bargain you can. '

He got his own breakfast and made an early start next morning, to getclear of any instructions or messages that Mary might have forgotten togive him overnight. He took his gun with him. 

I'd always thought that a man was a fool who couldn't keep a secretfrom his wife--that there was something womanish about him. I found out. Those three days waiting for the buggy were about the longest I everspent in my life. It made me scotty with every one and everything;and poor Mary had to suffer for it. I put in the time patching up theharness and mending the stockyard and the roof, and, the third morning, I rode up the ridges to look for trees for fencing-timber. I remember Ihurried home that afternoon because I thought the buggy might get therebefore me. 

At tea-time I got Mary on to the buggy business. 

'What's the good of a single buggy to you, Mary?' I asked. 'There's onlyroom for two, and what are you going to do with the children when we goout together?'

'We can put them on the floor at our feet, like other people do. I canalways fold up a blanket or 'possum rug for them to sit on. '

But she didn't take half so much interest in buggy talk as she wouldhave taken at any other time, when I didn't want her to. Women areaggravating that way. But the poor girl was tired and not very well, andboth the children were cross. She did look knocked up. 

'We'll give the buggy a rest, Joe, ' she said. (I thought I heard itcoming then. ) 'It seems as far off as ever. I don't know why you want toharp on it to-day. Now, don't look so cross, Joe--I didn't mean to hurtyou. We'll wait until we can get a double buggy, since you're so set onit. There'll be plenty of time when we're better off. '

After tea, when the youngsters were in bed, and she'd washed up, we satoutside on the edge of the verandah floor, Mary sewing, and I smokingand watching the track up the creek. 

'Why don't you talk, Joe?' asked Mary. 'You scarcely ever speak to menow: it's like drawing blood out of a stone to get a word from you. Whatmakes you so cross, Joe?'

'Well, I've got nothing to say. '

'But you should find something. Think of me--it's very miserable for me. Have you anything on your mind? Is there any new trouble? Better tellme, no matter what it is, and not go worrying and brooding and makingboth our lives miserable. If you never tell one anything, how can youexpect me to understand?'

I said there was nothing the matter. 

'But there must be, to make you so unbearable. Have you been drinking, Joe--or gambling?'

I asked her what she'd accuse me of next. 

'And another thing I want to speak to you about, ' she went on. 'Now, don't knit up your forehead like that, Joe, and get impatient----'

'Well, what is it?'

'I wish you wouldn't swear in the hearing of the children. Now, littleJim to-day, he was trying to fix his little go-cart and it wouldn't runright, and--and----'

'Well, what did he say?'

'He--he' (she seemed a little hysterical, trying not to laugh)--'he said"damn it!"'

I had to laugh. Mary tried to keep serious, but it was no use. 

'Never mind, old woman, ' I said, putting an arm round her, for hermouth was trembling, and she was crying more than laughing. 'It won't bealways like this. Just wait till we're a bit better off. '

Just then a black boy we had (I must tell you about him some other time)came sidling along by the wall, as if he were afraid somebody was goingto hit him--poor little devil! I never did. 

'What is it, Harry?' said Mary. 

'Buggy comin', I bin thinkit. '

'Where?'

He pointed up the creek. 

'Sure it's a buggy?'

'Yes, missus. '

'How many horses?'

'One--two. '

We knew that he could hear and see things long before we could. Marywent and perched on the wood-heap, and shaded her eyes--though the sunhad gone--and peered through between the eternal grey trunks of thestunted trees on the flat across the creek. Presently she jumped downand came running in. 

'There's some one coming in a buggy, Joe!' she cried, excitedly. 'Andboth my white table-cloths are rough dry. Harry! put two flat-irons downto the fire, quick, and put on some more wood. It's lucky I kept thosenew sheets packed away. Get up out of that, Joe! What are you sittinggrinning like that for? Go and get on another shirt. Hurry--Why! It'sonly James--by himself. '

She stared at me, and I sat there, grinning like a fool. 

'Joe!' she said, 'whose buggy is that?'

'Well, I suppose it's yours, ' I said. 

She caught her breath, and stared at the buggy and then at me again. James drove down out of sight into the crossing, and came up close tothe house. 

'Oh, Joe! what have you done?' cried Mary. 'Why, it's a new doublebuggy!' Then she rushed at me and hugged my head. 'Why didn't you tellme, Joe? You poor old boy!--and I've been nagging at you all day!' andshe hugged me again. 

James got down and started taking the horses out--as if it was aneveryday occurrence. I saw the double-barrel gun sticking out from underthe seat. He'd stopped to wash the buggy, and I suppose that's what madehim grumpy. Mary stood on the verandah, with her eyes twice as big asusual, and breathing hard--taking the buggy in. 

James skimmed the harness off, and the horses shook themselves andwent down to the dam for a drink. 'You'd better look under the seats, 'growled James, as he took his gun out with great care. 

Mary dived for the buggy. There was a dozen of lemonade and ginger-beerin a candle-box from Galletly--James said that Galletly's men had agallon of beer, and they cheered him, James (I suppose he meant theycheered the buggy), as he drove off; there was a 'little bit of aham' from Pat Murphy, the storekeeper at Home Rule, that he'd 'curedhimself'--it was the biggest I ever saw; there were three loaves ofbaker's bread, a cake, and a dozen yards of something 'to make up forthe children', from Aunt Gertrude at Gulgong; there was a fresh-watercod, that long Dave Regan had caught the night before in the Macquarieriver, and sent out packed in salt in a box; there was a holland suitfor the black boy, with red braid to trim it; and there was a jar ofpreserved ginger, and some lollies (sweets) ('for the lil' boy'), anda rum-looking Chinese doll and a rattle ('for lil' girl') from Sun TongLee, our storekeeper at Gulgong--James was chummy with Sun Tong Lee, and got his powder and shot and caps there on tick when he was short ofmoney. And James said that the people would have loaded the buggy with'rubbish' if he'd waited. They all seemed glad to see Joe Wilson gettingon--and these things did me good. 

We got the things inside, and I don't think either of us knew what wewere saying or doing for the next half-hour. Then James put his head inand said, in a very injured tone, --

'What about my tea? I ain't had anything to speak of since I leftCudgeegong. I want some grub. '

Then Mary pulled herself together. 

'You'll have your tea directly, ' she said. 'Pick up that harness atonce, and hang it on the pegs in the skillion; and you, Joe, backthat buggy under the end of the verandah, the dew will be on itpresently--and we'll put wet bags up in front of it to-morrow, tokeep the sun off. And James will have to go back to Cudgeegong for thecart, --we can't have that buggy to knock about in. '

'All right, ' said James--'anything! Only get me some grub. '

Mary fried the fish, in case it wouldn't keep till the morning, andrubbed over the tablecloths, now the irons were hot--James growlingall the time--and got out some crockery she had packed away that hadbelonged to her mother, and set the table in a style that made Jamesuncomfortable. 

'I want some grub--not a blooming banquet!' he said. And he growled alot because Mary wanted him to eat his fish without a knife, 'and thatsort of Tommy-rot. ' When he'd finished he took his gun, and the blackboy, and the dogs, and went out 'possum-shooting. 

When we were alone Mary climbed into the buggy to try the seat, andmade me get up alongside her. We hadn't had such a comfortable seat foryears; but we soon got down, in case any one came by, for we began tofeel like a pair of fools up there. 

Then we sat, side by side, on the edge of the verandah, and talkedmore than we'd done for years--and there was a good deal of 'Do youremember?' in it--and I think we got to understand each other betterthat night. 

And at last Mary said, 'Do you know, Joe, why, I feel to-nightjust--just like I did the day we were married. '

And somehow I had that strange, shy sort of feeling too. 

The Writer Wants to Say a Word. 

In writing the first sketch of the Joe Wilson series, which happenedto be 'Brighten's Sister-in-law', I had an idea of making Joe Wilson astrong character. Whether he is or not, the reader must judge. It seemsto me that the man's natural sentimental selfishness, good-nature, 'softness', or weakness--call it which you like--developed as I wroteon. 

I know Joe Wilson very well. He has been through deep trouble since theday he brought the double buggy to Lahey's Creek. I met him in Sydneythe other day. Tall and straight yet--rather straighter than he hadbeen--dressed in a comfortable, serviceable sac suit of 'saddle-tweed', and wearing a new sugar-loaf, cabbage-tree hat, he looked over thehurrying street people calmly as though they were sheep of which he wasnot in charge, and which were not likely to get 'boxed' with his. Notthe worst way in which to regard the world. 

He talked deliberately and quietly in all that roar and rush. He is ayoung man yet, comparatively speaking, but it would take little Mary along while now to pick the grey hairs out of his head, and the processwould leave him pretty bald. 

In two or three short sketches in another book I hope to complete thestory of his life. 

Part II. 

The Golden Graveyard. 

Mother Middleton was an awful woman, an 'old hand' (transported convict)some said. The prefix 'mother' in Australia mostly means 'old hag', and is applied in that sense. In early boyhood we understood, fromold diggers, that Mother Middleton--in common with most other 'oldhands'--had been sent out for 'knocking a donkey off a hen-roost. ' Wehad never seen a donkey. She drank like a fish and swore like a trooperwhen the spirit moved her; she went on periodical sprees, and swore onmost occasions. There was a fearsome yarn, which impressed us greatlyas boys, to the effect that once, in her best (or worst) days, she hadpulled a mounted policeman off his horse, and half-killed him with aheavy pick-handle, which she used for poking down clothes in her boiler. She said that he had insulted her. 

She could still knock down a tree and cut a load of firewood with anyBushman; she was square and muscular, with arms like a navvy's; she hadoften worked shifts, below and on top, with her husband, when he'd beputting down a prospecting shaft without a mate, as he often had todo--because of her mainly. Old diggers said that it was lovely to seehow she'd spin up a heavy green-hide bucket full of clay and 'tailings', and land and empty it with a twist of her wrist. Most men were afraid ofher, and few diggers' wives were strong-minded enough to seek a secondrow with Mother Middleton. Her voice could be heard right across GoldenGully and Specimen Flat, whether raised in argument or in friendlygreeting. She came to the old Pipeclay diggings with the 'rough crowd'(mostly Irish), and when the old and new Pipeclays were worked out, shewent with the rush to Gulgong (about the last of the great alluvial or'poor-man's' goldfields) and came back to Pipeclay when the Log Paddockgoldfield 'broke out', adjacent to the old fields, and so helped provethe truth of the old digger's saying, that no matter how thoroughlyground has been worked, there is always room for a new Ballarat. 

Jimmy Middleton died at Log Paddock, and was buried, about the last, in the little old cemetery--appertaining to the old farming town on theriver, about four miles away--which adjoined the district racecourse, inthe Bush, on the far edge of Specimen Flat. She conducted the funeral. Some said she made the coffin, and there were alleged jokes to theeffect that her tongue had provided the corpse; but this, I think, wasunfair and cruel, for she loved Jimmy Middleton in her awful way, andwas, for all I ever heard to the contrary, a good wife to him. She thenlived in a hut in Log Paddock, on a little money in the bank, and didsewing and washing for single diggers. 

I remember hearing her one morning in neighbourly conversation, carriedon across the gully, with a selector, Peter Olsen, who was hopelesslyslaving to farm a dusty patch in the scrub. 

'Why don't you chuck up that dust-hole and go up country and settle ongood land, Peter Olsen? You're only slaving your stomach out here. ' (Shedidn't say stomach. )

*Peter Olsen* (mild-whiskered little man, afraid of his wife). 'But thenyou know my wife is so delicate, Mrs Middleton. I wouldn't like to takeher out in the Bush. '

*Mrs Middleton*. 'Delicate, be damned! she's only shamming!' (at herloudest. ) 'Why don't you kick her off the bed and the book out of herhand, and make her go to work? She's as delicate as I am. Are you a man, Peter Olsen, or a----?'

This for the edification of the wife and of all within half a mile. 

Long Paddock was 'petering'. There were a few claims still being workeddown at the lowest end, where big, red-and-white waste-heaps of clay andgravel, rising above the blue-grey gum-bushes, advertised deep sinking;and little, yellow, clay-stained streams, running towards the creek overthe drought-parched surface, told of trouble with the water below--timelost in baling and extra expense in timbering. And diggers came up withtheir flannels and moleskins yellow and heavy, and dripping with wet'mullock'. 

Most of the diggers had gone to other fields, but there were a fewprospecting, in parties and singly, out on the flats and amongst theridges round Pipeclay. Sinking holes in search of a new Ballarat. 

Dave Regan--lanky, easy-going Bush native; Jim Bently--a bit of a 'FlashJack'; and Andy Page--a character like what 'Kit' (in the 'Old CuriosityShop') might have been after a voyage to Australia and some Colonialexperience. These three were mates from habit and not necessity, forit was all shallow sinking where they worked. They were poking downpot-holes in the scrub in the vicinity of the racecourse, where thesinking was from ten to fifteen feet. 

Dave had theories--'ideers' or 'notions' he called them; Jim Bently laidclaim to none--he ran by sight, not scent, like a kangaroo-dog. AndyPage--by the way, great admirer and faithful retainer of Dave Regan--wassimple and trusting, but, on critical occasions, he was apt to beobstinately, uncomfortably, exasperatingly truthful, honest, and he hadreverence for higher things. 

Dave thought hard all one quiet drowsy Sunday afternoon, and nextmorning he, as head of the party, started to sink a hole as close to thecemetery fence as he dared. It was a nice quiet spot in the thick scrub, about three panels along the fence from the farthest corner postfrom the road. They bottomed here at nine feet, and found encouragingindications. They 'drove' (tunnelled) inwards at right angles to thefence, and at a point immediately beneath it they were 'making tucker';a few feet farther and they were making wages. The old alluvial bottomsloped gently that way. The bottom here, by the way, was shelving, brownish, rotten rock. 

Just inside the cemetery fence, and at right angles to Dave's drive, lay the shell containing all that was left of the late fiercely lamentedJames Middleton, with older graves close at each end. A gravewas supposed to be six feet deep, and local gravediggers had beenconscientious. The old alluvial bottom sloped from nine to fifteen feethere. 

Dave worked the ground all round from the bottom of his shaft, timbering--i. E. , putting in a sapling prop--here and there where heworked wide; but the 'payable dirt' ran in under the cemetery, and in noother direction. 

Dave, Jim, and Andy held a consultation in camp over their pipesafter tea, as a result of which Andy next morning rolled up his swag, sorrowfully but firmly shook hands with Dave and Jim, and started totramp Out-Back to look for work on a sheep-station. 

This was Dave's theory--drawn from a little experience and many longyarns with old diggers:--

He had bottomed on a slope to an old original water-course, covered withclay and gravel from the hills by centuries of rains to the depth offrom nine or ten to twenty feet; he had bottomed on a gutter runninginto the bed of the old buried creek, and carrying patches and streaksof 'wash' or gold-bearing dirt. If he went on he might strike it richat any stroke of his pick; he might strike the rich 'lead' which wassupposed to exist round there. (There was always supposed to be a richlead round there somewhere. 'There's gold in them ridges yet--if a mancan only git at it, ' says the toothless old relic of the Roaring Days. )

Dave might strike a ledge, 'pocket', or 'pot-hole' holding wash richwith gold. He had prospected on the opposite side of the cemetery, foundno gold, and the bottom sloping upwards towards the graveyard. He hadprospected at the back of the cemetery, found a few 'colours', and thebottom sloping downwards towards the point under the cemetery towardswhich all indications were now leading him. He had sunk shafts acrossthe road opposite the cemetery frontage and found the sinking twentyfeet and not a colour of gold. Probably the whole of the ground underthe cemetery was rich--maybe the richest in the district. The oldgravediggers had not been gold-diggers--besides, the graves, being sixfeet, would, none of them, have touched the alluvial bottom. Therewas nothing strange in the fact that none of the crowd of experienceddiggers who rushed the district had thought of the cemetery andracecourse. Old brick chimneys and houses, the clay for the bricks ofwhich had been taken from sites of subsequent goldfields, had been putthrough the crushing-mill in subsequent years and had yielded 'payablegold'. Fossicking Chinamen were said to have been the first to detect acase of this kind. 

Dave reckoned to strike the 'lead', or a shelf or ledge with a goodstreak of wash lying along it, at a point about forty feet within thecemetery. But a theory in alluvial gold-mining was much like a theoryin gambling, in some respects. The theory might be right enough, but oldvolcanic disturbances--'the shrinkage of the earth's surface, ' and thatsort of old thing--upset everything. You might follow good gold alonga ledge, just under the grass, till it suddenly broke off and thecontinuation might be a hundred feet or so under your nose. 

Had the 'ground' in the cemetery been 'open' Dave would have gone to thepoint under which he expected the gold to lie, sunk a shaft there, andworked the ground. It would have been the quickest and easiest way--itwould have saved the labour and the time lost in dragging heavy bucketsof dirt along a low lengthy drive to the shaft outside the fence. Butit was very doubtful if the Government could have been moved to openthe cemetery even on the strongest evidence of the existence of a richgoldfield under it, and backed by the influence of a number of diggersand their backers--which last was what Dave wished for least of all. Hewanted, above all things, to keep the thing shady. Then, again, the oldclannish local spirit of the old farming town, rooted in years way backof the goldfields, would have been too strong for the Government, oreven a rush of wild diggers. 

'We'll work this thing on the strict Q. T. , ' said Dave. 

He and Jim had a consultation by the camp fire outside their tent. Jimgrumbled, in conclusion, --

'Well, then, best go under Jimmy Middleton. It's the shortest andstraightest, and Jimmy's the freshest, anyway. '

Then there was another trouble. How were they to account for the size ofthe waste-heap of clay on the surface which would be the result of suchan extraordinary length of drive or tunnel for shallow sinkings? Davehad an idea of carrying some of the dirt away by night and putting itdown a deserted shaft close by; but that would double the labour, andmight lead to detection sooner than anything else. There were boys'possum-hunting on those flats every night. Then Dave got an idea. 

There was supposed to exist--and it has since been proved--another, asecond gold-bearing alluvial bottom on that field, and several had triedfor it. One, the town watchmaker, had sunk all his money in 'duffers', trying for the second bottom. It was supposed to exist at a depthof from eighty to a hundred feet--on solid rock, I suppose. Thiswatchmaker, an Italian, would put men on to sink, and superintend inperson, and whenever he came to a little 'colour'-showing shelf, orfalse bottom, thirty or forty feet down--he'd go rooting round and spoilthe shaft, and then start to sink another. It was extraordinary thathe hadn't the sense to sink straight down, thoroughly test the secondbottom, and if he found no gold there, to fill the shaft up to the otherbottoms, or build platforms at the proper level and then explore them. He was living in a lunatic asylum the last time I heard of him. And thelast time I heard from that field, they were boring the ground like asieve, with the latest machinery, to find the best place to put down adeep shaft, and finding gold from the second bottom on the bore. But I'mright off the line again. 

'Old Pinter', Ballarat digger--his theory on second and other bottomsran as follows:--

'Ye see, THIS here grass surface--this here surface with trees an' grasson it, that we're livin' on, has got nothin' to do with us. This herebottom in the shaller sinkin's that we're workin' on is the slope to thebed of the NEW crick that was on the surface about the time that men wasmissin' links. The false bottoms, thirty or forty feet down, kin be saidto have been on the surface about the time that men was monkeys. TheSECON' bottom--eighty or a hundred feet down--was on the surface aboutthe time when men was frogs. Now----'

But it's with the missing-link surface we have to do, and had thefriends of the local departed known what Dave and Jim were up to theywould have regarded them as something lower than missing-links. 

'We'll give out we're tryin' for the second bottom, ' said Dave Regan. 'We'll have to rig a fan for air, anyhow, and you don't want air inshallow sinkings. '

'And some one will come poking round, and look down the hole and see thebottom, ' said Jim Bently. 

'We must keep 'em away, ' said Dave. 'Tar the bottom, or cover it withtarred canvas, to make it black. Then they won't see it. There's notmany diggers left, and the rest are going; they're chucking up theclaims in Log Paddock. Besides, I could get drunk and pick rows with therest and they wouldn't come near me. The farmers ain't in love withus diggers, so they won't bother us. No man has a right to come pokinground another man's claim: it ain't ettykit--I'll root up that oldettykit and stand to it--it's rather worn out now, but that's no matter. We'll shift the tent down near the claim and see that no one comesnosing round on Sunday. They'll think we're only some more second-bottomlunatics, like Francea [the mining watchmaker]. We're going to get ourfortune out from under that old graveyard, Jim. You leave it all to metill you're born again with brains. '

Dave's schemes were always elaborate, and that was why they so oftencame to the ground. He logged up his windlass platform a little higher, bent about eighty feet of rope to the bole of the windlass, which was anew one, and thereafter, whenever a suspicious-looking party (that isto say, a digger) hove in sight, Dave would let down about forty feet ofrope and then wind, with simulated exertion, until the slack was takenup and the rope lifted the bucket from the shallow bottom. 

'It would look better to have a whip-pole and a horse, but we can'tafford them just yet, ' said Dave. 

But I'm a little behind. They drove straight in under the cemetery, finding good wash all the way. The edge of Jimmy Middleton's boxappeared in the top corner of the 'face' (the working end) of the drive. They went under the butt-end of the grave. They shoved up the end of theshell with a prop, to prevent the possibility of an accident which mightdisturb the mound above; they puddled--i. E. , rammed--stiff clay up roundthe edges to keep the loose earth from dribbling down; and having giventhe bottom of the coffin a good coat of tar, they got over, or ratherunder, an unpleasant matter. 

Jim Bently smoked and burnt paper during his shift below, and grumbled agood deal. 'Blowed if I ever thought I'd be rooting for gold down amongthe blanky dead men, ' he said. But the dirt panned out better everydish they washed, and Dave worked the 'wash' out right and left as theydrove. 

But, one fine morning, who should come along but the very last manwhom Dave wished to see round there--'Old Pinter' (James Poynton), Californian and Victorian digger of the old school. He'd beenprospecting down the creek, carried his pick over his shoulder--threadedthrough the eye in the heft of his big-bladed, short-handled shovel thathung behind--and his gold-dish under his arm. 

I mightn't get a chance again to explain what a gold-dish and whatgold-washing is. A gold washing-dish is a flat dish--nearer the shapeof a bedroom bath-tub than anything else I have seen in England, or thedish we used for setting milk--I don't know whether the same is usedhere: the gold-dish measures, say, eighteen inches across the top. Youget it full of wash dirt, squat down at a convenient place at the edgeof the water-hole, where there is a rest for the dish in the water justbelow its own depth. You sink the dish and let the clay and gravel soaka while, then you work and rub it up with your hands, and as the claydissolves, dish it off as muddy water or mullock. You are careful towash the pebbles in case there is any gold sticking to them. And so tillall the muddy or clayey matter is gone, and there is nothing but cleangravel in the bottom of the dish. You work this off carefully, turningthe dish about this way and that and swishing the water round in it. Itrequires some practice. The gold keeps to the bottom of the dish, byits own weight. At last there is only a little half-moon of sand or finegravel in the bottom lower edge of the dish--you work the dish slantingfrom you. Presently the gold, if there was any in the dirt, appears in'colours', grains, or little nuggets along the base of the half-moon ofsand. The more gold there is in the dirt, or the coarser the gold is, the sooner it appears. A practised digger can work off the last speck ofgravel, without losing a 'colour', by just working the water round andoff in the dish. Also a careful digger could throw a handful of goldin a tub of dirt, and, washing it off in dishfuls, recover practicallyevery colour. 

The gold-washing 'cradle' is a box, shaped something like a boot, andthe size of a travelling trunk, with rockers on, like a baby's cradle, and a stick up behind for a handle; on top, where you'll put your footinto the boot, is a tray with a perforated iron bottom; the clay andgravel is thrown on the tray, water thrown on it, and the cradle rockedsmartly. The finer gravel and the mullock goes through and down over asloping board covered with blanket, and with ledges on it to catch thegold. The dish was mostly used for prospecting; large quantities of washdirt was put through the horse-power 'puddling-machine', which thereisn't room to describe here. 

''Ello, Dave!' said Pinter, after looking with mild surprise at the sizeof Dave's waste-heap. 'Tryin' for the second bottom?'

'Yes, ' said Dave, guttural. 

Pinter dropped his tools with a clatter at the foot of the waste-heapand scratched under his ear like an old cockatoo, which bird heresembled. Then he went to the windlass, and resting his hands on hisknees, he peered down, while Dave stood by helpless and hopeless. 

Pinter straightened himself, blinking like an owl, and looked carelesslyover the graveyard. 

'Tryin' for a secon' bottom, ' he reflected absently. 'Eh, Dave?'

Dave only stood and looked black. 

Pinter tilted back his head and scratched the roots of hischin-feathers, which stuck out all round like a dirty, ragged fan heldhorizontally. 

'Kullers is safe, ' reflected Pinter. 

'All right?' snapped Dave. 'I suppose we must let him into it. '

'Kullers' was a big American buck nigger, and had been Pinter's mate forsome time--Pinter was a man of odd mates; and what Pinter meant was thatKullers was safe to hold his tongue. 

Next morning Pinter and his coloured mate appeared on the ground early, Pinter with some tools and the nigger with a windlass-bole on hisshoulders. Pinter chose a spot about three panels or thirty feet alongthe other fence, the back fence of the cemetery, and started his hole. He lost no time for the sake of appearances, he sunk his shaft andstarted to drive straight for the point under the cemetery for whichDave was making; he gave out that he had bottomed on good 'indications'running in the other direction, and would work the ground outside thefence. Meanwhile Dave rigged a fan--partly for the sake of appearances, but mainly because his and Jim's lively imaginations made the air in thedrive worse than it really was. A 'fan' is a thing like a paddle-wheelrigged in a box, about the size of a cradle, and something the shape ofa shoe, but rounded over the top. There is a small grooved wheel on theaxle of the fan outside, and an endless line, like a clothes-line, iscarried over this wheel and a groove in the edge of a high light woodendriving-wheel rigged between two uprights in the rear and with a handleto turn. That's how the thing is driven. A wind-chute, like an endlesspillow-slip, made of calico, with the mouth tacked over the open toe ofthe fan-box, and the end taken down the shaft and along the drive--thiscarries the fresh air into the workings. 

Dave was working the ground on each side as he went, when one morninga thought struck him that should have struck him the day Pinter went towork. He felt mad that it hadn't struck him sooner. 

Pinter and Kullers had also shifted their tent down into a nice quietplace in the Bush close handy; so, early next Sunday morning, whilePinter and Kullers were asleep, Dave posted Jim Bently to watch theirtent, and whistle an alarm if they stirred, and then dropped down intoPinter's hole and saw at a glance what he was up to. 

After that Dave lost no time: he drove straight on, encouraged by thethuds of Pinter's and Kullers' picks drawing nearer. They would strikehis tunnel at right angles. Both parties worked long hours, onlyknocking off to fry a bit of steak in the pan, boil the billy, and throwthemselves dressed on their bunks to get a few hours' sleep. Pinter hadpractical experience and a line clear of graves, and he made good time. The two parties now found it more comfortable to be not on speakingterms. Individually they grew furtive, and began to feel criminallike--at least Dave and Jim did. They'd start if a horse stumbledthrough the Bush, and expected to see a mounted policeman ride up atany moment and hear him ask questions. They had driven about thirty-fivefeet when, one Saturday afternoon, the strain became too great, and Daveand Jim got drunk. The spree lasted over Sunday, and on Monday morningthey felt too shaky to come to work and had more drink. On Mondayafternoon, Kullers, whose shift it was below, stuck his pick through theface of his drive into the wall of Dave's, about four feet from the endof it: the clay flaked away, leaving a hole as big as a wash-hand basin. They knocked off for the day and decided to let the other party take theoffensive. 

Tuesday morning Dave and Jim came to work, still feeling shaky. Jimwent below, crawled along the drive, lit his candle, and stuck it in thespiked iron socket and the spike in the wall of the drive, quite closeto the hole, without noticing either the hole or the increased freshnessin the air. He started picking away at the 'face' and scraping the clayback from under his feet, and didn't hear Kullers come to work. Kullerscame in softly and decided to try a bit of cheerful bluff. He stuck hisgreat round black face through the hole, the whites of his eyes rollinghorribly in the candle-light, and said, with a deep guffaw--

''Ullo! you dar'?'

No bandicoot ever went into his hole with the dogs after him quickerthan Jim came out of his. He scrambled up the shaft by the foot-holes, and sat on the edge of the waste-heap, looking very pale. 

'What's the matter?' asked Dave. 'Have you seen a ghost?'

'I've seen the--the devil!' gasped Jim. 'I'm--I'm done with this hereghoul business. '

The parties got on speaking terms again. Dave was very warm, but Jim'slanguage was worse. Pinter scratched his chin-feathers reflectively tillthe other party cooled. There was no appealing to the Commissioner forgoldfields; they were outside all law, whether of the goldfields orotherwise--so they did the only thing possible and sensible, they joinedforces and became 'Poynton, Regan, & Party'. They agreed to work theground from the separate shafts, and decided to go ahead, irrespectiveof appearances, and get as much dirt out and cradled as possible beforethe inevitable exposure came along. They found plenty of 'payable dirt', and soon the drive ended in a cluster of roomy chambers. They timberedup many coffins of various ages, burnt tarred canvas and brownpaper, and kept the fan going. Outside they paid the storekeeper withdifficulty and talked of hard times. 

But one fine sunny morning, after about a week of partnership, they gota bad scare. Jim and Kullers were below, getting out dirt for all theywere worth, and Pinter and Dave at their windlasses, when who shouldmarch down from the cemetery gate but Mother Middleton herself. She wasa hard woman to look at. She still wore the old-fashioned crinoline andher hair in a greasy net; and on this as on most other sober occasions, she wore the expression of a rough Irish navvy who has just enough drinkto make him nasty and is looking out for an excuse for a row. She hada stride like a grenadier. A digger had once measured her step by herfootprints in the mud where she had stepped across a gutter: it measuredthree feet from toe to heel. 

She marched to the grave of Jimmy Middleton, laid a dingy bunch offlowers thereon, with the gesture of an angry man banging his fist downon the table, turned on her heel, and marched out. The diggers were dirtbeneath her feet. Presently they heard her drive on in her spring-carton her way into town, and they drew breaths of relief. 

It was afternoon. Dave and Pinter were feeling tired, and were justdeciding to knock off work for that day when they heard a scuffling inthe direction of the different shafts, and both Jim and Kullers droppeddown and bundled in in a great hurry. Jim chuckled in a silly way, as ifthere was something funny, and Kullers guffawed in sympathy. 

'What's up now?' demanded Dave apprehensively. 

'Mother Middleton, ' said Jim; 'she's blind mad drunk, and she's got abottle in one hand and a new pitchfork in the other, that she's bringingout for some one. '

'How the hell did she drop to it?' exclaimed Pinter. 

'Dunno, ' said Jim. 'Anyway she's coming for us. Listen to her!'

They didn't have to listen hard. The language which came down theshaft--they weren't sure which one--and along the drives was enough toscare up the dead and make them take to the Bush. 

'Why didn't you fools make off into the Bush and give us a chance, instead of giving her a lead here?' asked Dave. 

Jim and Kullers began to wish they had done so. 

Mrs Middleton began to throw stones down the shaft--it was Pinter's--andthey, even the oldest and most anxious, began to grin in spite ofthemselves, for they knew she couldn't hurt them from the surface, andthat, though she had been a working digger herself, she couldn't fillboth shafts before the fumes of liquor overtook her. 

'I wonder which shaf' she'll come down, ' asked Kullers in a tonebefitting the place and occasion. 

'You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter, ' said Dave, 'and Jim andI'll watch mine. '

'I--I won't, ' said Pinter hurriedly. 'I'm--I'm a modest man. '

Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter's shaft. 

'She's thrown her bottle down, ' said Dave. 

Jim crawled along the drive a piece, urged by curiosity, and returnedhurriedly. 

'She's broke the pitchfork off short, to use in the drive, and I believeshe's coming down. '

'Her crinoline'll handicap her, ' said Pinter vacantly, 'that's acomfort. '

'She's took it off!' said Dave excitedly; and peering along Pinter'sdrive, they saw first an elastic-sided boot, then a red-stripedstocking, then a section of scarlet petticoat. 

'Lemme out!' roared Pinter, lurching forward and making a swimmingmotion with his hands in the direction of Dave's drive. Kullerswas already gone, and Jim well on the way. Dave, lanky and awkward, scrambled up the shaft last. Mrs Middleton made good time, consideringshe had the darkness to face and didn't know the workings, and when Davereached the top he had a tear in the leg of his moleskins, and the bloodran from a nasty scratch. But he didn't wait to argue over the price ofa new pair of trousers. He made off through the Bush in the direction ofan encouraging whistle thrown back by Jim. 

'She's too drunk to get her story listened to to-night, ' said Dave. 'Butto-morrow she'll bring the neighbourhood down on us. '

'And she's enough, without the neighbourhood, ' reflected Pinter. 

Some time after dark they returned cautiously, reconnoitred their camp, and after hiding in a hollow log such things as they couldn't carry, they rolled up their tents like the Arabs, and silently stole away. 

The Chinaman's Ghost. 

'Simple as striking matches, ' said Dave Regan, Bushman; 'but it gave methe biggest scare I ever had--except, perhaps, the time I stumbled inthe dark into a six-feet digger's hole, which might have been eightyfeet deep for all I knew when I was falling. (There was an eighty-feetshaft left open close by. )

'It was the night of the day after the Queen's birthday. I was sinking ashaft with Jim Bently and Andy Page on the old Redclay goldfield, andwe camped in a tent on the creek. Jim and me went to some races that washeld at Peter Anderson's pub. , about four miles across the ridges, onQueen's birthday. Andy was a quiet sort of chap, a teetotaller, andwe'd disgusted him the last time he was out for a holiday with us, so hestayed at home and washed and mended his clothes, and read an arithmeticbook. (He used to keep the accounts, and it took him most of his sparetime. )

'Jim and me had a pretty high time. We all got pretty tight after theraces, and I wanted to fight Jim, or Jim wanted to fight me--I don'tremember which. We were old chums, and we nearly always wanted to fighteach other when we got a bit on, and we'd fight if we weren't stopped. Iremember once Jim got maudlin drunk and begged and prayed of me to fighthim, as if he was praying for his life. Tom Tarrant, the coach-driver, used to say that Jim and me must be related, else we wouldn't hate eachother so much when we were tight and truthful. 

'Anyway, this day, Jim got the sulks, and caught his horse and went homeearly in the evening. My dog went home with him too; I must have beencarrying on pretty bad to disgust the dog. 

'Next evening I got disgusted with myself, and started to walk home. I'dlost my hat, so Peter Anderson lent me an old one of his, that he'd wornon Ballarat he said: it was a hard, straw, flat, broad-brimmed affair, and fitted my headache pretty tight. Peter gave me a small flask ofwhisky to help me home. I had to go across some flats and up a long darkgully called Murderer's Gully, and over a gap called Dead Man's Gap, and down the ridge and gullies to Redclay Creek. The lonely flatswere covered with blue-grey gum bush, and looked ghostly enough in themoonlight, and I was pretty shaky, but I had a pull at the flask and amouthful of water at a creek and felt right enough. I began to whistle, and then to sing: I never used to sing unless I thought I was a coupleof miles out of earshot of any one. 

'Murderer's Gully was deep and pretty dark most times, and of course itwas haunted. Women and children wouldn't go through it after dark; andeven me, when I'd grown up, I'd hold my back pretty holler, and whistle, and walk quick going along there at night-time. We're all afraid ofghosts, but we won't let on. 

'Some one had skinned a dead calf during the day and left it on thetrack, and it gave me a jump, I promise you. It looked like two corpseslaid out naked. I finished the whisky and started up over the gap. Allof a sudden a great 'old man' kangaroo went across the track with athud-thud, and up the siding, and that startled me. Then the naked, white glistening trunk of a stringy-bark tree, where some one hadstripped off a sheet of bark, started out from a bend in the track in ashaft of moonlight, and that gave me a jerk. I was pretty shaky beforeI started. There was a Chinaman's grave close by the track on the topof the gap. An old chow had lived in a hut there for many years, andfossicked on the old diggings, and one day he was found dead in thehut, and the Government gave some one a pound to bury him. When I was anipper we reckoned that his ghost haunted the gap, and cursed in Chinesebecause the bones hadn't been sent home to China. It was a lonely, ghostly place enough. 

'It had been a smotheringly hot day and very close coming across theflats and up the gully--not a breath of air; but now as I got higher Isaw signs of the thunderstorm we'd expected all day, and felt the breathof a warm breeze on my face. When I got into the top of the gap thefirst thing I saw was something white amongst the dark bushes over thespot where the Chinaman's grave was, and I stood staring at it withboth eyes. It moved out of the shadow presently, and I saw that it wasa white bullock, and I felt relieved. I'd hardly felt relieved when, allat once, there came a "pat-pat-pat" of running feet close behind me!I jumped round quick, but there was nothing there, and while I stoodstaring all ways for Sunday, there came a "pat-pat", then a pause, andthen "pat-pat-pat-pat" behind me again: it was like some one dodging andrunning off that time. I started to walk down the track pretty fast, but hadn't gone a dozen yards when "pat-pat-pat", it was close behind meagain. I jerked my eyes over my shoulder but kept my legs going. Therewas nothing behind, but I fancied I saw something slip into the Bush tothe right. It must have been the moonlight on the moving boughs; therewas a good breeze blowing now. I got down to a more level track, andwas making across a spur to the main road, when "pat-pat!" "pat-pat-pat, pat-pat-pat!" it was after me again. Then I began to run--and it beganto run too! "pat-pat-pat" after me all the time. I hadn't time to lookround. Over the spur and down the siding and across the flat to the roadI went as fast as I could split my legs apart. I had a scared idea thatI was getting a touch of the "jim-jams", and that frightened me morethan any outside ghost could have done. I stumbled a few times, andsaved myself, but, just before I reached the road, I fell slitheringon to my hands on the grass and gravel. I thought I'd broken bothmy wrists. I stayed for a moment on my hands and knees, quaking andlistening, squinting round like a great gohana; I couldn't hear norsee anything. I picked myself up, and had hardly got on one end, when"pat-pat!" it was after me again. I must have run a mile and a halfaltogether that night. It was still about three-quarters of a mile tothe camp, and I ran till my heart beat in my head and my lungs choked upin my throat. I saw our tent-fire and took off my hat to run faster. Thefootsteps stopped, then something about the hat touched my fingers, andI stared at it--and the thing dawned on me. I hadn't noticed at PeterAnderson's--my head was too swimmy to notice anything. It was an old hatof the style that the first diggers used to wear, with a couple of looseribbon ends, three or four inches long, from the band behind. As longas I walked quietly through the gully, and there was no wind, the tailsdidn't flap, but when I got up into the breeze, they flapped or werestill according to how the wind lifted them or pressed them down flaton the brim. And when I ran they tapped all the time; and the hat beingtight on my head, the tapping of the ribbon ends against the strawsounded loud of course. 

'I sat down on a log for a while to get some of my wind back and cooldown, and then I went to the camp as quietly as I could, and had a longdrink of water. 

'"You seem to be a bit winded, Dave, " said Jim Bently, "and mightythirsty. Did the Chinaman's ghost chase you?"

'I told him not to talk rot, and went into the tent, and lay down on mybunk, and had a good rest. '

The Loaded Dog. 

Dave Regan, Jim Bently, and Andy Page were sinking a shaft at StonyCreek in search of a rich gold quartz reef which was supposed to existin the vicinity. There is always a rich reef supposed to exist in thevicinity; the only questions are whether it is ten feet or hundredsbeneath the surface, and in which direction. They had struck somepretty solid rock, also water which kept them baling. They used theold-fashioned blasting-powder and time-fuse. They'd make a sausage orcartridge of blasting-powder in a skin of strong calico or canvas, themouth sewn and bound round the end of the fuse; they'd dip the cartridgein melted tallow to make it water-tight, get the drill-hole as dry aspossible, drop in the cartridge with some dry dust, and wad and ram withstiff clay and broken brick. Then they'd light the fuse and get out ofthe hole and wait. The result was usually an ugly pot-hole in the bottomof the shaft and half a barrow-load of broken rock. 

There was plenty of fish in the creek, fresh-water bream, cod, cat-fish, and tailers. The party were fond of fish, and Andy and Dave of fishing. Andy would fish for three hours at a stretch if encouraged by a 'nibble'or a 'bite' now and then--say once in twenty minutes. The butcher wasalways willing to give meat in exchange for fish when they caught morethan they could eat; but now it was winter, and these fish wouldn'tbite. However, the creek was low, just a chain of muddy water-holes, from the hole with a few bucketfuls in it to the sizable pool with anaverage depth of six or seven feet, and they could get fish by balingout the smaller holes or muddying up the water in the larger onestill the fish rose to the surface. There was the cat-fish, with spikesgrowing out of the sides of its head, and if you got pricked you'd knowit, as Dave said. Andy took off his boots, tucked up his trousers, andwent into a hole one day to stir up the mud with his feet, and he knewit. Dave scooped one out with his hand and got pricked, and he knew ittoo; his arm swelled, and the pain throbbed up into his shoulder, anddown into his stomach too, he said, like a toothache he had once, andkept him awake for two nights--only the toothache pain had a 'burrededge', Dave said. 

Dave got an idea. 

'Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?' hesaid. 'I'll try it. '

He thought the thing out and Andy Page worked it out. Andy usually putDave's theories into practice if they were practicable, or bore theblame for the failure and the chaffing of his mates if they weren't. 

He made a cartridge about three times the size of those they used in therock. Jim Bently said it was big enough to blow the bottom out of theriver. The inner skin was of stout calico; Andy stuck the end of asix-foot piece of fuse well down in the powder and bound the mouth ofthe bag firmly to it with whipcord. The idea was to sink the cartridgein the water with the open end of the fuse attached to a float onthe surface, ready for lighting. Andy dipped the cartridge in meltedbees'-wax to make it water-tight. 'We'll have to leave it some timebefore we light it, ' said Dave, 'to give the fish time to get over theirscare when we put it in, and come nosing round again; so we'll want itwell water-tight. '

Round the cartridge Andy, at Dave's suggestion, bound a strip of sailcanvas--that they used for making water-bags--to increase the force ofthe explosion, and round that he pasted layers of stiff brown paper--onthe plan of the sort of fireworks we called 'gun-crackers'. He let thepaper dry in the sun, then he sewed a covering of two thicknessesof canvas over it, and bound the thing from end to end with stoutfishing-line. Dave's schemes were elaborate, and he often worked hisinventions out to nothing. The cartridge was rigid and solid enoughnow--a formidable bomb; but Andy and Dave wanted to be sure. Andy sewedon another layer of canvas, dipped the cartridge in melted tallow, twisted a length of fencing-wire round it as an afterthought, dipped itin tallow again, and stood it carefully against a tent-peg, where he'dknow where to find it, and wound the fuse loosely round it. Then hewent to the camp-fire to try some potatoes which were boiling in theirjackets in a billy, and to see about frying some chops for dinner. Daveand Jim were at work in the claim that morning. 

They had a big black young retriever dog--or rather an overgrown pup, abig, foolish, four-footed mate, who was always slobbering round themand lashing their legs with his heavy tail that swung round like astock-whip. Most of his head was usually a red, idiotic, slobbering grinof appreciation of his own silliness. He seemed to take life, the world, his two-legged mates, and his own instinct as a huge joke. He'd retrieveanything: he carted back most of the camp rubbish that Andy threwaway. They had a cat that died in hot weather, and Andy threw it a gooddistance away in the scrub; and early one morning the dog found the cat, after it had been dead a week or so, and carried it back to camp, and laid it just inside the tent-flaps, where it could best makeits presence known when the mates should rise and begin to sniffsuspiciously in the sickly smothering atmosphere of the summer sunrise. He used to retrieve them when they went in swimming; he'd jump in afterthem, and take their hands in his mouth, and try to swim out with them, and scratch their naked bodies with his paws. They loved him for hisgood-heartedness and his foolishness, but when they wished to enjoy aswim they had to tie him up in camp. 

He watched Andy with great interest all the morning making thecartridge, and hindered him considerably, trying to help; but about noonhe went off to the claim to see how Dave and Jim were getting on, and tocome home to dinner with them. Andy saw them coming, and put a panful ofmutton-chops on the fire. Andy was cook to-day; Dave and Jim stood withtheir backs to the fire, as Bushmen do in all weathers, waiting tilldinner should be ready. The retriever went nosing round after somethinghe seemed to have missed. 

Andy's brain still worked on the cartridge; his eye was caught by theglare of an empty kerosene-tin lying in the bushes, and it struck himthat it wouldn't be a bad idea to sink the cartridge packed with clay, sand, or stones in the tin, to increase the force of the explosion. Hemay have been all out, from a scientific point of view, but the notionlooked all right to him. Jim Bently, by the way, wasn't interested intheir 'damned silliness'. Andy noticed an empty treacle-tin--thesort with the little tin neck or spout soldered on to the top for theconvenience of pouring out the treacle--and it struck him that thiswould have made the best kind of cartridge-case: he would only have hadto pour in the powder, stick the fuse in through the neck, and cork andseal it with bees'-wax. He was turning to suggest this to Dave, whenDave glanced over his shoulder to see how the chops were doing--andbolted. He explained afterwards that he thought he heard the panspluttering extra, and looked to see if the chops were burning. JimBently looked behind and bolted after Dave. Andy stood stock-still, staring after them. 

'Run, Andy! run!' they shouted back at him. 'Run!!! Look behind you, youfool!' Andy turned slowly and looked, and there, close behind him, wasthe retriever with the cartridge in his mouth--wedged into his broadestand silliest grin. And that wasn't all. The dog had come round the fireto Andy, and the loose end of the fuse had trailed and waggled over theburning sticks into the blaze; Andy had slit and nicked the firing endof the fuse well, and now it was hissing and spitting properly. 

Andy's legs started with a jolt; his legs started before his brain did, and he made after Dave and Jim. And the dog followed Andy. 

Dave and Jim were good runners--Jim the best--for a short distance; Andywas slow and heavy, but he had the strength and the wind and could last. The dog leapt and capered round him, delighted as a dog could be to findhis mates, as he thought, on for a frolic. Dave and Jim kept shoutingback, 'Don't foller us! don't foller us, you coloured fool!' but Andykept on, no matter how they dodged. They could never explain, anymore than the dog, why they followed each other, but so they ran, Davekeeping in Jim's track in all its turnings, Andy after Dave, and thedog circling round Andy--the live fuse swishing in all directions andhissing and spluttering and stinking. Jim yelling to Dave not to followhim, Dave shouting to Andy to go in another direction--to 'spread out', and Andy roaring at the dog to go home. Then Andy's brain began to work, stimulated by the crisis: he tried to get a running kick at the dog, butthe dog dodged; he snatched up sticks and stones and threw them at thedog and ran on again. The retriever saw that he'd made a mistake aboutAndy, and left him and bounded after Dave. Dave, who had the presence ofmind to think that the fuse's time wasn't up yet, made a dive and a grabfor the dog, caught him by the tail, and as he swung round snatchedthe cartridge out of his mouth and flung it as far as he could: the dogimmediately bounded after it and retrieved it. Dave roared and cursed atthe dog, who seeing that Dave was offended, left him and went after Jim, who was well ahead. Jim swung to a sapling and went up it like a nativebear; it was a young sapling, and Jim couldn't safely get more than tenor twelve feet from the ground. The dog laid the cartridge, as carefullyas if it was a kitten, at the foot of the sapling, and capered andleaped and whooped joyously round under Jim. The big pup reckoned thatthis was part of the lark--he was all right now--it was Jim who was outfor a spree. The fuse sounded as if it were going a mile a minute. Jimtried to climb higher and the sapling bent and cracked. Jim fell on hisfeet and ran. The dog swooped on the cartridge and followed. It all tookbut a very few moments. Jim ran to a digger's hole, about ten feet deep, and dropped down into it--landing on soft mud--and was safe. The doggrinned sardonically down on him, over the edge, for a moment, as if hethought it would be a good lark to drop the cartridge down on Jim. 

'Go away, Tommy, ' said Jim feebly, 'go away. '

The dog bounded off after Dave, who was the only one in sight now; Andyhad dropped behind a log, where he lay flat on his face, having suddenlyremembered a picture of the Russo-Turkish war with a circle ofTurks lying flat on their faces (as if they were ashamed) round anewly-arrived shell. 

There was a small hotel or shanty on the creek, on the main road, notfar from the claim. Dave was desperate, the time flew much faster inhis stimulated imagination than it did in reality, so he made for theshanty. There were several casual Bushmen on the verandah and in thebar; Dave rushed into the bar, banging the door to behind him. 'My dog!'he gasped, in reply to the astonished stare of the publican, 'the blankyretriever--he's got a live cartridge in his mouth----'

The retriever, finding the front door shut against him, had boundedround and in by the back way, and now stood smiling in the doorwayleading from the passage, the cartridge still in his mouth and the fusespluttering. They burst out of that bar. Tommy bounded first after oneand then after another, for, being a young dog, he tried to make friendswith everybody. 

The Bushmen ran round corners, and some shut themselves in the stable. There was a new weather-board and corrugated-iron kitchen and wash-houseon piles in the back-yard, with some women washing clothes inside. Dave and the publican bundled in there and shut the door--the publicancursing Dave and calling him a crimson fool, in hurried tones, andwanting to know what the hell he came here for. 

The retriever went in under the kitchen, amongst the piles, but, luckilyfor those inside, there was a vicious yellow mongrel cattle-dog sulkingand nursing his nastiness under there--a sneaking, fighting, thievingcanine, whom neighbours had tried for years to shoot or poison. Tommysaw his danger--he'd had experience from this dog--and started out andacross the yard, still sticking to the cartridge. Half-way acrossthe yard the yellow dog caught him and nipped him. Tommy dropped thecartridge, gave one terrified yell, and took to the Bush. The yellow dogfollowed him to the fence and then ran back to see what he had dropped. 

Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all the corners and under thebuildings--spidery, thievish, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs, mongrel sheep-and cattle-dogs, vicious black and yellow dogs--that slip after you inthe dark, nip your heels, and vanish without explaining--and yapping, yelping small fry. They kept at a respectable distance round the nastyyellow dog, for it was dangerous to go near him when he thought he hadfound something which might be good for a dog to eat. He sniffed at thecartridge twice, and was just taking a third cautious sniff when----

It was very good blasting powder--a new brand that Dave had recently gotup from Sydney; and the cartridge had been excellently well made. Andywas very patient and painstaking in all he did, and nearly as handy asthe average sailor with needles, twine, canvas, and rope. 

Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles and on again. Whenthe smoke and dust cleared away, the remains of the nasty yellow dogwere lying against the paling fence of the yard looking as if he hadbeen kicked into a fire by a horse and afterwards rolled in the dustunder a barrow, and finally thrown against the fence from a distance. Several saddle-horses, which had been 'hanging-up' round the verandah, were galloping wildly down the road in clouds of dust, with brokenbridle-reins flying; and from a circle round the outskirts, from everypoint of the compass in the scrub, came the yelping of dogs. Two of themwent home, to the place where they were born, thirty miles away, andreached it the same night and stayed there; it was not till towardsevening that the rest came back cautiously to make inquiries. One wastrying to walk on two legs, and most of 'em looked more or less singed;and a little, singed, stumpy-tailed dog, who had been in the habit ofhopping the back half of him along on one leg, had reason to be gladthat he'd saved up the other leg all those years, for he needed itnow. There was one old one-eyed cattle-dog round that shanty for yearsafterwards, who couldn't stand the smell of a gun being cleaned. He itwas who had taken an interest, only second to that of the yellow dog, inthe cartridge. Bushmen said that it was amusing to slip up on his blindside and stick a dirty ramrod under his nose: he wouldn't wait to bringhis solitary eye to bear--he'd take to the Bush and stay out all night. 

For half an hour or so after the explosion there were several Bushmenround behind the stable who crouched, doubled up, against the wall, orrolled gently on the dust, trying to laugh without shrieking. Therewere two white women in hysterics at the house, and a half-caste rushingaimlessly round with a dipper of cold water. The publican was holdinghis wife tight and begging her between her squawks, to 'hold up for mysake, Mary, or I'll lam the life out of ye. '

Dave decided to apologise later on, 'when things had settled a bit, ' andwent back to camp. And the dog that had done it all, 'Tommy', the great, idiotic mongrel retriever, came slobbering round Dave and lashing hislegs with his tail, and trotted home after him, smiling his broadest, longest, and reddest smile of amiability, and apparently satisfied forone afternoon with the fun he'd had. 

Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, while Davewent to help Jim out of the hole. 

And most of this is why, for years afterwards, lanky, easy-goingBushmen, riding lazily past Dave's camp, would cry, in a lazy drawl andwith just a hint of the nasal twang--

''El-lo, Da-a-ve! How's the fishin' getting on, Da-a-ve?'

Poisonous Jimmy Gets Left. 

I. Dave Regan's Yarn. 

'When we got tired of digging about Mudgee-Budgee, and getting no gold, 'said Dave Regan, Bushman, 'me and my mate, Jim Bently, decided to take aturn at droving; so we went with Bob Baker, the drover, overland with abig mob of cattle, way up into Northern Queensland. 

'We couldn't get a job on the home track, and we spent most of ourmoney, like a pair of fools, at a pub. At a town way up over the border, where they had a flash barmaid from Brisbane. We sold our pack-horsesand pack-saddles, and rode out of that town with our swags on ourriding-horses in front of us. We had another spree at another place, andby the time we got near New South Wales we were pretty well stumped. 

'Just the other side of Mulgatown, near the border, we came on a big mobof cattle in a paddock, and a party of drovers camped on the creek. Theyhad brought the cattle down from the north and were going no fartherwith them; their boss had ridden on into Mulgatown to get the cheques topay them off, and they were waiting for him. 

'"And Poisonous Jimmy is waiting for us, " said one of them. 

'Poisonous Jimmy kept a shanty a piece along the road from their camptowards Mulgatown. He was called "Poisonous Jimmy" perhaps on accountof his liquor, or perhaps because he had a job of poisoning dingoes on astation in the Bogan scrubs at one time. He was a sharp publican. He hada girl, and they said that whenever a shearing-shed cut-out on his sideand he saw the shearers coming along the road, he'd say to the girl, "Run and get your best frock on, Mary! Here's the shearers comin'. " Andif a chequeman wouldn't drink he'd try to get him into his bar and shoutfor him till he was too drunk to keep his hands out of his pockets. 

'"But he won't get us, " said another of the drovers. "I'm going to ridestraight into Mulgatown and send my money home by the post as soon as Iget it. "

'"You've always said that, Jack, " said the first drover. 

'We yarned a while, and had some tea, and then me and Jim got on ourhorses and rode on. We were burned to bricks and ragged and dusty andparched up enough, and so were our horses. We only had a few shillingsto carry us four or five hundred miles home, but it was mighty hot anddusty, and we felt that we must have a drink at the shanty. This waswest of the sixpenny-line at that time--all drinks were a shilling alonghere. 

'Just before we reached the shanty I got an idea. 

'"We'll plant our swags in the scrub, " I said to Jim. 

'"What for?" said Jim. 

'"Never mind--you'll see, " I said. 

'So we unstrapped our swags and hid them in the mulga scrub by theside of the road; then we rode on to the shanty, got down, and hung ourhorses to the verandah posts. 

'"Poisonous" came out at once, with a smile on him that would have madeanybody home-sick. 

'He was a short nuggety man, and could use his hands, they said; helooked as if he'd be a nasty, vicious, cool customer in a fight--hewasn't the sort of man you'd care to try and swindle a second time. He had a monkey shave when he shaved, but now it was all frill andstubble--like a bush fence round a stubble-field. He had a broken nose, and a cunning, sharp, suspicious eye that squinted, and a cold stony eyethat seemed fixed. If you didn't know him well you might talk to him forfive minutes, looking at him in the cold stony eye, and then discoverthat it was the sharp cunning little eye that was watching you all thetime. It was awful embarrassing. It must have made him awkward to dealwith in a fight. 

'"Good day, mates, " he said. 

'"Good day, " we said. 

'"It's hot. "

'"It's hot. "

'We went into the bar, and Poisonous got behind the counter. 

'"What are you going to have?" he asked, rubbing up his glasses with arag. 

'We had two long-beers. 

'"Never mind that, " said Poisonous, seeing me put my hand in my pocket;"it's my shout. I don't suppose your boss is back yet? I saw him go into Mulgatown this morning. "

'"No, he ain't back, " I said; "I wish he was. We're getting tired ofwaiting for him. We'll give him another hour, and then some of us willhave to ride in to see whether he's got on the boose, and get hold ofhim if he has. "

'"I suppose you're waiting for your cheques?" he said, turning to fixsome bottles on the shelf. 

'"Yes, " I said, "we are;" and I winked at Jim, and Jim winked back assolemn as an owl. 

'Poisonous asked us all about the trip, and how long we'd been on thetrack, and what sort of a boss we had, dropping the questions offhandnow an' then, as for the sake of conversation. We could see that hewas trying to get at the size of our supposed cheques, so we answeredaccordingly. 

'"Have another drink, " he said, and he filled the pewters up again. "It's up to me, " and he set to work boring out the glasses with his rag, as if he was short-handed and the bar was crowded with customers, andscrewing up his face into what I suppose he considered an innocent orunconscious expression. The girl began to sidle in and out with a smartfrock and a see-you-after-dark smirk on. 

'"Have you had dinner?" she asked. We could have done with a good meal, but it was too risky--the drovers' boss might come along while we wereat dinner and get into conversation with Poisonous. So we said we'd haddinner. 

'Poisonous filled our pewters again in an offhand way. 

'"I wish the boss would come, " said Jim with a yawn. "I want to get intoMulgatown to-night, and I want to get some shirts and things before I goin. I ain't got a decent rag to me back. I don't suppose there's ten bobamongst the lot of us. "

'There was a general store back on the creek, near the drovers' camp. 

'"Oh, go to the store and get what you want, " said Poisonous, taking asovereign from the till and tossing it on to the counter. "You can fixit up with me when your boss comes. Bring your mates along. "

'"Thank you, " said Jim, taking up the sovereign carelessly and droppingit into his pocket. 

'"Well, Jim, " I said, "suppose we get back to camp and see how the chapsare getting on?"

'"All right, " said Jim. 

'"Tell them to come down and get a drink, " said Poisonous; "or, wait, you can take some beer along to them if you like, " and he gave us halfa gallon of beer in a billy-can. He knew what the first drink meant withBushmen back from a long dry trip. 

'We got on our horses, I holding the billy very carefully, and rode backto where our swags were. 

'"I say, " said Jim, when we'd strapped the swags to the saddles, "suppose we take the beer back to those chaps: it's meant for them, andit's only a fair thing, anyway--we've got as much as we can hold till weget into Mulgatown. "

'"It might get them into a row, " I said, "and they seem decent chaps. Let's hang the billy on a twig, and that old swagman that's coming alongwill think there's angels in the Bush. "

'"Oh! what's a row?" said Jim. "They can take care of themselves;they'll have the beer anyway and a lark with Poisonous when they takethe can back and it comes to explanations. I'll ride back to them. "

'So Jim rode back to the drovers' camp with the beer, and when he cameback to me he said that the drovers seemed surprised, but they drankgood luck to him. 

'We rode round through the mulga behind the shanty and came out on theroad again on the Mulgatown side: we only stayed at Mulgatown to buysome tucker and tobacco, then we pushed on and camped for the nightabout seven miles on the safe side of the town. '

II. Told by One of the Other Drovers. 

'Talkin' o' Poisonous Jimmy, I can tell you a yarn about him. We'dbrought a mob of cattle down for a squatter the other side of Mulgatown. We camped about seven miles the other side of the town, waitin' for thestation hands to come and take charge of the stock, while the boss rodeon into town to draw our money. Some of us was goin' back, though inthe end we all went into Mulgatown and had a boose up with the boss. Butwhile we was waitin' there come along two fellers that had been drovin'up north. They yarned a while, an' then went on to Poisonous Jimmy'splace, an' in about an hour one on 'em come ridin' back with a can ofbeer that he said Poisonous had sent for us. We all knew Jimmy's littlegames--the beer was a bait to get us on the drunk at his place; but wedrunk the beer, and reckoned to have a lark with him afterwards. Whenthe boss come back, an' the station hands to take the bullocks, westarted into Mulgatown. We stopped outside Poisonous's place an' handedthe can to the girl that was grinnin' on the verandah. Poisonous comeout with a grin on him like a parson with a broken nose. 

'"Good day, boys!" he says. 

'"Good day, Poisonous, " we says. 

'"It's hot, " he says. 

'"It's blanky hot, " I says. 

'He seemed to expect us to get down. "Where are you off to?" he says. 

'"Mulgatown, " I says. "It will be cooler there, " and we sung out, "So-long, Poisonous!" and rode on. 

'He stood starin' for a minute; then he started shoutin', "Hi! hithere!" after us, but we took no notice, an' rode on. When we lookedback last he was runnin' into the scrub with a bridle in his hand. 

'We jogged along easily till we got within a mile of Mulgatown, whenwe heard somebody gallopin' after us, an' lookin' back we saw it wasPoisonous. 

'He was too mad and too winded to speak at first, so he rode along withus a bit gasping: then he burst out. 

'"Where's them other two carnal blanks?" he shouted. 

'"What other two?" I asked. "We're all here. What's the matter with youanyway?"

'"All here!" he yelled. "You're a lurid liar! What the flamin' sheol doyou mean by swiggin' my beer an' flingin' the coloured can in me face?without as much as thank yer! D'yer think I'm a flamin'----!"

'Oh, but Poisonous Jimmy was wild. 

'"Well, we'll pay for your dirty beer, " says one of the chaps, puttin'his hand in his pocket. "We didn't want yer slush. It tasted as if ithad been used before. "

'"Pay for it!" yelled Jimmy. "I'll----well take it out of one of yerbleedin' hides!"

'We stopped at once, and I got down an' obliged Jimmy for a few rounds. He was a nasty customer to fight; he could use his hands, and was coolas a cucumber as soon as he took his coat off: besides, he had onesquirmy little business eye, and a big wall-eye, an', even if you knowedhim well, you couldn't help watchin' the stony eye--it was no goodwatchin' his eyes, you had to watch his hands, and he might havemanaged me if the boss hadn't stopped the fight. The boss was a big, quiet-voiced man, that didn't swear. 

'"Now, look here, Myles, " said the boss (Jimmy's name was Myles)--"Now, look here, Myles, " sez the boss, "what's all this about?"

'"What's all this about?" says Jimmy, gettin' excited agen. "Why, twofellers that belonged to your party come along to my place an' put uphalf-a-dozen drinks, an' borrered a sovereign, an' got a can o' beer onthe strength of their cheques. They sez they was waitin' for you--an' Iwant my crimson money out o' some one!"

'"What was they like?" asks the boss. 

'"Like?" shouted Poisonous, swearin' all the time. "One was a blankylong, sandy, sawny feller, and the other was a short, slim feller withblack hair. Your blanky men knows all about them because they had theblanky billy o' beer. "

'"Now, what's this all about, you chaps?" sez the boss to us. 

'So we told him as much as we knowed about them two fellers. 

'I've heard men swear that could swear in a rough shearin'-shed, but Inever heard a man swear like Poisonous Jimmy when he saw how he'd beenleft. It was enough to split stumps. He said he wanted to see thosefellers, just once, before he died. 

'He rode with us into Mulgatown, got mad drunk, an' started out alongthe road with a tomahawk after the long sandy feller and the slim darkfeller; but two mounted police went after him an' fetched him back. Hesaid he only wanted justice; he said he only wanted to stun them twofellers till he could give 'em in charge. 

'They fined him ten bob. '

The Ghostly Door. 

Told by one of Dave's mates. 

Dave and I were tramping on a lonely Bush track in New Zealand, makingfor a sawmill where we expected to get work, and we were caught in oneof those three-days' gales, with rain and hail in it and cold enough tocut off a man's legs. Camping out was not to be thought of, so wejust tramped on in silence, with the stinging pain coming between ourshoulder-blades--from cold, weariness, and the weight of our swags--andour boots, full of water, going splosh, splosh, splosh along thetrack. We were settled to it--to drag on like wet, weary, muddy workingbullocks till we came to somewhere--when, just before darkness settleddown, we saw the loom of a humpy of some sort on the slope of atussock hill, back from the road, and we made for it, without holding aconsultation. 

It was a two-roomed hut built of waste timber from a sawmill, and waseither a deserted settler's home or a hut attached to an abandonedsawmill round there somewhere. The windows were boarded up. We dumpedour swags under the little verandah and banged at the door, to makesure; then Dave pulled a couple of boards off a window and looked in:there was light enough to see that the place was empty. Dave pulledoff some more boards, put his arm in through a broken pane, clicked thecatch back, and then pushed up the window and got in. I handed in theswags to him. The room was very draughty; the wind came in throughthe broken window and the cracks between the slabs, so we tried thepartitioned-off room--the bedroom--and that was better. It had beenlined with chaff-bags, and there were two stretchers left by sometimber-getters or other Bush contractors who'd camped there last; andthere were a box and a couple of three-legged stools. 

We carried the remnant of the wood-heap inside, made a fire, and putthe billy on. We unrolled our swags and spread the blankets on thestretchers; and then we stripped and hung our clothes about the fireto dry. There was plenty in our tucker-bags, so we had a good feed. Ihadn't shaved for days, and Dave had a coarse red beard with a twist init like an ill-used fibre brush--a beard that got redder the longer itgrew; he had a hooked nose, and his hair stood straight up (I never sawa man so easy-going about the expression and so scared about the head), and he was very tall, with long, thin, hairy legs. We must have looked aweird pair as we sat there, naked, on the low three-legged stools, withthe billy and the tucker on the box between us, and ate our bread andmeat with clasp-knives. 

'I shouldn't wonder, ' says Dave, 'but this is the "whare"* where themurder was that we heard about along the road. I suppose if any one wasto come along now and look in he'd get scared. ' Then after a while helooked down at the flooring-boards close to my feet, and scratchedhis ear, and said, 'That looks very much like a blood-stain under yourstool, doesn't it, Jim?'

 * 'Whare', 'whorrie', Maori name for house. 

I shifted my feet and presently moved the stool farther away from thefire--it was too hot. 

I wouldn't have liked to camp there by myself, but I don't think Davewould have minded--he'd knocked round too much in the Australian Bush tomind anything much, or to be surprised at anything; besides, he was morethan half murdered once by a man who said afterwards that he'd mistookhim for some one else: he must have been a very short-sighted murderer. 

Presently we put tobacco, matches, and bits of candle we had, on the twostools by the heads of our bunks, turned in, and filled up and smokedcomfortably, dropping in a lazy word now and again about nothing inparticular. Once I happened to look across at Dave, and saw him sittingup a bit and watching the door. The door opened very slowly, wide, anda black cat walked in, looked first at me, then at Dave, and walked outagain; and the door closed behind it. 

Dave scratched his ear. 'That's rum, ' he said. 'I could have sworn Ifastened that door. They must have left the cat behind. '

'It looks like it, ' I said. 'Neither of us has been on the booselately. '

He got out of bed and up on his long hairy spindle-shanks. 

The door had the ordinary, common black oblong lock with a brass knob. Dave tried the latch and found it fast; he turned the knob, opened thedoor, and called, 'Puss--puss--puss!' but the cat wouldn't come. He shutthe door, tried the knob to see that the catch had caught, and got intobed again. 

He'd scarcely settled down when the door opened slowly, the black catwalked in, stared hard at Dave, and suddenly turned and darted out asthe door closed smartly. 

I looked at Dave and he looked at me--hard; then he scratched the backof his head. I never saw a man look so puzzled in the face and scaredabout the head. 

He got out of bed very cautiously, took a stick of firewood in his hand, sneaked up to the door, and snatched it open. There was no one there. Dave took the candle and went into the next room, but couldn't see thecat. He came back and sat down by the fire and meowed, and presentlythe cat answered him and came in from somewhere--she'd been outsidethe window, I suppose; he kept on meowing and she sidled up and rubbedagainst his hairy shin. Dave could generally bring a cat that way. He had a weakness for cats. I'd seen him kick a dog, and hammer ahorse--brutally, I thought--but I never saw him hurt a cat or let anyone else do it. Dave was good to cats: if a cat had a family where Davewas round, he'd see her all right and comfortable, and only drown a fairsurplus. He said once to me, 'I can understand a man kicking a dog, orhammering a horse when it plays up, but I can't understand a man hurtinga cat. '

He gave this cat something to eat. Then he went and held the light closeto the lock of the door, but could see nothing wrong with it. He found akey on the mantel-shelf and locked the door. He got into bed again, andthe cat jumped up and curled down at the foot and started her old drumgoing, like shot in a sieve. Dave bent down and patted her, to tell herhe'd meant no harm when he stretched out his legs, and then he settleddown again. 

We had some books of the 'Deadwood Dick' school. Dave was reading 'TheGrisly Ghost of the Haunted Gulch', and I had 'The Dismembered Hand', or 'The Disembowelled Corpse', or some such names. They were first-classpreparation for a ghost. 

I was reading away, and getting drowsy, when I noticed a movement andsaw Dave's frightened head rising, with the terrified shadow of it onthe wall. He was staring at the door, over his book, with both eyes. And that door was opening again--slowly--and Dave had locked it! I neverfelt anything so creepy: the foot of my bunk was behind the door, andI drew up my feet as it came open; it opened wide, and stood so. Wewaited, for five minutes it seemed, hearing each other breathe, watchingfor the door to close; then Dave got out, very gingerly, and up on oneend, and went to the door like a cat on wet bricks. 

'You shot the bolt OUTSIDE the catch, ' I said, as he caught hold of thedoor--like one grabs a craw-fish. 

'I'll swear I didn't, ' said Dave. But he'd already turned the key acouple of times, so he couldn't be sure. He shut and locked the dooragain. 'Now, get out and see for yourself, ' he said. 

I got out, and tried the door a couple of times and found it all right. Then we both tried, and agreed that it was locked. 

I got back into bed, and Dave was about half in when a thought struckhim. He got the heaviest piece of firewood and stood it against thedoor. 

'What are you doing that for?' I asked. 

'If there's a broken-down burglar camped round here, and trying any ofhis funny business, we'll hear him if he tries to come in while we'reasleep, ' says Dave. Then he got back into bed. We composed our nerveswith the 'Haunted Gulch' and 'The Disembowelled Corpse', and after awhile I heard Dave snore, and was just dropping off when the stick fellfrom the door against my big toe and then to the ground with tremendousclatter. I snatched up my feet and sat up with a jerk, and so didDave--the cat went over the partition. That door opened, only a littleway this time, paused, and shut suddenly. Dave got out, grabbed a stick, skipped to the door, and clutched at the knob as if it were a nettle, and the door wouldn't come!--it was fast and locked! Then Dave's facebegan to look as frightened as his hair. He lit his candle at the fire, and asked me to come with him; he unlocked the door and we went into theother room, Dave shading his candle very carefully and feeling his wayslow with his feet. The room was empty; we tried the outer door andfound it locked. 

'It muster gone by the winder, ' whispered Dave. I noticed that he said'it' instead of 'he'. I saw that he himself was shook up, and it onlyneeded that to scare me bad. 

We went back to the bedroom, had a drink of cold tea, and lit our pipes. Then Dave took the waterproof cover off his bunk, spread it on thefloor, laid his blankets on top of it, his spare clothes, &c. , on top ofthem, and started to roll up his swag. 

'What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked. 

'I'm going to take the track, ' says Dave, 'and camp somewhere fartheron. You can stay here, if you like, and come on in the morning. '

I started to roll up my swag at once. We dressed and fastened on thetucker-bags, took up the billies, and got outside without making anynoise. We held our backs pretty hollow till we got down on to the road. 

'That comes of camping in a deserted house, ' said Dave, when we weresafe on the track. No Australian Bushman cares to camp in an abandonedhomestead, or even near it--probably because a deserted home looksghostlier in the Australian Bush than anywhere else in the world. 

It was blowing hard, but not raining so much. 

We went on along the track for a couple of miles and camped on thesheltered side of a round tussock hill, in a hole where there had been alandslip. We used all our candle-ends to get a fire alight, but once wegot it started we knocked the wet bark off 'manuka' sticks and logs andpiled them on, and soon had a roaring fire. When the ground got a littledrier we rigged a bit of shelter from the showers with some sticks andthe oil-cloth swag-covers; then we made some coffee and got through thenight pretty comfortably. In the morning Dave said, 'I'm going back tothat house. '

'What for?' I said. 

'I'm going to find out what's the matter with that crimson door. If Idon't I'll never be able to sleep easy within a mile of a door so longas I live. '

So we went back. It was still blowing. The thing was simple enough bydaylight--after a little watching and experimenting. The house was builtof odds and ends and badly fitted. It 'gave' in the wind in almost anydirection--not much, not more than an inch or so, but just enough tothrow the door-frame out of plumb and out of square in such a way as tobring the latch and bolt of the lock clear of the catch (the door-framewas of scraps joined). Then the door swung open according to the hang ofit; and when the gust was over the house gave back, and the door swungto--the frame easing just a little in another direction. I supposeit would take Edison to invent a thing like that, that came about byaccident. The different strengths and directions of the gusts of windmust have accounted for the variations of the door's movements--andmaybe the draught of our big fire had helped. 

Dave scratched his head a good bit. 

'I never lived in a house yet, ' he said, as we came away--'I never livedin a house yet without there was something wrong with it. Gimme a goodtent. '

A Wild Irishman. 

About seven years ago I drifted from Out-Back in Australia toWellington, the capital of New Zealand, and up country to a little towncalled Pahiatua, which meaneth the 'home of the gods', and is situatedin the Wairarappa (rippling or sparkling water) district. They have apretty little legend to the effect that the name of the district was notoriginally suggested by its rivers, streams, and lakes, but by thetears alleged to have been noticed, by a dusky squire, in the eyes ofa warrior chief who was looking his first, or last--I don't rememberwhich--upon the scene. He was the discoverer, I suppose, now I come tothink of it, else the place would have been already named. Maybe thescene reminded the old cannibal of the home of his childhood. 

Pahiatua was not the home of my god; and it rained for five weeks. While waiting for a remittance, from an Australian newspaper--which, Ianxiously hoped, would arrive in time for enough of it to be left (afterpaying board) to take me away somewhere--I spent many hours in thelittle shop of a shoemaker who had been a digger; and he told me yarnsof the old days on the West Coast of Middle Island. And, ever and anon, he returned to one, a hard-case from the West Coast, called 'The Flourof Wheat', and his cousin, and his mate, Dinny Murphy, dead. And everand again the shoemaker (he was large, humorous, and good-natured) mademe promise that, when I dropped across an old West Coast digger--nomatter who or what he was, or whether he was drunk or sober--I'd ask himif he knew the 'Flour of Wheat', and hear what he had to say. 

I make no attempt to give any one shade of the Irish brogue--it can't bedone in writing. 

'There's the little red Irishman, ' said the shoemaker, who was Irishhimself, 'who always wants to fight when he has a glass in him; andthere's the big sarcastic dark Irishman who makes more trouble andfights at a spree than half-a-dozen little red ones put together;and there's the cheerful easy-going Irishman. Now the Flour was acombination of all three and several other sorts. He was known from thefirst amongst the boys at Th' Canary as the Flour o' Wheat, but no oneknew exactly why. Some said that the right name was the F-l-o-w-e-r, notF-l-o-u-r, and that he was called that because there was no flower onwheat. The name might have been a compliment paid to the man's characterby some one who understood and appreciated it--or appreciated it withoutunderstanding it. Or it might have come of some chance saying of theFlour himself, or his mates--or an accident with bags of flour. He mighthave worked in a mill. But we've had enough of that. It's the man--notthe name. He was just a big, dark, blue-eyed Irish digger. He workedhard, drank hard, fought hard--and didn't swear. No man had ever heardhim swear (except once); all things were 'lovely' with him. He wasalways lucky. He got gold and threw it away. 

'The Flour was sent out to Australia (by his friends) in connection withsome trouble in Ireland in eighteen-something. The date doesn't matter:there was mostly trouble in Ireland in those days; and nobody, thatknew the man, could have the slightest doubt that he helped thetrouble--provided he was there at the time. I heard all this from a manwho knew him in Australia. The relatives that he was sent out to weresoon very anxious to see the end of him. He was as wild as they madethem in Ireland. When he had a few drinks, he'd walk restlessly to andfro outside the shanty, swinging his right arm across in front of himwith elbow bent and hand closed, as if he had a head in chancery, andmuttering, as though in explanation to himself--

'"Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!--Oi must be walkin' or foightin'!--Oimust be walkin' or foightin'!"

'They say that he wanted to eat his Australian relatives before he wasdone; and the story goes that one night, while he was on the spree, theyput their belongings into a cart and took to the Bush. 

'There's no floury record for several years; then the Flour turned up onthe west coast of New Zealand and was never very far from a pub. Keptby a cousin (that he had tracked, unearthed, or discovered somehow) at aplace called "Th' Canary". I remember the first time I saw the Flour. 

'I was on a bit of a spree myself, at Th' Canary, and one evening I wasstanding outside Brady's (the Flour's cousin's place) with Tom Lyons andDinny Murphy, when I saw a big man coming across the flat with a swag onhis back. 

'"B' God, there's the Flour o' Wheat comin' this minute, " says DinnyMurphy to Tom, "an' no one else. "

'"B' God, ye're right!" says Tom. 

'There were a lot of new chums in the big room at the back, drinking anddancing and singing, and Tom says to Dinny--

'"Dinny, I'll bet you a quid an' the Flour'll run against some of thosenew chums before he's an hour on the spot. "

'But Dinny wouldn't take him up. He knew the Flour. 

'"Good day, Tom! Good day, Dinny!"

'"Good day to you, Flour!"

'I was introduced. 

'"Well, boys, come along, " says the Flour. 

'And so we went inside with him. The Flour had a few drinks, and thenhe went into the back-room where the new chums were. One of them wasdancing a jig, and so the Flour stood up in front of him and commencedto dance too. And presently the new chum made a step that didn't pleasethe Flour, so he hit him between the eyes, and knocked him down--fairan' flat on his back. 

'"Take that, " he says. "Take that, me lovely whipper-snapper, an' laythere! You can't dance. How dare ye stand up in front of me face todance when ye can't dance?"

'He shouted, and drank, and gambled, and danced, and sang, and foughtthe new chums all night, and in the morning he said--

'"Well, boys, we had a grand time last night. Come and have a drink withme. "

'And of course they went in and had a drink with him. 

 *****

'Next morning the Flour was walking along the street, when he met adrunken, disreputable old hag, known among the boys as the "Nipper". 

'"Good MORNING, me lovely Flour o' Wheat!" says she. 

'"Good MORNING, me lovely Nipper!" says the Flour. 

'And with that she outs with a bottle she had in her dress, and smashedhim across the face with it. Broke the bottle to smithereens!

'A policeman saw her do it, and took her up; and they had the Flour as awitness, whether he liked it or not. And a lovely sight he looked, withhis face all done up in bloody bandages, and only one damaged eye and acorner of his mouth on duty. 

'"It's nothing at all, your Honour, " he said to the S. M. ; "only apin-scratch--it's nothing at all. Let it pass. I had no right to speakto the lovely woman at all. "

'But they didn't let it pass, --they fined her a quid. 

'And the Flour paid the fine. 

'But, alas for human nature! It was pretty much the same even in thosedays, and amongst those men, as it is now. A man couldn't do a womana good turn without the dirty-minded blackguards taking it for grantedthere was something between them. It was a great joke amongst the boyswho knew the Flour, and who also knew the Nipper; but as it was carriedtoo far in some quarters, it got to be no joke to the Flour--nor tothose who laughed too loud or grinned too long. 

 *****

'The Flour's cousin thought he was a sharp man. The Flour got "stiff". He hadn't any money, and his credit had run out, so he went and gota blank summons from one of the police he knew. He pretended that hewanted to frighten a man who owed him some money. Then he filled it upand took it to his cousin. 

'"What d'ye think of that?" he says, handing the summons across the bar. "What d'ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?"

'"Why, what's this all about?"

'"That's what I want to know. I borrowed a five-pound-note off of him afortnight ago when I was drunk, an' now he sends me that. "

'"Well, I never would have dream'd that of Dinny, " says the cousin, scratching his head and blinking. "What's come over him at all?"

'"That's what I want to know. "

'"What have you been doing to the man?"

'"Divil a thing that I'm aware of. "

'The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb. 

'"Well, what am I to do about it?" asked the Flour impatiently. 

'"Do? Pay the man, of course?"

'"How can I pay the lovely man when I haven't got the price of a drinkabout me?"

'The cousin scratched his chin. 

'"Well--here, I'll lend you a five-pound-note for a month or two. Go andpay the man, and get back to work. "

'And the Flour went and found Dinny Murphy, and the pair of them had ahowling spree together up at Brady's, the opposition pub. And the cousinsaid he thought all the time he was being had. 

 . . . . . 

'He was nasty sometimes, when he was about half drunk. For instance, he'd come on the ground when the Orewell sports were in full swing andwalk round, soliloquising just loud enough for you to hear; and justwhen a big event was coming off he'd pass within earshot of somecommittee men--who had been bursting themselves for weeks to work thething up and make it a success--saying to himself--

'"Where's the Orewell sports that I hear so much about? I don't seethem! Can any one direct me to the Orewell sports?"

'Or he'd pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business ofsome sort, --

'"No gamblin' for the Flour. I don't believe in their little shwindles. It ought to be shtopped. Leadin' young people ashtray. "

'Or he'd pass an Englishman he didn't like, --

'"Look at Jinneral Roberts! He's a man! He's an Irishman! England hasto come to Ireland for its Jinnerals! Luk at Jinneral Roberts in themarshes of Candyhar!"

 *****

'They always had sports at Orewell Creek on New Year's Day--exceptonce--and old Duncan was always there, --never missed it till the day hedied. He was a digger, a humorous and good-hearted "hard-case". They allknew "old Duncan". 

'But one New Year's Eve he didn't turn up, and was missed at once. "Where's old Duncan? Any one seen old Duncan?" "Oh, he'll turn upalright. " They inquired, and argued, and waited, but Duncan didn't come. 

'Duncan was working at Duffers. The boys inquired of fellows who camefrom Duffers, but they hadn't seen him for two days. They had fullyexpected to find him at the creek. He wasn't at Aliaura nor Notown. Theyinquired of men who came from Nelson Creek, but Duncan wasn't there. 

'"There's something happened to the lovely man, " said the Flour of Wheatat last. "Some of us had better see about it. "

'Pretty soon this was the general opinion, and so a party started outover the hills to Duffers before daylight in the morning, headed by theFlour. 

'The door of Duncan's "whare" was closed--BUT NOT PADLOCKED. The Flournoticed this, gave his head a jerk, opened the door, and went in. Thehut was tidied up and swept out--even the fireplace. Duncan had "liftedthe boxes" and "cleaned up", and his little bag of gold stood on ashelf by his side--all ready for his spree. On the table lay a cleanneckerchief folded ready to tie on. The blankets had been folded neatlyand laid on the bunk, and on them was stretched Old Duncan, with hisarms lying crossed on his chest, and one foot--with a boot on--restingon the ground. He had his "clean things" on, and was dressed except forone boot, the necktie, and his hat. Heart disease. 

'"Take your hats off and come in quietly, lads, " said the Flour. "Here'sthe lovely man lying dead in his bunk. "

'There were no sports at Orewell that New Year. Some one said that thecrowd from Nelson Creek might object to the sports being postponed onold Duncan's account, but the Flour said he'd see to that. 

'One or two did object, but the Flour reasoned with them and there wereno sports. 

'And the Flour used to say, afterwards, "Ah, but it was a grand time wehad at the funeral when Duncan died at Duffers. "

 . . . . . 

'The Flour of Wheat carried his mate, Dinny Murphy, all the way in fromTh' Canary to the hospital on his back. Dinny was very bad--the man wasdying of the dysentery or something. The Flour laid him down on a sparebunk in the reception-room, and hailed the staff. 

'"Inside there--come out!"

'The doctor and some of the hospital people came to see what was thematter. The doctor was a heavy swell, with a big cigar, held up in frontof him between two fat, soft, yellow-white fingers, and a dandy littlepair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses nipped onto his nose with a spring. 

'"There's me lovely mate lying there dying of the dysentry, " says theFlour, "and you've got to fix him up and bring him round. "

'Then he shook his fist in the doctor's face and said--

'"If you let that lovely man die--look out!"

'The doctor was startled. He backed off at first; then he took a puff athis cigar, stepped forward, had a careless look at Dinny, and gave someorder to the attendants. The Flour went to the door, turned half roundas he went out, and shook his fist at them again, and said--

'"If you let that lovely man die--mind!"

'In about twenty minutes he came back, wheeling a case of whisky in abarrow. He carried the case inside, and dumped it down on the floor. 

'"There, " he said, "pour that into the lovely man. "

'Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, and said--

'"If you let that lovely man die--look out!"

'They were used to hard-cases, and didn't take much notice of him, buthe had the hospital in an awful mess; he was there all hours of the dayand night; he would go down town, have a few drinks and a fight maybe, and then he'd say, "Ah, well, I'll have to go up and see how me lovelymate's getting on. "

'And every time he'd go up he'd shake his fist at the hospital ingeneral and threaten to murder 'em all if they let Dinny Murphy die. 

'Well, Dinny Murphy died one night. The next morning the Flour met thedoctor in the street, and hauled off and hit him between the eyes, andknocked him down before he had time to see who it was. 

'"Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper, " said the Flour of Wheat; "youlet that lovely man die!"

'The police happened to be out of town that day, and while they werewaiting for them the Flour got a coffin and carried it up to thehospital, and stood it on end by the doorway. 

'"I've come for me lovely mate!" he said to the scared staff--or as muchof it as he baled up and couldn't escape him. "Hand him over. He's goingback to be buried with his friends at Th' Canary. Now, don't be sneakinground and sidling off, you there; you needn't be frightened; I'vesettled with the doctor. "

'But they called in a man who had some influence with the Flour, andbetween them--and with the assistance of the prettiest nurse on thepremises--they persuaded him to wait. Dinny wasn't ready yet; there werepapers to sign; it wouldn't be decent to the dead; he had to beprayed over; he had to be washed and shaved, and fixed up decent andcomfortable. Anyway, they'd have him ready in an hour, or take theconsequences. 

'The Flour objected on the ground that all this could be done equally aswell and better by the boys at Th' Canary. "However, " he said, "I'llbe round in an hour, and if you haven't got me lovely mate ready--lookout!" Then he shook his fist sternly at them once more and said--

'"I know yer dirty tricks and dodges, and if there's e'er a pin-scratchon me mate's body--look out! If there's a pairin' of Dinny's toe-nailmissin'--look out!"

'Then he went out--taking the coffin with him. 

'And when the police came to his lodgings to arrest him, they found thecoffin on the floor by the side of the bed, and the Flour lying in it onhis back, with his arms folded peacefully on his bosom. He was asdead drunk as any man could get to be and still be alive. They knockedair-holes in the coffin-lid, screwed it on, and carried the coffin, theFlour, and all to the local lock-up. They laid their burden down on thebare, cold floor of the prison-cell, and then went out, locked the door, and departed several ways to put the "boys" up to it. And about midnightthe "boys" gathered round with a supply of liquor, and waited, andsomewhere along in the small hours there was a howl, as of a strongIrishman in Purgatory, and presently the voice of the Flour was heard toplead in changed and awful tones--

'"Pray for me soul, boys--pray for me soul! Let bygones be bygonesbetween us, boys, and pray for me lovely soul! The lovely Flour's inPurgatory!"

'Then silence for a while; and then a sound like a dray-wheel passingover a packing-case. .. . That was the only time on record that the Flourwas heard to swear. And he swore then. 

'They didn't pray for him--they gave him a month. And, when he cameout, he went half-way across the road to meet the doctor, and he--to hiscredit, perhaps--came the other half. They had a drink together, andthe Flour presented the doctor with a fine specimen of coarse gold for apin. 

'"It was the will o' God, after all, doctor, " said the Flour. "It wasthe will o' God. Let bygones be bygones between us; gimme your hand, doctor. .. . Good-bye. "

'Then he left for Th' Canary. '

The Babies in the Bush. 

 'Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright-- That only the Bushmen know-- Who guide the feet of the lost aright, Or carry them up through the starry night, Where the Bush-lost babies go. '

He was one of those men who seldom smile. There are many in theAustralian Bush, where drift wrecks and failures of all stations andprofessions (and of none), and from all the world. Or, if they do smile, the smile is either mechanical or bitter as a rule--cynical. They seldomtalk. The sort of men who, as bosses, are set down by the majority--andwithout reason or evidence--as being proud, hard, and selfish, --'toomean to live, and too big for their boots. '

But when the Boss did smile his expression was very, very gentle, andvery sad. I have seen him smile down on a little child who persisted insitting on his knee and prattling to him, in spite of his silence andgloom. He was tall and gaunt, with haggard grey eyes--haunted grey eyessometimes--and hair and beard thick and strong, but grey. He was notabove forty-five. He was of the type of men who die in harness, withtheir hair thick and strong, but grey or white when it should be brown. The opposite type, I fancy, would be the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyedmen who grow bald sooner than they grow grey, and fat and contented, anddie respectably in their beds. 

His name was Head--Walter Head. He was a boss drover on the overlandroutes. I engaged with him at a place north of the Queensland border totravel down to Bathurst, on the Great Western Line in New South Wales, with something over a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydneymarket. I am an Australian Bushman (with city experience)--a rover, ofcourse, and a ne'er-do-well, I suppose. I was born with brains and athin skin--worse luck! It was in the days before I was married, and Iwent by the name of 'Jack Ellis' this trip, --not because the policewere after me, but because I used to tell yarns about a man named JackEllis--and so the chaps nicknamed me. 

The Boss spoke little to the men: he'd sit at tucker or with his pipeby the camp-fire nearly as silently as he rode his night-watch round thebig, restless, weird-looking mob of bullocks camped on the duskystarlit plain. I believe that from the first he spoke oftener and moreconfidentially to me than to any other of the droving party. There was asomething of sympathy between us--I can't explain what it was. It seemedas though it were an understood thing between us that we understood eachother. He sometimes said things to me which would have needed a deal ofexplanation--so I thought--had he said them to any other of the party. He'd often, after brooding a long while, start a sentence, and break offwith 'You know, Jack. ' And somehow I understood, without being able toexplain why. We had never met before I engaged with him for this trip. His men respected him, but he was not a popular boss: he was too gloomy, and never drank a glass nor 'shouted' on the trip: he was reckoned a'mean boss', and rather a nigger-driver. 

He was full of Adam Lindsay Gordon, the English-Australian poet whoshot himself, and so was I. I lost an old copy of Gordon's poems on theroute, and the Boss overheard me inquiring about it; later on he askedme if I liked Gordon. We got to it rather sheepishly at first, butby-and-by we'd quote Gordon freely in turn when we were alone in camp. 'Those are grand lines about Burke and Wills, the explorers, aren'tthey, Jack?' he'd say, after chewing his cud, or rather the stem of hisbriar, for a long while without a word. (He had his pipe in his mouth asoften as any of us, but somehow I fancied he didn't enjoy it: an emptypipe or a stick would have suited him just as well, it seemed to me. )'Those are great lines, ' he'd say--

 '"In Collins Street standeth a statue tall-- A statue tall on a pillar of stone-- Telling its story to great and small Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone. 

 *****

 Weary and wasted, worn and wan, Feeble and faint, and languid and low, He lay on the desert a dying man, Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go. "

 That's a grand thing, Jack. How does it go?-- "With a pistol clenched in his failing hand, And the film of death o'er his fading eyes, He saw the sun go down on the sand, "'--

 The Boss would straighten up with a sigh that might have been half a yawn-- '"And he slept and never saw it rise, "' --speaking with a sort of quiet force all the time. Then maybe he'd stand with his back to the fire roasting his dusty leggings, with his hands behind his back and looking out over the dusky plain. 

 '"What mattered the sand or the whit'ning chalk, The blighted herbage or blackened log, The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?"

They don't matter much, do they, Jack?'

'Damned if I think they do, Boss!' I'd say. 

 '"The couch was rugged, those sextons rude, But, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food Where once they have gone where we all must go. "'

Once he repeated the poem containing the lines--

 '"Love, when we wandered here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather-- God surely loved us a little then. "

Beautiful lines those, Jack. 

 "Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer, And the blue sea over the white sand rolled-- Babble and prattle, and prattle and murmur'--

How does it go, Jack?' He stood up and turned his face to the light, butnot before I had a glimpse of it. I think that the saddest eyes on earthare mostly women's eyes, but I've seen few so sad as the Boss's werejust then. 

It seemed strange that he, a Bushman, preferred Gordon's sea poems tohis horsey and bushy rhymes; but so he did. I fancy his favourite poemwas that one of Gordon's with the lines--

 'I would that with sleepy soft embraces The sea would fold me, would find me rest In the luminous depths of its secret places, Where the wealth of God's marvels is manifest!'

He usually spoke quietly, in a tone as though death were in camp; butafter we'd been on Gordon's poetry for a while he'd end it abruptlywith, 'Well, it's time to turn in, ' or, 'It's time to turn out, ' or he'dgive me an order in connection with the cattle. He had been a well-to-dosquatter on the Lachlan river-side, in New South Wales, and had beenruined by the drought, they said. One night in camp, and after smokingin silence for nearly an hour, he asked--

'Do you know Fisher, Jack--the man that owns these bullocks?'

'I've heard of him, ' I said. Fisher was a big squatter, with stationsboth in New South Wales and in Queensland. 

'Well, he came to my station on the Lachlan years ago without a penny inhis pocket, or decent rag to his back, or a crust in his tucker-bag, andI gave him a job. He's my boss now. Ah, well! it's the way of Australia, you know, Jack. '

The Boss had one man who went on every droving trip with him; hewas 'bred' on the Boss's station, they said, and had been with himpractically all his life. His name was 'Andy'. I forget his other name, if he really had one. Andy had charge of the 'droving-plant' (a tiltedtwo-horse waggonette, in which we carried the rations and horse-feed), and he did the cooking and kept accounts. The Boss had no head forfigures. Andy might have been twenty-five or thirty-five, or anything inbetween. His hair stuck up like a well-made brush all round, and his biggrey eyes also had an inquiring expression. His weakness was girls, orhe theirs, I don't know which (half-castes not barred). He was, I think, the most innocent, good-natured, and open-hearted scamp I ever met. Towards the middle of the trip Andy spoke to me one night alone in campabout the Boss. 

'The Boss seems to have taken to you, Jack, all right. '

'Think so?' I said. I thought I smelt jealousy and detected a sneer. 

'I'm sure of it. It's very seldom HE takes to any one. '

I said nothing. 

Then after a while Andy said suddenly--

'Look here, Jack, I'm glad of it. I'd like to see him make a chum ofsome one, if only for one trip. And don't you make any mistake about theBoss. He's a white man. There's precious few that know him--precious fewnow; but I do, and it'll do him a lot of good to have some one to yarnwith. ' And Andy said no more on the subject for that trip. 

The long, hot, dusty miles dragged by across the blazing plains--bigclearings rather--and through the sweltering hot scrubs, and we reachedBathurst at last; and then the hot dusty days and weeks and months thatwe'd left behind us to the Great North-West seemed as nothing, --as Isuppose life will seem when we come to the end of it. 

The bullocks were going by rail from Bathurst to Sydney. We were all onelong afternoon getting them into the trucks, and when we'd finished theboss said to me--

'Look here, Jack, you're going on to Sydney, aren't you?'

'Yes; I'm going down to have a fly round. '

'Well, why not wait and go down with Andy in the morning? He's goingdown in charge of the cattle. The cattle-train starts about daylight. Itwon't be so comfortable as the passenger; but you'll save your fare, andyou can give Andy a hand with the cattle. You've only got to have alook at 'em every other station, and poke up any that fall down in thetrucks. You and Andy are mates, aren't you?'

I said it would just suit me. Somehow I fancied that the Boss seemedanxious to have my company for one more evening, and, to tell the truth, I felt really sorry to part with him. I'd had to work as hard as anyof the other chaps; but I liked him, and I believed he liked me. He'dstruck me as a man who'd been quietened down by some heavy trouble, andI felt sorry for him without knowing what the trouble was. 

'Come and have a drink, Boss, ' I said. The agent had paid us off duringthe day. 

He turned into a hotel with me. 

'I don't drink, Jack, ' he said; 'but I'll take a glass with you. '

'I didn't know you were a teetotaller, Boss, ' I said. I had not beensurprised at his keeping so strictly from the drink on the trip; but nowthat it was over it was a different thing. 

'I'm not a teetotaller, Jack, ' he said. 'I can take a glass or leaveit. ' And he called for a long beer, and we drank 'Here's luck!' to eachother. 

'Well, ' I said, 'I wish I could take a glass or leave it. ' And I meantit. 

Then the Boss spoke as I'd never heard him speak before. I thought forthe moment that the one drink had affected him; but I understood beforethe night was over. He laid his hand on my shoulder with a grip like aman who has suddenly made up his mind to lend you five pounds. 'Jack!'he said, 'there's worse things than drinking, and there's worse thingsthan heavy smoking. When a man who smokes gets such a load of trouble onhim that he can find no comfort in his pipe, then it's a heavy load. And when a man who drinks gets so deep into trouble that he can find nocomfort in liquor, then it's deep trouble. Take my tip for it, Jack. '

He broke off, and half turned away with a jerk of his head, as ifimpatient with himself; then presently he spoke in his usual quiettone--

'But you're only a boy yet, Jack. Never mind me. I won't ask you to takethe second drink. You don't want it; and, besides, I know the signs. '

He paused, leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, andlooking down between his arms at the floor. He stood that way thinkingfor a while; then he suddenly straightened up, like a man who'd made uphis mind to something. 

'I want you to come along home with me, Jack, ' he said; 'we'll fix you ashake-down. '

I forgot to tell you that he was married and lived in Bathurst. 

'But won't it put Mrs Head about?'

'Not at all. She's expecting you. Come along; there's nothing to see inBathurst, and you'll have plenty of knocking round in Sydney. Come on, we'll just be in time for tea. '

He lived in a brick cottage on the outskirts of the town--anold-fashioned cottage, with ivy and climbing roses, like you see in someof those old settled districts. There was, I remember, the stump of atree in front, covered with ivy till it looked like a giant's club withthe thick end up. 

When we got to the house the Boss paused a minute with his hand on thegate. He'd been home a couple of days, having ridden in ahead of thebullocks. 

'Jack, ' he said, 'I must tell you that Mrs Head had a great trouble atone time. We--we lost our two children. It does her good to talk to astranger now and again--she's always better afterwards; but there's veryfew I care to bring. You--you needn't notice anything strange. And agreewith her, Jack. You know, Jack. '

'That's all right, Boss, ' I said. I'd knocked about the Bush too long, and run against too many strange characters and things, to be surprisedat anything much. 

The door opened, and he took a little woman in his arms. I saw by thelight of a lamp in the room behind that the woman's hair was grey, andI reckoned that he had his mother living with him. And--we do have oddthoughts at odd times in a flash--and I wondered how Mrs Head and hermother-in-law got on together. But the next minute I was in the room, and introduced to 'My wife, Mrs Head, ' and staring at her with botheyes. 

It was his wife. I don't think I can describe her. For the first minuteor two, coming in out of the dark and before my eyes got used to thelamp-light, I had an impression as of a little old woman--one of thosefresh-faced, well-preserved, little old ladies--who dressed young, worefalse teeth, and aped the giddy girl. But this was because of Mrs Head'simpulsive welcome of me, and her grey hair. The hair was not so grey asI thought at first, seeing it with the lamp-light behind it: it was likedull-brown hair lightly dusted with flour. She wore it short, andit became her that way. There was something aristocratic about herface--her nose and chin--I fancied, and something that you couldn'tdescribe. She had big dark eyes--dark-brown, I thought, though theymight have been hazel: they were a bit too big and bright for me, andnow and again, when she got excited, the white showed all round thepupils--just a little, but a little was enough. 

She seemed extra glad to see me. I thought at first that she was a bitof a gusher. 

'Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr Ellis, ' she said, giving my hand agrip. 'Walter--Mr Head--has been speaking to me about you. I've beenexpecting you. Sit down by the fire, Mr Ellis; tea will be readypresently. Don't you find it a bit chilly?' She shivered. It was a bitchilly now at night on the Bathurst plains. The table was set for tea, and set rather in swell style. The cottage was too well furnishedeven for a lucky boss drover's home; the furniture looked as if it hadbelonged to a tony homestead at one time. I felt a bit strange at first, sitting down to tea, and almost wished that I was having a comfortabletuck-in at a restaurant or in a pub. Dining-room. But she knew a lotabout the Bush, and chatted away, and asked questions about the trip, and soon put me at my ease. You see, for the last year or two I'dtaken my tucker in my hands, --hunk of damper and meat and a clasp-knifemostly, --sitting on my heel in the dust, or on a log or a tucker-box. 

There was a hard, brown, wrinkled old woman that the Heads called'Auntie'. She waited at the table; but Mrs Head kept bustling roundherself most of the time, helping us. Andy came in to tea. 

Mrs Head bustled round like a girl of twenty instead of a woman ofthirty-seven, as Andy afterwards told me she was. She had the figure andmovements of a girl, and the impulsiveness and expression too--a womanlygirl; but sometimes I fancied there was something very childish abouther face and talk. After tea she and the Boss sat on one side of thefire and Andy and I on the other--Andy a little behind me at the cornerof the table. 

'Walter--Mr Head--tells me you've been out on the Lachlan river, MrEllis?' she said as soon as she'd settled down, and she leaned forward, as if eager to hear that I'd been there. 

'Yes, Mrs Head. I've knocked round all about out there. '

She sat up straight, and put the tips of her fingers to the side of herforehead and knitted her brows. This was a trick she had--she often didit during the evening. And when she did that she seemed to forget whatshe'd said last. 

She smoothed her forehead, and clasped her hands in her lap. 

'Oh, I'm so glad to meet somebody from the back country, Mr Ellis, 'she said. 'Walter so seldom brings a stranger here, and I get tired oftalking to the same people about the same things, and seeing the samefaces. You don't know what a relief it is, Mr Ellis, to see a new faceand talk to a stranger. '

'I can quite understand that, Mrs Head, ' I said. And so I could. I neverstayed more than three months in one place if I could help it. 

She looked into the fire and seemed to try to think. The Bossstraightened up and stroked her head with his big sun-browned hand, andthen put his arm round her shoulders. This brought her back. 

'You know we had a station out on the Lachlan, Mr Ellis. Did Walter evertell you about the time we lived there?'

'No, ' I said, glancing at the Boss. 'I know you had a station there;but, you know, the Boss doesn't talk much. '

'Tell Jack, Maggie, ' said the Boss; 'I don't mind. '

She smiled. 'You know Walter, Mr Ellis, ' she said. 'You won't mind him. He doesn't like me to talk about the children; he thinks it upsets me, but that's foolish: it always relieves me to talk to a stranger. ' Sheleaned forward, eagerly it seemed, and went on quickly: 'I've beenwanting to tell you about the children ever since Walter spoke to meabout you. I knew you would understand directly I saw your face. Thesetown people don't understand. I like to talk to a Bushman. You know welost our children out on the station. The fairies took them. Did Walterever tell you about the fairies taking the children away?'

This was a facer. 'I--I beg pardon, ' I commenced, when Andy gave me adig in the back. Then I saw it all. 

'No, Mrs Head. The Boss didn't tell me about that. '

'You surely know about the Bush Fairies, Mr Ellis, ' she said, her bigeyes fixed on my face--'the Bush Fairies that look after the little onesthat are lost in the Bush, and take them away from the Bush if they arenot found? You've surely heard of them, Mr Ellis? Most Bushmen have thatI've spoken to. Maybe you've seen them? Andy there has?' Andy gave meanother dig. 

'Of course I've heard of them, Mrs Head, ' I said; 'but I can't swearthat I've seen one. '

'Andy has. Haven't you, Andy?'

'Of course I have, Mrs Head. Didn't I tell you all about it the lasttime we were home?'

'And didn't you ever tell Mr Ellis, Andy?'

'Of course he did!' I said, coming to Andy's rescue; 'I remember it now. You told me that night we camped on the Bogan river, Andy. '

'Of course!' said Andy. 

'Did he tell you about finding a lost child and the fairy with it?'

'Yes, ' said Andy; 'I told him all about that. '

'And the fairy was just going to take the child away when Andy found it, and when the fairy saw Andy she flew away. '

'Yes, ' I said; 'that's what Andy told me. '

'And what did you say the fairy was like, Andy?' asked Mrs Head, fixingher eyes on his face. 

'Like. It was like one of them angels you see in Bible pictures, MrsHead, ' said Andy promptly, sitting bolt upright, and keeping his biginnocent grey eyes fixed on hers lest she might think he was tellinglies. 'It was just like the angel in that Christ-in-the-stable picturewe had at home on the station--the right-hand one in blue. '

She smiled. You couldn't call it an idiotic smile, nor the foolishsmile you see sometimes in melancholy mad people. It was more of a happychildish smile. 

'I was so foolish at first, and gave poor Walter and the doctors a lotof trouble, ' she said. 'Of course it never struck me, until afterwards, that the fairies had taken the children. '

She pressed the tips of the fingers of both hands to her forehead, andsat so for a while; then she roused herself again--

'But what am I thinking about? I haven't started to tell you about thechildren at all yet. Auntie! bring the children's portraits, will you, please? You'll find them on my dressing-table. '

The old woman seemed to hesitate. 

'Go on, Auntie, and do what I ask you, ' said Mrs Head. 'Don't befoolish. You know I'm all right now. '

'You mustn't take any notice of Auntie, Mr Ellis, ' she said with asmile, while the old woman's back was turned. 'Poor old body, she's abit crotchety at times, as old women are. She doesn't like me to gettalking about the children. She's got an idea that if I do I'll starttalking nonsense, as I used to do the first year after the children werelost. I was very foolish then, wasn't I, Walter?'

'You were, Maggie, ' said the Boss. 'But that's all past. You mustn'tthink of that time any more. '

'You see, ' said Mrs Head, in explanation to me, 'at first nothing woulddrive it out of my head that the children had wandered about until theyperished of hunger and thirst in the Bush. As if the Bush Fairies wouldlet them do that. '

'You were very foolish, Maggie, ' said the Boss; 'but don't think aboutthat. '

The old woman brought the portraits, a little boy and a little girl:they must have been very pretty children. 

'You see, ' said Mrs Head, taking the portraits eagerly, and giving themto me one by one, 'we had these taken in Sydney some years before thechildren were lost; they were much younger then. Wally's is not a goodportrait; he was teething then, and very thin. That's him standing onthe chair. Isn't the pose good? See, he's got one hand and one littlefoot forward, and an eager look in his eyes. The portrait is very dark, and you've got to look close to see the foot. He wants a toy rabbit thatthe photographer is tossing up to make him laugh. In the next portraithe's sitting on the chair--he's just settled himself to enjoy the fun. But see how happy little Maggie looks! You can see my arm where I washolding her in the chair. She was six months old then, and little Wallyhad just turned two. '

She put the portraits up on the mantel-shelf. 

'Let me see; Wally (that's little Walter, you know)--Wally was five andlittle Maggie three and a half when we lost them. Weren't they, Walter?'

'Yes, Maggie, ' said the Boss. 

'You were away, Walter, when it happened. '

'Yes, Maggie, ' said the Boss--cheerfully, it seemed to me--'I was away. '

'And we couldn't find you, Walter. You see, ' she said to me, 'Walter--MrHead--was away in Sydney on business, and we couldn't find his address. It was a beautiful morning, though rather warm, and just after thebreak-up of the drought. The grass was knee-high all over the run. Itwas a lonely place; there wasn't much bush cleared round the homestead, just a hundred yards or so, and the great awful scrubs ran back from theedges of the clearing all round for miles and miles--fifty or a hundredmiles in some directions without a break; didn't they, Walter?'

'Yes, Maggie. '

'I was alone at the house except for Mary, a half-caste girl we had, whoused to help me with the housework and the children. Andy was out on therun with the men, mustering sheep; weren't you, Andy?'

'Yes, Mrs Head. '

'I used to watch the children close as they got to run about, becauseif they once got into the edge of the scrub they'd be lost; but thismorning little Wally begged hard to be let take his little sister downunder a clump of blue-gums in a corner of the home paddock to gatherbuttercups. You remember that clump of gums, Walter?'

'I remember, Maggie. '

'"I won't go through the fence a step, mumma, " little Wally said. Icould see Old Peter--an old shepherd and station-hand we had--I couldsee him working on a dam we were making across a creek that ran downthere. You remember Old Peter, Walter?'

'Of course I do, Maggie. '

'I knew that Old Peter would keep an eye to the children; so I toldlittle Wally to keep tight hold of his sister's hand and go straightdown to Old Peter and tell him I sent them. '

She was leaning forward with her hands clasping her knee, and telling meall this with a strange sort of eagerness. 

'The little ones toddled off hand in hand, with their other handsholding fast their straw hats. "In case a bad wind blowed, " as littleMaggie said. I saw them stoop under the first fence, and that was thelast that any one saw of them. '

'Except the fairies, Maggie, ' said the Boss quickly. 

'Of course, Walter, except the fairies. '

She pressed her fingers to her temples again for a minute. 

'It seems that Old Peter was going to ride out to the musterers' campthat morning with bread for the men, and he left his work at the damand started into the Bush after his horse just as I turned back into thehouse, and before the children got near him. They either followedhim for some distance or wandered into the Bush after flowers orbutterflies----' She broke off, and then suddenly asked me, 'Do youthink the Bush Fairies would entice children away, Mr Ellis?'

The Boss caught my eye, and frowned and shook his head slightly. 

'No. I'm sure they wouldn't, Mrs Head, ' I said--'at least not from whatI know of them. '

She thought, or tried to think, again for a while, in her helplesspuzzled way. Then she went on, speaking rapidly, and rathermechanically, it seemed to me--

'The first I knew of it was when Peter came to the house about an hourafterwards, leading his horse, and without the children. I said--Isaid, "O my God! where's the children?"' Her fingers fluttered up to hertemples. 

'Don't mind about that, Maggie, ' said the Boss, hurriedly, stroking herhead. 'Tell Jack about the fairies. '

'You were away at the time, Walter?'

'Yes, Maggie. '

'And we couldn't find you, Walter?'

'No, Maggie, ' very gently. He rested his elbow on his knee and his chinon his hand, and looked into the fire. 

'It wasn't your fault, Walter; but if you had been at home do you thinkthe fairies would have taken the children?'

'Of course they would, Maggie. They had to: the children were lost. '

'And they're bringing the children home next year?'

'Yes, Maggie--next year. '

She lifted her hands to her head in a startled way, and it was some timebefore she went on again. There was no need to tell me about the lostchildren. I could see it all. She and the half-caste rushing towardswhere the children were seen last, with Old Peter after them. Thehurried search in the nearer scrub. The mother calling all the timefor Maggie and Wally, and growing wilder as the minutes flew past. OldPeter's ride to the musterers' camp. Horsemen seeming to turn up in notime and from nowhere, as they do in a case like this, and no matterhow lonely the district. Bushmen galloping through the scrub in alldirections. The hurried search the first day, and the mother mad withanxiety as night came on. Her long, hopeless, wild-eyed watch throughthe night; starting up at every sound of a horse's hoof, and readingthe worst in one glance at the rider's face. The systematic work of thesearch-parties next day and the days following. How those days do flypast. The women from the next run or selection, and some from the town, driving from ten or twenty miles, perhaps, to stay with and try tocomfort the mother. ('Put the horse to the cart, Jim: I must go to thatpoor woman!') Comforting her with improbable stories of children who hadbeen lost for days, and were none the worse for it when they werefound. The mounted policemen out with the black trackers. Search-partiescooeeing to each other about the Bush, and lighting signal-fires. Thereckless break-neck rides for news or more help. And the Boss himself, wild-eyed and haggard, riding about the Bush with Andy and one or twoothers perhaps, and searching hopelessly, days after the rest had givenup all hope of finding the children alive. All this passed before me asMrs Head talked, her voice sounding the while as if she were in anotherroom; and when I roused myself to listen, she was on to the fairiesagain. 

'It was very foolish of me, Mr Ellis. Weeks after--months after, Ithink--I'd insist on going out on the verandah at dusk and calling forthe children. I'd stand there and call "Maggie!" and "Wally!" untilWalter took me inside; sometimes he had to force me inside. Poor Walter!But of course I didn't know about the fairies then, Mr Ellis. I wasreally out of my mind for a time. '

'No wonder you were, Mrs Head, ' I said. 'It was terrible trouble. '

'Yes, and I made it worse. I was so selfish in my trouble. But it's allright now, Walter, ' she said, rumpling the Boss's hair. 'I'll never beso foolish again. '

'Of course you won't, Maggie. '

'We're very happy now, aren't we, Walter?'

'Of course we are, Maggie. '

'And the children are coming back next year. '

'Next year, Maggie. '

He leaned over the fire and stirred it up. 

'You mustn't take any notice of us, Mr Ellis, ' she went on. 'Poor Walteris away so much that I'm afraid I make a little too much of him when hedoes come home. '

She paused and pressed her fingers to her temples again. Then she saidquickly--

'They used to tell me that it was all nonsense about the fairies, butthey were no friends of mine. I shouldn't have listened to them, Walter. You told me not to. But then I was really not in my right mind. '

'Who used to tell you that, Mrs Head?' I asked. 

'The Voices, ' she said; 'you know about the Voices, Walter?'

'Yes, Maggie. But you don't hear the Voices now, Maggie?' he askedanxiously. 'You haven't heard them since I've been away this time, haveyou, Maggie?'

'No, Walter. They've gone away a long time. I hear voices now sometimes, but they're the Bush Fairies' voices. I hear them calling Maggie andWally to come with them. ' She paused again. 'And sometimes I think Ihear them call me. But of course I couldn't go away without you, Walter. But I'm foolish again. I was going to ask you about the other voices, MrEllis. They used to say that it was madness about the fairies; but then, if the fairies hadn't taken the children, Black Jimmy, or the blacktrackers with the police, could have tracked and found them at once. '

'Of course they could, Mrs Head, ' I said. 

'They said that the trackers couldn't track them because there was raina few hours after the children were lost. But that was ridiculous. Itwas only a thunderstorm. '

'Why!' I said, 'I've known the blacks to track a man after a week'sheavy rain. '

She had her head between her fingers again, and when she looked up itwas in a scared way. 

'Oh, Walter!' she said, clutching the Boss's arm; 'whatever have I beentalking about? What must Mr Ellis think of me? Oh! why did you let metalk like that?'

He put his arm round her. Andy nudged me and got up. 

'Where are you going, Mr Ellis?' she asked hurriedly. 'You're not goingto-night. Auntie's made a bed for you in Andy's room. You mustn't mindme. '

'Jack and Andy are going out for a little while, ' said the Boss. 'They'll be in to supper. We'll have a yarn, Maggie. '

'Be sure you come back to supper, Mr Ellis, ' she said. 'I really don'tknow what you must think of me, --I've been talking all the time. '

'Oh, I've enjoyed myself, Mrs Head, ' I said; and Andy hooked me out. 

'She'll have a good cry and be better now, ' said Andy when we got awayfrom the house. 'She might be better for months. She has been fairlyreasonable for over a year, but the Boss found her pretty bad when hecame back this time. It upset him a lot, I can tell you. She has turnsnow and again, and always ends up like she did just now. She gets alonging to talk about it to a Bushman and a stranger; it seems to do hergood. The doctor's against it, but doctors don't know everything. '

'It's all true about the children, then?' I asked. 

'It's cruel true, ' said Andy. 

'And were the bodies never found?'

'Yes;' then, after a long pause, 'I found them. '

'You did!'

'Yes; in the scrub, and not so very far from home either--and in afairly clear space. It's a wonder the search-parties missed it; but itoften happens that way. Perhaps the little ones wandered a long way andcame round in a circle. I found them about two months after they werelost. They had to be found, if only for the Boss's sake. You see, ina case like this, and when the bodies aren't found, the parents neverquite lose the idea that the little ones are wandering about the Bushto-night (it might be years after) and perishing from hunger, thirst, or cold. That mad idea haunts 'em all their lives. It's the same, Ibelieve, with friends drowned at sea. Friends ashore are haunted for along while with the idea of the white sodden corpse tossing about anddrifting round in the water. '

'And you never told Mrs Head about the children being found?'

'Not for a long time. It wouldn't have done any good. She was ravingmad for months. He took her to Sydney and then to Melbourne--to the bestdoctors he could find in Australia. They could do no good, so he soldthe station--sacrificed everything, and took her to England. '

'To England?'

'Yes; and then to Germany to a big German doctor there. He'd offer athousand pounds where they only wanted fifty. It was no good. Shegot worse in England, and raved to go back to Australia and find thechildren. The doctors advised him to take her back, and he did. He spentall his money, travelling saloon, and with reserved cabins, and anurse, and trying to get her cured; that's why he's droving now. She wasrestless in Sydney. She wanted to go back to the station and wait theretill the fairies brought the children home. She'd been getting the fairyidea into her head slowly all the time. The Boss encouraged it. But thestation was sold, and he couldn't have lived there anyway without goingmad himself. He'd married her from Bathurst. Both of them have gotfriends and relations here, so he thought best to bring her here. Hepersuaded her that the fairies were going to bring the children here. Everybody's very kind to them. I think it's a mistake to run away from atown where you're known, in a case like this, though most people do it. It was years before he gave up hope. I think he has hopes yet--aftershe's been fairly well for a longish time. '

'And you never tried telling her that the children were found?'

'Yes; the Boss did. The little ones were buried on the Lachlan river atfirst; but the Boss got a horror of having them buried in the Bush, sohe had them brought to Sydney and buried in the Waverley Cemetery nearthe sea. He bought the ground, and room for himself and Maggie when theygo out. It's all the ground he owns in wide Australia, and once he hadthousands of acres. He took her to the grave one day. The doctors wereagainst it; but he couldn't rest till he tried it. He took her out, andexplained it all to her. She scarcely seemed interested. She read thenames on the stone, and said it was a nice stone, and asked questionsabout how the children were found and brought here. She seemed quitesensible, and very cool about it. But when he got her home she was backon the fairy idea again. He tried another day, but it was no use; sothen he let it be. I think it's better as it is. Now and again, at herbest, she seems to understand that the children were found dead, andburied, and she'll talk sensibly about it, and ask questions in a quietway, and make him promise to take her to Sydney to see the gravenext time he's down. But it doesn't last long, and she's always worseafterwards. '

We turned into a bar and had a beer. It was a very quiet drink. Andy'shouted' in his turn, and while I was drinking the second beer athought struck me. 

'The Boss was away when the children were lost?'

'Yes, ' said Andy. 

'Strange you couldn't find him. '

'Yes, it was strange; but HE'LL have to tell you about that. Very likelyhe will; it's either all or nothing with him. '

'I feel damned sorry for the Boss, ' I said. 

'You'd be sorrier if you knew all, ' said Andy. 'It's the worst troublethat can happen to a man. It's like living with the dead. It's--it'slike a man living with his dead wife. '

When we went home supper was ready. We found Mrs Head, bright andcheerful, bustling round. You'd have thought her one of the happiest andbrightest little women in Australia. Not a word about children or thefairies. She knew the Bush, and asked me all about my trips. She toldsome good Bush stories too. It was the pleasantest hour I'd spent for along time. 

'Good night, Mr Ellis, ' she said brightly, shaking hands with me whenAndy and I were going to turn in. 'And don't forget your pipe. Here itis! I know that Bushmen like to have a whiff or two when they turnin. Walter smokes in bed. I don't mind. You can smoke all night if youlike. '

'She seems all right, ' I said to Andy when we were in our room. 

He shook his head mournfully. We'd left the door ajar, and we could hearthe Boss talking to her quietly. Then we heard her speak; she had a veryclear voice. 

'Yes, I'll tell you the truth, Walter. I've been deceiving you, Walter, all the time, but I did it for the best. Don't be angry with me, Walter!The Voices did come back while you were away. Oh, how I longed for youto come back! They haven't come since you've been home, Walter. Youmust stay with me a while now. Those awful Voices kept calling me, andtelling me lies about the children, Walter! They told me to kill myself;they told me it was all my own fault--that I killed the children. Theysaid I was a drag on you, and they'd laugh--Ha! ha! ha!--like that. They'd say, "Come on, Maggie; come on, Maggie. " They told me to come tothe river, Walter. '

Andy closed the door. His face was very miserable. 

We turned in, and I can tell you I enjoyed a soft white bed after monthsand months of sleeping out at night, between watches, on the hard groundor the sand, or at best on a few boughs when I wasn't too tired to pullthem down, and my saddle for a pillow. 

But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two. I've neversince quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home. Probablyhe really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger;perhaps he wanted me to understand--maybe he was weakening as he grewolder, and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then. 

When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, butAndy roused me out about four o'clock. The old woman that they calledAuntie was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffeeready in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe andhad our breakfast quietly. 

'The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast and sayGood-bye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack, ' said theBoss. 'I'm going to walk down as far as the station with you. She madeup a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy. Don't forget it. '

Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street, which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yardswithout speaking. He didn't seem sociable this morning, or any waysentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle. 

But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest, and atlast I made a swallow and blurted out--

'Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!'

Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak wasover the Bathurst plains. 

We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly--

'I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go on a howlingspree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her I had togo to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after some stock. Whenthe children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after, I was beastlydrunk in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush--a sly grog-shop. The oldbrute that kept it was too true to me. He thought that the story of thelost children was a trick to get me home, and he swore that he hadn'tseen me. He never told me. I could have found those children, Jack. Theywere mostly new chums and fools about the run, and not one of the threepolicemen was a Bushman. I knew those scrubs better than any man in thecountry. '

I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I coulddo for him. 

'Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. 'Good-bye, Andy!--keep those bullocks on their feet. '

The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I satsilent for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over acoal-stove in the centre of the van. 

'Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked. 

'Very seldom, ' said Andy, 'and then only when he has to, on business. When he finishes his business with the stock agents, he takes a run outto Waverley Cemetery perhaps, and comes home by the next train. '

After a while I said, 'He told me about the drink, Andy--about his beingon the spree when the children were lost. '

'Well, Jack, ' said Andy, 'that's the thing that's been killing him eversince, and it happened over ten years ago. '

A Bush Dance. 

'Tap, tap, tap, tap. '

The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub was lighted brightlyin the midst of the 'close', solid blackness of that moonless Decembernight, when the sky and stars were smothered and suffocated by droughthaze. 

It was the evening of the school children's 'Feast'. That is to say thatthe children had been sent, and 'let go', and the younger ones 'fetched'through the blazing heat to the school, one day early in the holidays, and raced--sometimes in couples tied together by the legs--and caked, and bunned, and finally improved upon by the local Chadband, and gotrid of. The schoolroom had been cleared for dancing, the maps rolled andtied, the desks and blackboards stacked against the wall outside. Teawas over, and the trestles and boards, whereon had been spread betterthings than had been provided for the unfortunate youngsters, had beentaken outside to keep the desks and blackboards company. 

On stools running end to end along one side of the room sat about twentymore or less blooming country girls of from fifteen to twenty odd. 

On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall, satabout twenty more or less blooming chaps. 

It was evident that something was seriously wrong. None of the girlsspoke above a hushed whisper. None of the men spoke above a hushed oath. Now and again two or three sidled out, and if you had followed them youwould have found that they went outside to listen hard into the darknessand to swear. 

'Tap, tap, tap. '

The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned pale facesnervously towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound. 

'Tap--tap. '

The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of the teacher'sresidence, and was uncomfortably suggestive of a coffin being made: itwas also accompanied by a sickly, indescribable odour--more like that ofwarm cheap glue than anything else. 

In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained listening. Wheneverone of the men returned from outside, or put his head in at the door, all eyes were fastened on him in the flash of a single eye, and thenwithdrawn hopelessly. At the sound of a horse's step all eyes and earswere on the door, till some one muttered, 'It's only the horses in thepaddock. '

Some of the girls' eyes began to glisten suspiciously, and at last thebelle of the party--a great, dark-haired, pink-and-white Blue Mountaingirl, who had been sitting for a full minute staring before her, withblue eyes unnaturally bright, suddenly covered her face with her hands, rose, and started blindly from the room, from which she was steered ina hurry by two sympathetic and rather 'upset' girl friends, and as shepassed out she was heard sobbing hysterically--

'Oh, I can't help it! I did want to dance! It's a sh-shame! I can't helpit! I--I want to dance! I rode twenty miles to dance--and--and I want todance!'

A tall, strapping young Bushman rose, without disguise, and followed thegirl out. The rest began to talk loudly of stock, dogs, and horses, andother Bush things; but above their voices rang out that of the girl fromthe outside--being man comforted--

'I can't help it, Jack! I did want to dance! I--I had such--such--ajob--to get mother--and--and father to let me come--and--and now!'

The two girl friends came back. 'He sez to leave her to him, ' theywhispered, in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress. 

'It's--it's no use, Jack!' came the voice of grief. 'You don't knowwhat--what father and mother--is. I--I won't--be able--to ge-getaway--again--for--for--not till I'm married, perhaps. '

The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls. 'I'll takeher into my room and make her lie down, ' she whispered to her sister, who was staying with her. 'She'll start some of the other girlspresently--it's just the weather for it, ' and she passed out quietly. That schoolmistress was a woman of penetration. 

A final 'tap-tap' from the kitchen; then a sound like the squawk of ahurt or frightened child, and the faces in the room turned quickly inthat direction and brightened. But there came a bang and a sound like'damn!' and hopelessness settled down. 

A shout from the outer darkness, and most of the men and some of thegirls rose and hurried out. Fragments of conversation heard in thedarkness--

'It's two horses, I tell you!'

'It's three, you----!'

'Lay you----!'

'Put the stuff up!'

A clack of gate thrown open. 

'Who is it, Tom?'

Voices from gatewards, yelling, 'Johnny Mears! They've got JohnnyMears!'

Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands. 

Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of thetable, where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, whichhe had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight;and, holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms, as afootball is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe ofhis riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick, the concertina shot out intothe blackness, from which was projected, in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered byan enormous brick-coloured hand, and a voice that wanted to know whoshot 'that lurid loaf of bread?'

But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, M. C. , --

'Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got JohnnyMears with his fiddle!'

The Buck-Jumper. 

Saturday afternoon. 

There were about a dozen Bush natives, from anywhere, most of them lankyand easy-going, hanging about the little slab-and-bark hotel on theedge of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a teamster's camp) when Cob & Co. 'smail-coach and six came dashing down the siding from round Crown Ridge, in all its glory, to the end of the twelve-mile stage. Some wiry, ill-used hacks were hanging to the fence and to saplings about theplace. The fresh coach-horses stood ready in a stock-yard close to theshanty. As the coach climbed the nearer bank of the creek at the foot ofthe ridge, six of the Bushmen detached themselves from verandah posts, from their heels, from the clay floor of the verandah and the rough slabwall against which they'd been resting, and joined a group of four orfive who stood round one. He stood with his back to the corner postof the stock-yard, his feet well braced out in front of him, andcontemplated the toes of his tight new 'lastic-side boots and whistledsoftly. He was a clean-limbed, handsome fellow, with riding-cords, leggings, and a blue sash; he was Graeco-Roman-nosed, blue-eyed, andhis glossy, curly black hair bunched up in front of the brim of a newcabbage-tree hat, set well back on his head. 

'Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one. 

'Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post. 'I'll do it fora fiver--not a blanky sprat less. '

Jim took off his hat and 'shoved' it round, and 'bobs' were 'chucked'into it. The result was about thirty shillings. 

Jack glanced contemptuously into the crown of the hat. 

'Not me!' he said, showing some emotion for the first time. 'D'yer thinkI'm going to risk me blanky neck for your blanky amusement for thirtyblanky bob. I'll ride the blanky horse for a fiver, and I'll feel theblanky quids in my pocket before I get on. '

Meanwhile the coach had dashed up to the door of the shanty. Therewere about twenty passengers aboard--inside, on the box-seat, on thetail-board, and hanging on to the roof--most of them Sydney men going upto the Mudgee races. They got down and went inside with the driver fora drink, while the stablemen changed horses. The Bushmen raised theirvoices a little and argued. 

One of the passengers was a big, stout, hearty man--a good-hearted, sporting man and a racehorse-owner, according to his brands. He hada round red face and a white cork hat. 'What's those chaps got onoutside?' he asked the publican. 

'Oh, it's a bet they've got on about riding a horse, ' replied thepublican. 'The flash-looking chap with the sash is Flash Jack, thehorse-breaker; and they reckon they've got the champion outlaw in thedistrict out there--that chestnut horse in the yard. '

The sporting man was interested at once, and went out and joined theBushmen. 

'Well, chaps! what have you got on here?' he asked cheerily. 

'Oh, ' said Jim carelessly, 'it's only a bit of a bet about ridin'that blanky chestnut in the corner of the yard there. ' He indicated anungroomed chestnut horse, fenced off by a couple of long sapling polesin a corner of the stock-yard. 'Flash Jack there--he reckons he's thechampion horse-breaker round here--Flash Jack reckons he can take it outof that horse first try. '

'What's up with the horse?' inquired the big, red-faced man. 'It looksquiet enough. Why, I'd ride it myself. '

'Would yer?' said Jim, who had hair that stood straight up, and aninnocent, inquiring expression. 'Looks quiet, does he? YOU ought to knowmore about horses than to go by the looks of 'em. He's quiet enough justnow, when there's no one near him; but you should have been here anhour ago. That horse has killed two men and put another chap's shoulderout--besides breaking a cove's leg. It took six of us all the morning torun him in and get the saddle on him; and now Flash Jack wants to backout of it. '

'Euraliar!' remarked Flash Jack cheerfully. 'I said I'd ride that blankyhorse out of the yard for a fiver. I ain't goin' to risk my blanky neckfor nothing and only to amuse you blanks. '

'He said he'd ride the horse inside the yard for a quid, ' said Jim. 

'And get smashed against the rails!' said Flash Jack. 'I would be afool. I'd rather take my chance outside in the scrub--and it's roughcountry round here. '

'Well, how much do you want?' asked the man in the mushroom hat. 

'A fiver, I said, ' replied Jack indifferently. 'And the blanky stuff inmy pocket before I get on the blanky horse. '

'Are you frightened of us running away without paying you?' inquired oneof the passengers who had gathered round. 

'I'm frightened of the horse bolting with me without me being paid, 'said Flash Jack. 'I know that horse; he's got a mouth like iron. I mightbe at the bottom of the cliff on Crown Ridge road in twenty minutes withmy head caved in, and then what chance for the quids?'

'You wouldn't want 'em then, ' suggested a passenger. 'Or, say!--we'dleave the fiver with the publican to bury you. '

Flash Jack ignored that passenger. He eyed his boots and softly whistleda tune. 

'All right!' said the man in the cork hat, putting his hand in hispocket. 'I'll start with a quid; stump up, you chaps. '

The five pounds were got together. 

'I'll lay a quid to half a quid he don't stick on ten minutes!' shoutedJim to his mates as soon as he saw that the event was to come off. Thepassengers also betted amongst themselves. Flash Jack, after putting themoney in his breeches-pocket, let down the rails and led the horse intothe middle of the yard. 

'Quiet as an old cow!' snorted a passenger in disgust. 'I believe it's asell!'

'Wait a bit, ' said Jim to the passenger, 'wait a bit and you'll see. '

They waited and saw. 

Flash Jack leisurely mounted the horse, rode slowly out of the yard, andtrotted briskly round the corner of the shanty and into the scrub, whichswallowed him more completely than the sea might have done. 

Most of the other Bushmen mounted their horses and followed Flash Jackto a clearing in the scrub, at a safe distance from the shanty; thenthey dismounted and hung on to saplings, or leaned against their horses, while they laughed. 

At the hotel there was just time for another drink. The driver climbedto his seat and shouted, 'All aboard!' in his usual tone. The passengersclimbed to their places, thinking hard. A mile or so along the road theman with the cork hat remarked, with much truth--

'Those blanky Bushmen have got too much time to think. '

 *****

The Bushmen returned to the shanty as soon as the coach was out ofsight, and proceeded to 'knock down' the fiver. 

Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing. 

The Half-way House at Tinned Dog (Out-Back in Australia) kept DanielMyers--licensed to retail spirituous and fermented liquors--in drink andthe horrors for upward of five years, at the end of which time he layhidden for weeks in a back skillion, an object which no decent man wouldcare to see--or hear when it gave forth sound. 'Good accommodationfor man and beast'; but few shanties save his own might, for aconsideration, have accommodated the sort of beast which the man Myershad become towards the end of his career. But at last the eccentric Bushdoctor, 'Doc' Wild' (who perhaps could drink as much as Myers withoutits having any further effect upon his temperament than to keep himawake and cynical), pronounced the publican dead enough to be buriedlegally; so the widow buried him, had the skillion cleaned out, and thesign altered to read, 'Margaret Myers, licensed, &c. ', and continued toconduct the pub. Just as she had run it for over five years, with thejoyful and blessed exception that there was no longer a human pig andpigstye attached, and that the atmosphere was calm. Most of the regularpatrons of the Half-way House could have their horrors decently, and, comparatively, quietly--or otherwise have them privately--in the BigScrub adjacent; but Myers had not been one of that sort. 

Mrs Myers settled herself to enjoy life comfortably and happily, atthe fixed age of thirty-nine, for the next seven years or so. She wasa pleasant-faced dumpling, who had been baked solid in the droughts ofOut-Back without losing her good looks, and had put up with a hard life, and Myers, all those years without losing her good humour and nature. Probably, had her husband been the opposite kind of man, she would havebeen different--haggard, bad-tempered, and altogether impossible--forof such is woman. But then it might be taken into consideration that shehad been practically a widow during at least the last five years of herhusband's alleged life. 

Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemedthat she was not to be caught. 

'It would be a grand thing, ' one of the periodical boozers of Tinned Dogwould say to his mates, 'for one of us to have his name up on a pub. ; itwould save a lot of money. '

'It wouldn't save you anything, Bill, if I got it, ' was the retort. 'Youneedn't come round chewing my lug then. I'd give you one drink and nomore. '

The publican at Dead Camel, station managers, professional shearers, even one or two solvent squatters and promising cockatoos, tried theirluck in vain. In answer to the suggestion that she ought to have a manto knock round and look after things, she retorted that she had had one, and was perfectly satisfied. Few trav'lers on those tracks but tried'a bit of bear-up' in that direction, but all to no purpose. Chequemenknocked down their cheques manfully at the Half-way House--to getcourage and goodwill and 'put it off' till, at the last moment, theyoffered themselves abjectly to the landlady; which was worse than badjudgment on their part--it was very silly, and she told them so. 

One or two swore off, and swore to keep straight; but she had no faithin them, and when they found that out, it hurt their feelings so muchthat they 'broke out' and went on record-breaking sprees. 

About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extracoat of paint on the 'Margaret', whereat suitors looked hopeless. 

One or two of the rejected died of love in the horrors in the BigScrub--anyway, the verdict was that they died of love aggravated by thehorrors. But the climax was reached when a Queensland shearer, seizingthe opportunity when the mate, whose turn it was to watch him, fellasleep, went down to the yard and hanged himself on the butcher'sgallows--having first removed his clothes, with some drink-lurid idea ofleaving the world as naked as he came into it. He climbed the pole, satastride on top, fixed the rope to neck and bar, but gave a yell--a yellof drunken triumph--before he dropped, and woke his mates. 

They cut him down and brought him to. Next day he apologised to MrsMyers, said, 'Ah, well! So long!' to the rest, and departed--cured ofdrink and love apparently. The verdict was that the blanky fool shouldhave dropped before he yelled; but she was upset and annoyed, and itbegan to look as though, if she wished to continue to live on happilyand comfortably for a few years longer at the fixed age of thirty-nine, she would either have to give up the pub. Or get married. 

Her fame was carried far and wide, and she became a woman whose name wasmentioned with respect in rough shearing-sheds and huts, and round thecamp-fire. 

About thirty miles south of Tinned Dog one James Grimshaw, widower--otherwise known as 'Old Jimmy', though he was little pastmiddle age--had a small selection which he had worked, let, given up, and tackled afresh (with sinews of war drawn from fencing contracts)ever since the death of his young wife some fifteen years agone. He wasa practical, square-faced, clean-shaven, clean, and tidy man, with acertain 'cleanness' about the shape of his limbs which suggested theold jockey or hostler. There were two strong theories in connection withJimmy--one was that he had had a university education, and the otherthat he couldn't write his own name. Not nearly such a ridiculous norsimple case Out-Back as it might seem. 

Jimmy smoked and listened without comment to the 'heard tells' inconnection with Mrs Myers, till at last one night, at the end of hiscontract and over a last pipe, he said quietly, 'I'll go up to TinnedDog next week and try my luck. '

His mates and the casual Jims and Bills were taken too suddenly tolaugh, and the laugh having been lost, as Bland Holt, the Australianactor would put it in a professional sense, the audience had time tothink, with the result that the joker swung his hand down through animaginary table and exclaimed--

'By God! Jimmy'll do it. ' (Applause. )

 *****

So one drowsy afternoon at the time of the year when the breathless dayruns on past 7 P. M. , Mrs Myers sat sewing in the bar parlour, when aclean-shaved, clean-shirted, clean-neckerchiefed, clean-moleskinned, greased-bluchered--altogether a model or stage swagman came up, wasserved in the bar by the half-caste female cook, and took his way to theriver-bank, where he rigged a small tent and made a model camp. 

A couple of hours later he sat on a stool on the verandah, smoking aclean clay pipe. Just before the sunset meal Mrs Myers asked, 'Is thattrav'ler there yet, Mary?'

'Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that. '

The landlady knitted her forehead over her sewing, as women do whenlimited for 'stuff' or wondering whether a section has been cutwrong--or perhaps she thought of that other who hadn't been a 'cleanpfellar'. She put her work aside, and stood in the doorway, looking outacross the clearing. 

'Good-day, mister, ' she said, seeming to become aware of him for thefirst time. 

'Good-day, missus!'

'Hot!'

'Hot!'

Pause. 

'Trav'lin'?'

'No, not particular!'

She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining when hewasn't raving. But the swagman smoked on. 

'Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end up. 

'No, thank you, missus. I had one an hour or so ago. I never take morethan two a-day--one before breakfast, if I can get it, and a night-cap. '

What a contrast to Myers! she thought. 

'Come and have some tea; it's ready. '

'Thank you. I don't mind if I do. '

They got on very slowly, but comfortably. She got little out of himexcept the facts that he had a selection, had finished a contract, and was 'just having a look at the country. ' He politely declined a'shake-down', saying he had a comfortable camp, and preferred being outthis weather. She got his name with a 'by-the-way', as he rose to leave, and he went back to camp. 

He caught a cod, and they had it for breakfast next morning, andgot along so comfortable over breakfast that he put in the forenoonpottering about the gates and stable with a hammer, a saw, and a box ofnails. 

And, well--to make it short--when the big Tinned Dog shed had cut-out, and the shearers struck the Half-way House, they were greatly impressedby a brand-new sign whereon glistened the words--

 HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, BY JAMES GRIMSHAW. Good Stabling. 

The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five. 

At Dead Dingo. 

It was blazing hot outside and smothering hot inside the weather-boardand iron shanty at Dead Dingo, a place on the Cleared Road, wherethere was a pub. And a police-station, and which was sometimes called'Roasted', and other times 'Potted Dingo'--nicknames suggested by theeverlasting drought and the vicinity of the one-pub. Township of TinnedDog. 

From the front verandah the scene was straight-cleared road, runningright and left to Out-Back, and to Bourke (and ankle-deep in the redsand dust for perhaps a hundred miles); the rest blue-grey bush, dust, and the heat-wave blazing across every object. 

There were only four in the bar-room, though it was New Year's Day. There weren't many more in the county. The girl sat behind the bar--thecoolest place in the shanty--reading 'Deadwood Dick'. On a worn and tornand battered horse-hair sofa, which had seen cooler places and betterdays, lay an awful and healthy example, a bearded swagman, with his armstwisted over his head and his face to the wall, sleeping off the deathof the dead drunk. Bill and Jim--shearer and rouseabout--sat at a tableplaying cards. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and they hadbeen gambling since nine--and the greater part of the night before--sothey were, probably, in a worse condition morally (and perhapsphysically) than the drunken swagman on the sofa. 

Close under the bar, in a dangerous place for his legs and tail, lay asheep-dog with a chain attached to his collar and wound round his neck. 

Presently a thump on the table, and Bill, unlucky gambler, rose with anoath that would have been savage if it hadn't been drawled. 

'Stumped?' inquired Jim. 

'Not a blanky, lurid deener!' drawled Bill. 

Jim drew his reluctant hands from the cards, his eyes went slowly andhopelessly round the room and out the door. There was something in theeyes of both, except when on the card-table, of the look of a man wakingin a strange place. 

'Got anything?' asked Jim, fingering the cards again. 

Bill sucked in his cheeks, collecting the saliva with difficulty, andspat out on to the verandah floor. 

'That's all I got, ' he drawled. 'It's gone now. '

Jim leaned back in his chair, twisted, yawned, and caught sight of thedog. 

'That there dog yours?' he asked, brightening. 

They had evidently been strangers the day before, or as strange to eachother as Bushmen can be. 

Bill scratched behind his ear, and blinked at the dog. The dog wokesuddenly to a flea fact. 

'Yes, ' drawled Bill, 'he's mine. '

'Well, I'm going Out-Back, and I want a dog, ' said Jim, gathering thecards briskly. 'Half a quid agin the dog?'

'Half a quid be----!' drawled Bill. 'Call it a quid?'

'Half a blanky quid!'

'A gory, lurid quid!' drawled Bill desperately, and he stooped over hisswag. 

But Jim's hands were itching in a ghastly way over the cards. 

'Alright. Call it a---- quid. '

The drunkard on the sofa stirred, showed signs of waking, but diedagain. Remember this, it might come in useful. 

Bill sat down to the table once more. 

Jim rose first, winner of the dog. He stretched, yawned 'Ah, well!' andshouted drinks. Then he shouldered his swag, stirred the dog up with hisfoot, unwound the chain, said 'Ah, well--so long!' and drifted out andalong the road toward Out-Back, the dog following with head and taildown. 

Bill scored another drink on account of girl-pity for bad luck, shouldered his swag, said, 'So long, Mary!' and drifted out and alongthe road towards Tinned Dog, on the Bourke side. 

 *****

A long, drowsy, half hour passed--the sort of half hour that is as longas an hour in the places where days are as long as years, and years holdabout as much as days do in other places. 

The man on the sofa woke with a start, and looked scared and wild for amoment; then he brought his dusty broken boots to the floor, rested hiselbows on his knees, took his unfortunate head between his hands, andcame back to life gradually. 

He lifted his head, looked at the girl across the top of the bar, andformed with his lips, rather than spoke, the words--

'Put up a drink?'*

 * 'Put up a drink'--i. E. , 'Give me a drink on credit', or 'Chalk it up'. 

She shook her head tightly and went on reading. 

He staggered up, and, leaning on the bar, made desperate distresssignals with hand, eyes, and mouth. 

'No!' she snapped. 'I means no when I says no! You've had too many lastdrinks already, and the boss says you ain't to have another. If youswear again, or bother me, I'll call him. '

He hung sullenly on the counter for a while, then lurched to hisswag, and shouldered it hopelessly and wearily. Then he blinked round, whistled, waited a moment, went on to the front verandah, peered round, through the heat, with bloodshot eyes, and whistled again. He turned andstarted through to the back-door. 

'What the devil do you want now?' demanded the girl, interrupted in herreading for the third time by him. 'Stampin' all over the house. Youcan't go through there! It's privit! I do wish to goodness you'd git!'

'Where the blazes is that there dog o' mine got to?' he muttered. 'Didyou see a dog?'

'No! What do I want with your dog?'

He whistled out in front again, and round each corner. Then he came backwith a decided step and tone. 

'Look here! that there dog was lyin' there agin the wall when I wentto sleep. He wouldn't stir from me, or my swag, in a year, if he wasn'tdragged. He's been blanky well touched [stolen], and I wouldn'ter losthim for a fiver. Are you sure you ain't seen a dog?' then suddenly, asthe thought struck him: 'Where's them two chaps that was playin' cardswhen I wenter sleep?'

'Why!' exclaimed the girl, without thinking, 'there was a dog, now Icome to think of it, but I thought it belonged to one of them chaps. Anyway, they played for it, and the other chap won it and took it away. '

He stared at her blankly, with thunder gathering in the blankness. 

'What sort of a dog was it?'

Dog described; the chain round the neck settled it. 

He scowled at her darkly. 

'Now, look here, ' he said; 'you've allowed gamblin' in this bar--yourboss has. You've got no right to let spielers gamble away a man's dog. Is a customer to lose his dog every time he has a doze to suit yourboss? I'll go straight across to the police camp and put you away, andI don't care if you lose your licence. I ain't goin' to lose my dog. Iwouldn'ter taken a ten-pound note for that blanky dog! I----'

She was filling a pewter hastily. 

'Here! for God's sake have a drink an' stop yer row. '

He drank with satisfaction. Then he hung on the bar with one elbow andscowled out the door. 

'Which blanky way did them chaps go?' he growled. 

'The one that took the dog went towards Tinned Dog. '

'And I'll haveter go all the blanky way back after him, and most likelylose me shed! Here!' jerking the empty pewter across the bar, 'fill thatup again; I'm narked properly, I am, and I'll take twenty-four blankyhours to cool down now. I wouldn'ter lost that dog for twenty quid. '

He drank again with deeper satisfaction, then he shuffled out, muttering, swearing, and threatening louder every step, and took thetrack to Tinned Dog. 

 *****

Now the man, girl, or woman, who told me this yarn has never quitesettled it in his or her mind as to who really owned the dog. I leave itto you. 

Telling Mrs Baker. 

Most Bushmen who hadn't 'known Bob Baker to speak to', had 'heard tellof him'. He'd been a squatter, not many years before, on the Macquarieriver in New South Wales, and had made money in the good seasons, andhad gone in for horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips toSydney, where he put up at swell hotels and went the pace. So after apretty severe drought, when the sheep died by thousands on his runs, BobBaker went under, and the bank took over his station and put a managerin charge. 

He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that he'd beena selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned, forthey had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often born ofvanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It's very nice to hear thechaps sing 'For he's a jolly good fellow', but you've mostly got to payfor it twice--first in company, and afterwards alone. I once heard thechaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow, when I was leaving a placeand they were giving me a send-off. It thrilled me, and brought a warmgush to my eyes; but, all the same, I wished I had half the money I'dlent them, and spent on 'em, and I wished I'd used the time I'd wastedto be a jolly good fellow. 

When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the greatnorth-western route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong onthe Sydney side. He was going north to new country round by the Gulf ofCarpentaria, with a big mob of cattle, on a two years' trip; and I andmy mate, Andy M'Culloch, engaged to go with him. We wanted to have alook at the Gulf Country. 

After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me that the Bosswas too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had beenwith him on another trip, and he told me that the Boss was only goingthis way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal ofher. 'She's a good little woman, ' said Andy. 'One of the right stuff. Iworked on their station for a while when I was a nipper, and I know. She was always a damned sight too good for the Boss, but she believed inhim. When I was coming away this time she says to me, "Look here, Andy, I'm afraid Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look after himfor me, as much as you can--you seem to have as much influence with himas any one. I want you to promise me that you'll never have a drink withhim. "

'And I promised, ' said Andy, 'and I'll keep my word. ' Andy was a chapwho could keep his word, and nothing else. And, no matter how the Bosspersuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would never drink with him. 

It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at ashanty, and sometimes he'd be days behind us; and when he'd catch up tous his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last hewent on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty milesnorth of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow with a flashbarmaid there--one of those girls who are engaged, by the publicans upcountry, as baits for chequemen. 

He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque from thestock-owner's agent there, and knocked that down; then he raised somemore money somehow, and spent that--mostly on the girl. 

We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple ofstages, and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in thenight and went back. 

We had two other men with us, but had the devil's own bother on accountof the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round. You see it was all bigruns round there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along the routeall the time, or else get into trouble for trespass. The agent wasn'tgoing to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock untilthe Boss sobered up; there was very little grass on the route or thetravelling-stock reserves or camps, so we had to keep travelling forgrass. 

The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle haveto go through--that's the law of the stock-routes. So the agent wiredto the owners, and, when he got their reply, he sacked the Boss and sentthe cattle on in charge of another man. The new Boss was a drover comingsouth after a trip; he had his two brothers with him, so he didn't wantme and Andy; but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged, between the agent and the new Boss, to get most of the wages due tous--the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it. 

We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober, mad or sane, good or bad, it isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in ahole; and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him. 

We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp withus as much as possible, and did all we could for him. 

'How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy, 'orany of his old mates?'

The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. Where the barmaid was, andthen he'd hang round the other pubs. , and get drink somehow, and fight, and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time, wild-eyedand gaunt, and he hadn't washed or shaved for days. 

Andy got the constable in charge of the police station to lock him upfor a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back to the campnext morning and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes heslipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started to hanghimself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We got tohim just in time. 

Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who was fighting the drought, the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border. Andy reckoned it was about time to do something. 

Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his head before he starteddrinking--he had acted queer some time, now we came to think ofit; maybe he'd got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over histroubles--anyway he died in the horrors within the week. 

His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought he was thedevil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us to hold the Bossdown sometimes. 

Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for a few minutes and talkabout his 'poor wife and children'; and immediately afterwards he'dfall a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils. He cursedeverything; he cursed his wife and children, and yelled that they weredragging him down to hell. He died raving mad. It was the worst case ofdeath in the horrors of drink that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush. 

Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to beburied quick who die out there in the hot weather--especially men whodie in the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-housewhere the barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperatefight: the publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man; butNed was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who will carry a thingthrough to death when they make up their minds. He gave that publicannearly as good a thrashing as he deserved. The constable in charge ofthe station backed Ned, while another policeman picked up the publican. Sounds queer to you city people, doesn't it?

Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days atNed Baker's station on the border, and then started on ourthree-hundred-mile ride down-country. The weather was still very hot, sowe decided to travel at night for a while, and left Ned's place at dusk. He parted from us at the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet, done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained Bob'spocket-book, letters, and papers. We looked back, after we'd gone apiece along the dusty road, and saw Ned still standing by the gate; anda very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a bachelor. 'Poor old Ned, ' saidAndy to me. 'He was in love with Mrs Bob Baker before she got married, but she picked the wrong man--girls mostly do. Ned and Bob were togetheron the Macquarie, but Ned left when his brother married, and he's beenup in these God-forsaken scrubs ever since. Look, I want to tell yousomething, Jack: Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob died offever, and everything was done for him that could be done, and that hedied easy--and all that sort of thing. Ned sent her some money, and sheis to think that it was the money due to Bob when he died. Now I'll haveto go and see her when we get to Solong; there's no getting out of it, I'll have to face her--and you'll have to come with me. '

'Damned if I will!' I said. 

'But you'll have to, ' said Andy. 'You'll have to stick to me; you'resurely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this? I'llhave to lie like hell--I'll have to lie as I never lied to a womanbefore; and you'll have to back me and corroborate every lie. '

I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion. 

'There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn, ' said Andy. He said nomore about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss's name casually, until we were within about a day's ride of Solong; then Andy told me theyarn he'd made up about the Boss's death. 

'And I want you to listen, Jack, ' he said, 'and remember every word--andif you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards. Now itwas like this: the Boss wasn't too well when he crossed the border. Hecomplained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain in the backof his neck, and he had dysentery bad, --but that doesn't matter; it'slucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms. The Boss stuckto the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle and made it aseasy as we could for him. He'd just take it easy, and ride on from campto camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town off the route (or you did, if you like) and got some medicine for him; that made him better for awhile, but at last, a day or two this side of Mulgatown, he had to giveup. A squatter there drove him into town in his buggy and put him upat the best hotel. The publican knew the Boss and did all he could forhim--put him in the best room and wired for another doctor. We wired forNed as soon as we saw how bad the Boss was, and Ned rode night and dayand got there three days before the Boss died. The Boss was a bit offhis head some of the time with the fever, but was calm and quiet towardsthe end and died easy. He talked a lot about his wife and children, andtold us to tell the wife not to fret but to cheer up for the children'ssake. How does that sound?'

I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me. 

'Why not let her know the truth?' I asked. 'She's sure to hear ofit sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunkenblackguard she might get over it all the sooner. '

'You don't know women, Jack, ' said Andy quietly. 'And, anyway, even ifshe is a sensible woman, we've got a dead mate to consider as well as aliving woman. '

'But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later, ' I said, 'the Bosswas so well known. '

'And that's just the reason why the truth might be kept from her, ' saidAndy. 'If he wasn't well known--and nobody could help liking him, afterall, when he was straight--if he wasn't so well known the truth mightleak out unawares. She won't know if I can help it, or at least not yeta while. If I see any chaps that come from the North I'll put them upto it. I'll tell M'Grath, the publican at Solong, too: he's a straightman--he'll keep his ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker's sistersis staying with her, and I'll give her a hint so that she can warn offany women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure togo and live in Sydney, where all her people are--she was a Sydney girl;and she's not likely to meet any one there that will tell her the truth. I can tell her that it was the last wish of the Boss that she shouldshift to Sydney. '

We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called a'happy thought'. He went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvaspacket that Ned had given him: it was sewn up with packing-thread, andAndy ripped it open with his pocket-knife. 

'What are you doing, Andy?' I asked. 

'Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned, ' said Andy. 'Iguess he hasn't looked through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going tosee that there's nothing here that will make liars of us. '

He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. Therewere some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of herand the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other lettersfrom barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same streetwith the Boss's wife; and there were portraits--one or two flash ones. There were two letters from other men's wives too. 

'And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!' said Andy, ina tone of disgust. 

He threw the lot into the fire; then he went through the Boss'spocket-book and tore out some leaves that had notes and addresses onthem, and burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet again and put itaway in his saddle-bag. 

'Such is life!' said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh. 

We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our horses out in apaddock, and put up at M'Grath's pub. Until such time as we made up ourminds as to what we'd do or where we'd go. We had an idea of waitinguntil the shearing season started and then making Out-Back to the bigsheds. 

Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs Baker. 'We'll go afterdinner, ' said Andy at first; then after dinner we had a drink, and feltsleepy--we weren't used to big dinners of roast-beef and vegetables andpudding, and, besides, it was drowsy weather--so we decided to have asnooze and then go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon, so wethought we'd put it off till after tea. 'It wouldn't be manners to walkin while they're at tea, ' said Andy--'it would look as if we only camefor some grub. '

But while we were at tea a little girl came with a message that MrsBaker wanted to see us, and would be very much obliged if we'd callup as soon as possible. You see, in those small towns you can't movewithout the thing getting round inside of half an hour. 

'We'll have to face the music now!' said Andy, 'and no get out of it. 'He seemed to hang back more than I did. There was another pub. Oppositewhere Mrs Baker lived, and when we got up the street a bit I said toAndy--

'Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept inthere an hour or two. '

'You don't want another drink, ' said Andy, rather short. 'Why, you seemto be going the same way as the Boss!' But it was Andy that edged offtowards the pub. When we got near Mrs Baker's place. 'All right!' hesaid. 'Come on! We'll have this other drink, since you want it so bad. '

We had the drink, then we buttoned up our coats and started across theroad--we'd bought new shirts and collars, and spruced up a bit. Half-wayacross Andy grabbed my arm and asked--

'How do you feel now, Jack?'

'Oh, I'M all right, ' I said. 

'For God's sake!' said Andy, 'don't put your foot in it and make a messof it. '

'I won't, if you don't. '

Mrs Baker's cottage was a little weather-board box affair back in agarden. When we went in through the gate Andy gripped my arm again andwhispered--

'For God's sake stick to me now, Jack!'

'I'll stick all right, ' I said--'you've been having too much beer, Andy. '

I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered her as a cheerful, contentedsort of woman, bustling about the house and getting the Boss's shirtsand things ready when we started North. Just the sort of woman that iscontented with housework and the children, and with nothing particularabout her in the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire looking likethe ghost of herself. I wouldn't have recognised her at first. I neversaw such a change in a woman, and it came like a shock to me. 

Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at Mrs Baker I had eyesfor the sister and no one else. She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-fouror twenty-five, and fresh and fair--not like the sun-browned women wewere used to see. She was a pretty, bright-eyed girl, and seemed quickto understand, and very sympathetic. She had been educated, Andy hadtold me, and wrote stories for the Sydney 'Bulletin' and other Sydneypapers. She had her hair done and was dressed in the city style, andthat took us back a bit at first. 

'It's very good of you to come, ' said Mrs Baker in a weak, weary voice, when we first went in. 'I heard you were in town. '

'We were just coming when we got your message, ' said Andy. 'We'd havecome before, only we had to see to the horses. '

'It's very kind of you, I'm sure, ' said Mrs Baker. 

They wanted us to have tea, but we said we'd just had it. Then MissStandish (the sister) wanted us to have tea and cake; but we didn't feelas if we could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake successfullyjust then. 

There was something the matter with one of the children in a back-room, and the sister went to see to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly. 

'You mustn't mind me, ' she said. 'I'll be all right presently, and thenI want you to tell me all about poor Bob. It's seeing you, that saw thelast of him, that set me off. '

Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs against the wall, and held our hats tight, and stared at a picture of Wellington meetingBlucher on the opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that picturewas there. 

The child was calling 'mumma', and Mrs Baker went in to it, and hersister came out. 'Best tell her all about it and get it over, ' shewhispered to Andy. 'She'll never be content until she hears all aboutpoor Bob from some one who was with him when he died. Let me take yourhats. Make yourselves comfortable. '

She took the hats and put them on the sewing-machine. I wished she'd letus keep them, for now we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to dowith our hands; and as for being comfortable, we were just about ascomfortable as two cats on wet bricks. 

When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought little Bobby Baker, aboutfour years old; he wanted to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andytook him up on his knee. He was a pretty child, but he reminded me toomuch of his father. 

'I'm so glad you've come, Andy!' said Bobby. 

'Are you, Bobby?'

'Yes. I wants to ask you about daddy. You saw him go away, didn't you?'and he fixed his great wondering eyes on Andy's face. 

'Yes, ' said Andy. 

'He went up among the stars, didn't he?'

'Yes, ' said Andy. 

'And he isn't coming back to Bobby any more?'

'No, ' said Andy. 'But Bobby's going to him by-and-by. '

Mrs Baker had been leaning back in her chair, resting her head on herhand, tears glistening in her eyes; now she began to sob, and her sistertook her out of the room. 

Andy looked miserable. 'I wish to God I was off this job!' he whisperedto me. 

'Is that the girl that writes the stories?' I asked. 

'Yes, ' he said, staring at me in a hopeless sort of way, 'and poemstoo. '

'Is Bobby going up among the stars?' asked Bobby. 

'Yes, ' said Andy--'if Bobby's good. '

'And auntie?'

'Yes. '

'And mumma?'

'Yes. '

'Are you going, Andy?'

'Yes, ' said Andy hopelessly. 

'Did you see daddy go up amongst the stars, Andy?'

'Yes, ' said Andy, 'I saw him go up. '

'And he isn't coming down again any more?'

'No, ' said Andy. 

'Why isn't he?'

'Because he's going to wait up there for you and mumma, Bobby. '

There was a long pause, and then Bobby asked--

'Are you going to give me a shilling, Andy?' with the same expression ofinnocent wonder in his eyes. 

Andy slipped half-a-crown into his hand. 'Auntie' came in and told himhe'd see Andy in the morning and took him away to bed, after he'd kissedus both solemnly; and presently she and Mrs Baker settled down to hearAndy's story. 

'Brace up now, Jack, and keep your wits about you, ' whispered Andy to mejust before they came in. 

'Poor Bob's brother Ned wrote to me, ' said Mrs Baker, 'but he scarcelytold me anything. Ned's a good fellow, but he's very simple, and neverthinks of anything. '

Andy told her about the Boss not being well after he crossed the border. 

'I knew he was not well, ' said Mrs Baker, 'before he left. I didn't wanthim to go. I tried hard to persuade him not to go this trip. I had afeeling that I oughtn't to let him go. But he'd never think of anythingbut me and the children. He promised he'd give up droving after thistrip, and get something to do near home. The life was too much forhim--riding in all weathers and camping out in the rain, and living likea dog. But he was never content at home. It was all for the sake of meand the children. He wanted to make money and start on a station again. I shouldn't have let him go. He only thought of me and the children! Oh!my poor, dear, kind, dead husband!' She broke down again and sobbed, andher sister comforted her, while Andy and I stared at Wellington meetingBlucher on the field of Waterloo. I thought the artist had heaped up thedead a bit extra, and I thought that I wouldn't like to be trod on byhorses, even if I was dead. 

'Don't you mind, ' said Miss Standish, 'she'll be all right presently, 'and she handed us the 'Illustrated Sydney Journal'. This was a greatrelief, --we bumped our heads over the pictures. 

Mrs Baker made Andy go on again, and he told her how the Boss broke downnear Mulgatown. Mrs Baker was opposite him and Miss Standish oppositeme. Both of them kept their eyes on Andy's face: he sat, with his hairstraight up like a brush as usual, and kept his big innocent grey eyesfixed on Mrs Baker's face all the time he was speaking. I watched MissStandish. I thought she was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen; it was abad case of love at first sight, but she was far and away above me, andthe case was hopeless. I began to feel pretty miserable, and to thinkback into the past: I just heard Andy droning away by my side. 

'So we fixed him up comfortable in the waggonette with the blanketsand coats and things, ' Andy was saying, 'and the squatter started intoMulgatown. .. . It was about thirty miles, Jack, wasn't it?' he asked, turning suddenly to me. He always looked so innocent that there weretimes when I itched to knock him down. 

'More like thirty-five, ' I said, waking up. 

Miss Standish fixed her eyes on me, and I had another look at Wellingtonand Blucher. 

'They were all very good and kind to the Boss, ' said Andy. 'They thoughta lot of him up there. Everybody was fond of him. '

'I know it, ' said Mrs Baker. 'Nobody could help liking him. He was oneof the kindest men that ever lived. '

'Tanner, the publican, couldn't have been kinder to his own brother, 'said Andy. 'The local doctor was a decent chap, but he was only a youngfellow, and Tanner hadn't much faith in him, so he wired for an olderdoctor at Mackintyre, and he even sent out fresh horses to meet thedoctor's buggy. Everything was done that could be done, I assure you, Mrs Baker. '

'I believe it, ' said Mrs Baker. 'And you don't know how it relieves meto hear it. And did the publican do all this at his own expense?'

'He wouldn't take a penny, Mrs Baker. '

'He must have been a good true man. I wish I could thank him. '

'Oh, Ned thanked him for you, ' said Andy, though without meaning morethan he said. 

'I wouldn't have fancied that Ned would have thought of that, ' said MrsBaker. 'When I first heard of my poor husband's death, I thought perhapshe'd been drinking again--that worried me a bit. '

'He never touched a drop after he left Solong, I can assure you, MrsBaker, ' said Andy quickly. 

Now I noticed that Miss Standish seemed surprised or puzzled, once ortwice, while Andy was speaking, and leaned forward to listen to him;then she leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands behind her headand looked at him, with half-shut eyes, in a way I didn't like. Once ortwice she looked at me as if she was going to ask me a question, but Ialways looked away quick and stared at Blucher and Wellington, or intothe empty fireplace, till I felt that her eyes were off me. Then sheasked Andy a question or two, in all innocence I believe now, but itscared him, and at last he watched his chance and winked at her sharp. Then she gave a little gasp and shut up like a steel trap. 

The sick child in the bedroom coughed and cried again. Mrs Baker wentto it. We three sat like a deaf-and-dumb institution, Andy and I staringall over the place: presently Miss Standish excused herself, and wentout of the room after her sister. She looked hard at Andy as she leftthe room, but he kept his eyes away. 

'Brace up now, Jack, ' whispered Andy to me, 'the worst is coming. '

When they came in again Mrs Baker made Andy go on with his story. 

'He--he died very quietly, ' said Andy, hitching round, and resting hiselbows on his knees, and looking into the fireplace so as to have hisface away from the light. Miss Standish put her arm round her sister. 'He died very easy, ' said Andy. 'He was a bit off his head at times, butthat was while the fever was on him. He didn't suffer much towards theend--I don't think he suffered at all. .. . He talked a lot about you andthe children. ' (Andy was speaking very softly now. ) 'He said that youwere not to fret, but to cheer up for the children's sake. .. . It was thebiggest funeral ever seen round there. '

Mrs Baker was crying softly. Andy got the packet half out of his pocket, but shoved it back again. 

'The only thing that hurts me now, ' says Mrs Baker presently, 'is tothink of my poor husband buried out there in the lonely Bush, so farfrom home. It's--cruel!' and she was sobbing again. 

'Oh, that's all right, Mrs Baker, ' said Andy, losing his head a little. 'Ned will see to that. Ned is going to arrange to have him brought downand buried in Sydney. ' Which was about the first thing Andy had told herthat evening that wasn't a lie. Ned had said he would do it as soon ashe sold his wool. 

'It's very kind indeed of Ned, ' sobbed Mrs Baker. 'I'd never havedreamed he was so kind-hearted and thoughtful. I misjudged him allalong. And that is all you have to tell me about poor Robert?'

'Yes, ' said Andy--then one of his 'happy thoughts' struck him. 'Exceptthat he hoped you'd shift to Sydney, Mrs Baker, where you've got friendsand relations. He thought it would be better for you and the children. He told me to tell you that. '

'He was thoughtful up to the end, ' said Mrs Baker. 'It was just likepoor Robert--always thinking of me and the children. We are going toSydney next week. '

Andy looked relieved. We talked a little more, and Miss Standish wantedto make coffee for us, but we had to go and see to our horses. We got upand bumped against each other, and got each other's hats, and promisedMrs Baker we'd come again. 

'Thank you very much for coming, ' she said, shaking hands with us. 'Ifeel much better now. You don't know how much you have relieved me. Now, mind, you have promised to come and see me again for the last time. '

Andy caught her sister's eye and jerked his head towards the door to lether know he wanted to speak to her outside. 

'Good-bye, Mrs Baker, ' he said, holding on to her hand. 'And don't youfret. You've--you've got the children yet. It's--it's all for the best;and, besides, the Boss said you wasn't to fret. ' And he blundered outafter me and Miss Standish. 

She came out to the gate with us, and Andy gave her the packet. 

'I want you to give that to her, ' he said; 'it's his letters and papers. I hadn't the heart to give it to her, somehow. '

'Tell me, Mr M'Culloch, ' she said. 'You've kept something back--youhaven't told her the truth. It would be better and safer for me to know. Was it an accident--or the drink?'

'It was the drink, ' said Andy. 'I was going to tell you--I thought itwould be best to tell you. I had made up my mind to do it, but, somehow, I couldn't have done it if you hadn't asked me. '

'Tell me all, ' she said. 'It would be better for me to know. '

'Come a little farther away from the house, ' said Andy. She came alongthe fence a piece with us, and Andy told her as much of the truth as hecould. 

'I'll hurry her off to Sydney, ' she said. 'We can get away this week aswell as next. ' Then she stood for a minute before us, breathing quickly, her hands behind her back and her eyes shining in the moonlight. Shelooked splendid. 

'I want to thank you for her sake, ' she said quickly. 'You are good men!I like the Bushmen! They are grand men--they are noble! I'll probablynever see either of you again, so it doesn't matter, ' and she put herwhite hand on Andy's shoulder and kissed him fair and square on themouth. 'And you, too!' she said to me. I was taller than Andy, and hadto stoop. 'Good-bye!' she said, and ran to the gate and in, waving herhand to us. We lifted our hats again and turned down the road. 

I don't think it did either of us any harm. 

A Hero in Dingo-Scrubs. 

This is a story--about the only one--of Job Falconer, Boss of theTalbragar sheep-station up country in New South Wales in the earlyEighties--when there were still runs in the Dingo-Scrubs out of thehands of the banks, and yet squatters who lived on their stations. 

Job would never tell the story himself, at least not complete, and ashis family grew up he would become as angry as it was in his easy-goingnature to become if reference were made to the incident in his presence. But his wife--little, plump, bright-eyed Gerty Falconer--often told thestory (in the mysterious voice which women use in speaking of privatematters amongst themselves--but with brightening eyes) to women friendsover tea; and always to a new woman friend. And on such occasions shewould be particularly tender towards the unconscious Job, and ruffle histhin, sandy hair in a way that embarrassed him in company--made him lookas sheepish as an old big-horned ram that has just been shorn and turnedamongst the ewes. And the woman friend on parting would give Job's handa squeeze which would surprise him mildly, and look at him as if shecould love him. 

According to a theory of mine, Job, to fit the story, should have beentall, and dark, and stern, or gloomy and quick-tempered. But he wasn't. He was fairly tall, but he was fresh-complexioned and sandy (his skinwas pink to scarlet in some weathers, with blotches of umber), and hiseyes were pale-grey; his big forehead loomed babyishly, his arms wereshort, and his legs bowed to the saddle. Altogether he was an awkward, unlovely Bush bird--on foot; in the saddle it was different. He hadn'teven a 'temper'. 

The impression on Job's mind which many years afterwards brought aboutthe incident was strong enough. When Job was a boy of fourteen he sawhis father's horse come home riderless--circling and snorting up by thestockyard, head jerked down whenever the hoof trod on one of the snappedends of the bridle-reins, and saddle twisted over the side with bruisedpommel and knee-pad broken off. 

Job's father wasn't hurt much, but Job's mother, an emotional woman, andthen in a delicate state of health, survived the shock for three monthsonly. 'She wasn't quite right in her head, ' they said, 'from the daythe horse came home till the last hour before she died. ' And, strange tosay, Job's father (from whom Job inherited his seemingly placid nature)died three months later. The doctor from the town was of the opinionthat he must have 'sustained internal injuries' when the horse threwhim. 'Doc. Wild' (eccentric Bush doctor) reckoned that Job's father washurt inside when his wife died, and hurt so badly that he couldn't pullround. But doctors differ all over the world. 

Well, the story of Job himself came about in this way. He had beenmarried a year, and had lately started wool-raising on a pastoral leasehe had taken up at Talbragar: it was a new run, with new slab-and-barkhuts on the creek for a homestead, new shearing-shed, yards--wife andeverything new, and he was expecting a baby. Job felt brand-new himselfat the time, so he said. It was a lonely place for a young woman;but Gerty was a settler's daughter. The newness took away some of theloneliness, she said, and there was truth in that: a Bush home in thescrubs looks lonelier the older it gets, and ghostlier in the twilight, as the bark and slabs whiten, or rather grow grey, in fierce summers. And there's nothing under God's sky so weird, so aggressively lonely, asa deserted old home in the Bush. 

Job's wife had a half-caste gin for company when Job was away on therun, and the nearest white woman (a hard but honest Lancashire womanfrom within the kicking radius in Lancashire--wife of a selector) wasonly seven miles away. She promised to be on hand, and came over two orthree times a-week; but Job grew restless as Gerty's time drew near, andwished that he had insisted on sending her to the nearest town (thirtymiles away), as originally proposed. Gerty's mother, who lived in town, was coming to see her over her trouble; Job had made arrangements withthe town doctor, but prompt attendance could hardly be expected of adoctor who was very busy, who was too fat to ride, and who lived thirtymiles away. 

Job, in common with most Bushmen and their families round there, hadmore faith in Doc. Wild, a weird Yankee who made medicine in a saucepan, and worked more cures on Bushmen than did the other three doctors ofthe district together--maybe because the Bushmen had faith in him, orhe knew the Bush and Bush constitutions--or, perhaps, because he'd dothings which no 'respectable practitioner' dared do. I've described himin another story. Some said he was a quack, and some said he wasn't. There are scores of wrecks and mysteries like him in the Bush. He drankfearfully, and 'on his own', but was seldom incapable of performing anoperation. Experienced Bushmen preferred him three-quarters drunk: whenperfectly sober he was apt to be a bit shaky. He was tall, gaunt, hada pointed black moustache, bushy eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. Hismovements were eccentric. He lived where he happened to be--in a townhotel, in the best room of a homestead, in the skillion of a sly-grogshanty, in a shearer's, digger's, shepherd's, or boundary-rider's hut;in a surveyor's camp or a black-fellows' camp--or, when the horrors wereon him, by a log in the lonely Bush. It seemed all one to him. He lostall his things sometimes--even his clothes; but he never lost a pigskinbag which contained his surgical instruments and papers. Except once;then he gave the blacks 5 Pounds to find it for him. 

His patients included all, from the big squatter to Black Jimmy; and herode as far and fast to a squatter's home as to a swagman's camp. Whennothing was to be expected from a poor selector or a station hand, andthe doctor was hard up, he went to the squatter for a few pounds. Hehad on occasions been offered cheques of 50 Pounds and 100 Pounds bysquatters for 'pulling round' their wives or children; but such offersalways angered him. When he asked for 5 Pounds he resented being offereda 10 Pound cheque. He once sued a doctor for alleging that he held nodiploma; but the magistrate, on reading certain papers, suggested asettlement out of court, which both doctors agreed to--the other doctorapologising briefly in the local paper. It was noticed thereafterthat the magistrate and town doctors treated Doc. Wild with greatrespect--even at his worst. The thing was never explained, and the casedeepened the mystery which surrounded Doc. Wild. 

As Job Falconer's crisis approached Doc. Wild was located at a shantyon the main road, about half-way between Job's station and the town. (Township of Come-by-Chance--expressive name; and the shanty was the'Dead Dingo Hotel', kept by James Myles--known as 'Poisonous Jimmy', perhaps as a compliment to, or a libel on, the liquor he sold. ) Job'sbrother Mac. Was stationed at the Dead Dingo Hotel with instructionsto hang round on some pretence, see that the doctor didn't either drinkhimself into the 'D. T. 's' or get sober enough to become restless; toprevent his going away, or to follow him if he did; and to bring himto the station in about a week's time. Mac. (rather more careless, brighter, and more energetic than his brother) was carrying out theseinstructions while pretending, with rather great success, to be himselfon the spree at the shanty. 

But one morning, early in the specified week, Job's uneasiness wassuddenly greatly increased by certain symptoms, so he sent the black boyfor the neighbour's wife and decided to ride to Come-by-Chance to hurryout Gerty's mother, and see, by the way, how Doc. Wild and Mac. Weregetting on. On the arrival of the neighbour's wife, who drove over in aspring-cart, Job mounted his horse (a freshly broken filly) and started. 

'Don't be anxious, Job, ' said Gerty, as he bent down to kiss her. 'We'llbe all right. Wait! you'd better take the gun--you might see thosedingoes again. I'll get it for you. '

The dingoes (native dogs) were very bad amongst the sheep; and Job andGerty had started three together close to the track the last time theywere out in company--without the gun, of course. Gerty took the loadedgun carefully down from its straps on the bedroom wall, carried it out, and handed it up to Job, who bent and kissed her again and then rodeoff. 

It was a hot day--the beginning of a long drought, as Job found to hisbitter cost. He followed the track for five or six miles through thethick, monotonous scrub, and then turned off to make a short cut to themain road across a big ring-barked flat. The tall gum-trees had beenring-barked (a ring of bark taken out round the butts), or rather'sapped'--that is, a ring cut in through the sap--in order to kill them, so that the little strength in the 'poor' soil should not be drawn outby the living roots, and the natural grass (on which Australian stockdepends) should have a better show. The hard, dead trees raised theirbarkless and whitened trunks and leafless branches for three or fourmiles, and the grey and brown grass stood tall between, dying in thefirst breaths of the coming drought. All was becoming grey and ashenhere, the heat blazing and dancing across objects, and the pale brassydome of the sky cloudless over all, the sun a glaring white disc withits edges almost melting into the sky. Job held his gun carelessly ready(it was a double-barrelled muzzle-loader, one barrel choke-bore forshot, and the other rifled), and he kept an eye out for dingoes. He wassaving his horse for a long ride, jogging along in the careless Bushfashion, hitched a little to one side--and I'm not sure that he didn'thave a leg thrown up and across in front of the pommel of the saddle--hewas riding along in the careless Bush fashion, and thinkingfatherly thoughts in advance, perhaps, when suddenly a great black, greasy-looking iguana scuttled off from the side of the track amongstthe dry tufts of grass and shreds of dead bark, and started up asapling. 'It was a whopper, ' Job said afterwards; 'must have been oversix feet, and a foot across the body. It scared me nearly as much as thefilly. '

The filly shied off like a rocket. Job kept his seat instinctively, as was natural to him; but before he could more than grab at therein--lying loosely on the pommel--the filly 'fetched up' against a deadbox-tree, hard as cast-iron, and Job's left leg was jammed from stirrupto pocket. 'I felt the blood flare up, ' he said, 'and I knowed thatthat'--(Job swore now and then in an easy-going way)--'I knowed thatthat blanky leg was broken alright. I threw the gun from me and freedmy left foot from the stirrup with my hand, and managed to fall to theright, as the filly started off again. '

What follows comes from the statements of Doc. Wild and Mac. Falconer, and Job's own 'wanderings in his mind', as he called them. 'They tooka blanky mean advantage of me, ' he said, 'when they had me down and Icouldn't talk sense. '

The filly circled off a bit, and then stood staring--as a mob ofbrumbies, when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke. Job'sleg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible. But hethought then with a flash, as men do in a fix. No doubt the scene atthe lonely Bush home of his boyhood started up before him: his father'shorse appeared riderless, and he saw the look in his mother's eyes. 

Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this isthat his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed, and the horse'stracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there for days, forweeks--till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones. Job was on anold sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion to come formonths, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun, then to alog, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it he doesn'tknow. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log, took aimat the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over and lay with hishead against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down, rested on hisneck. He had fainted. The crows were interested, and the ants would comeby-and-by. 

Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed, after they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in noother possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wantedabove all men, and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said; but, anyway, being the mystery he was, and having the face he had, and livingthe life he lived--and doing the things he did--it was quite probablethat he was more nearly in touch than we with that awful invisible worldall round and between us, of which we only see distorted faces and heardisjointed utterances when we are 'suffering a recovery'--or going mad. 

On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence, Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer--

'Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station. '

Mac. , used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses. 

And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer--Job's mother-in-law--onher way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of teaand give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered arather hard and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh, goodsympathetic common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes. She livedin the town comfortably on the interest of some money which her husbandleft in the bank. She drove an American waggonette with a good widthand length of 'tray' behind, and on this occasion she had a pole and twohorses. In the trap were a new flock mattress and pillows, a generouspair of new white blankets, and boxes containing necessaries, delicacies, and luxuries. All round she was an excellent mother-in-lawfor a man to have on hand at a critical time. 

And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for herright here. She is universally considered a nuisance in times of peaceand comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home! Then it's'Write to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother! I'llgo and bring Mother!' and if she is not near: 'Oh, I wish Mother werehere! If Mother were only near!' And when she is on the spot, theanxious son-in-law: 'Don't YOU go, Mother! You'll stay, won't you, Mother?--till we're all right? I'll get some one to look after yourhouse, Mother, while you're here. ' But Job Falconer was fond of hismother-in-law, all times. 

Mac. Had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses. MrsSpencer drove on, and Mac. And the doctor caught up to her about a milebefore she reached the homestead track, which turned in through thescrubs at the corner of the big ring-barked flat. 

Doc. Wild and Mac. Followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along inthe edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flatthrough the dead, naked branches. Mac. Looked that way. The crows werehopping about the branches of a tree way out in the middle of the flat, flopping down from branch to branch to the grass, then rising hurriedlyand circling. 

'Dead beast there!' said Mac. Out of his Bushcraft. 

'No--dying, ' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but moreintellect. 

'There's some steers of Job's out there somewhere, ' muttered Mac. Thensuddenly, 'It ain't drought--it's the ploorer at last! or I'm blanked!'

Mac. Feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia, whichwas raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto kept clear ofJob's run. 

'We'll go and see, if you like, ' suggested Doc. Wild. 

They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way amongstthe dried tufts and fallen branches. 

'Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer, ' said the doctor; 'more likely aewe in trouble about her lamb. '

'Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep, ' said Mac. 'I wish we had agun--might get a shot at them. '

Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore, free ofa hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. 'In case I feel obliged toshoot a first person singular one of these hot days, ' he explained once, whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly, without result. 

'We'd never git near enough for a shot, ' said the doctor; then hecommenced to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lostBushman in the last stages of death by thirst, --

 '"The crows kept flyin' up, boys! The crows kept flyin' up! The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys, Though he was but a pup. "'

'It must be something or other, ' muttered Mac. 'Look at them blankycrows!'

 '"The lost was found, we brought him round, And took him from the place, While the ants was swarmin' on the ground, And the crows was sayin' grace!"'

'My God! what's that?' cried Mac. , who was a little in advance and rodea tall horse. 

It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet (asthey found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest, andher head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head againstthe ground, and marking the dust with her hoof, as if trying to writethe reason of it there. 

The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoatpocket, and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner;then something--professional instinct or the something supernaturalabout the doctor--led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass, where Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly, which must have staggered off some little way after being shot. Mac. Followed the doctor, shaking violently. 

'Oh, my God!' he cried, with the woman in his voice--and his face sopale that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said--'oh, my God! he's shot himself!'

'No, he hasn't, ' said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthierposition with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air: thenhe ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned. 'He's got abroken leg, ' said the doctor. Even then he couldn't resist making acharacteristic remark, half to himself: 'A man doesn't shoot himselfwhen he's going to be made a lawful father for the first time, unless hecan see a long way into the future. ' Then he took out his whisky-flaskand said briskly to Mac. , 'Leave me your water-bag' (Mac. Carried acanvas water-bag slung under his horse's neck), 'ride back to the track, stop Mrs Spencer, and bring the waggonette here. Tell her it's only abroken leg. '

Mac. Mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace. 

As he worked the doctor muttered: 'He shot his horse. That's what gitsme. The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspectedspite in that carcass, and I ought to know men. '

But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened. 

'Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans. 

'She's all right, ' said the doctor. 

'Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise--'stop her!--oh God! my leg. '

'Keep quiet, you fool!'

'Stop her!' yelled Job. 

'Why stop her?' asked the doctor. 'She won't go fur, ' he added. 

'She'll go home to Gerty, ' shouted Job. 'For God's sake stop her!'

'O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. 'I might have guessed that. And Iought to know men. '

'Don't take me home!' demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval. 'Take meto Poisonous Jimmy's and tell Gerty I'm on the spree. '

When Mac. And Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was inhis shirt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages. Thelower half of Job's trouser-leg and his 'lastic-side boot lay on theground, neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched betweentwo strips of bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows, and bound bysaddle-straps. 

'That's all I kin do for him for the present. '

Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but she arrived rather pale anda little shaky: nevertheless she called out, as soon as she got withinearshot of the doctor--

'What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkablefor doing anything. )

'He's got his leg broke and shot his horse, ' replied the doctor. 'But, 'he added, 'whether he's been a hero or a fool I dunno. Anyway, it's amess all round. '

They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in the bottom of the trap, backed it against the log, to have a step, and got Job in. It was aticklish job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by pain and heat, only kept from fainting by whisky, groaning and raving and yelling tothem to stop his horse. 

'Lucky we got him before the ants did, ' muttered the doctor. Then he hadan inspiration--

'You bring him on to the shepherd's hut this side the station. We mustleave him there. Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him now and then;when the brandy's done pour whisky, then gin--keep the rum till thelast' (the doctor had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette atPoisonous Jimmy's). 'I'll take Mac. 's horse and ride on and send Peter'(the station hand) 'back to the hut to meet you. I'll be back myself ifI can. THIS BUSINESS WILL HURRY UP THINGS AT THE STATION. '

Which last was one of those apparently insane remarks of the doctor'swhich no sane nor sober man could fathom or see a reason for--except inDoc. Wild's madness. 

He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's raving, all the way, restedon the dead filly--

'Stop her! She must not go home to Gerty!. .. God help me shoot!. .. Whoa!--whoa, there!. .. "Cope--cope--cope"--Steady, Jessie, old girl. .. . Aim straight--aim straight! Aim for me, God!--I've missed!. .. Stop her!'&c. 

'I never met a character like that, ' commented the doctor afterwards, 'inside a man that looked like Job on the outside. I've met men behindrevolvers and big mustarshes in Califo'nia; but I've met a derned sightmore men behind nothing but a good-natured grin, here in Australia. These lanky sawney Bushmen will do things in an easy-going way some daythat'll make the old world sit up and think hard. '

He reached the station in time, and twenty minutes or half an hourlater he left the case in the hands of the Lancashire woman--whom he sawreason to admire--and rode back to the hut to help Job, whom they soonfixed up as comfortably as possible. 

They humbugged Mrs Falconer first with a yarn of Job's allegedphenomenal shyness, and gradually, as she grew stronger, and the truthless important, they told it to her. And so, instead of Job beingpushed, scarlet-faced, into the bedroom to see his first-born, GertyFalconer herself took the child down to the hut, and so presented UncleJob with my first and favourite cousin and Bush chum. 

Doc. Wild stayed round until he saw Job comfortably moved to thehomestead, then he prepared to depart. 

'I'm sorry, ' said Job, who was still weak--'I'm sorry for that therefilly. I was breaking her in to side-saddle for Gerty when she shouldget about. I wouldn't have lost her for twenty quid. '

'Never mind, Job, ' said the doctor. 'I, too, once shot an animal I wasfond of--and for the sake of a woman--but that animal walked on two legsand wore trousers. Good-bye, Job. '

And he left for Poisonous Jimmy's. 

The Little World Left Behind. 

I lately revisited a western agricultural district in Australia aftermany years. The railway had reached it, but otherwise things weredrearily, hopelessly, depressingly unchanged. There was the same oldgrant, comprising several thousands of acres of the richest land in thedistrict, lying idle still, except for a few horses allowed to run therefor a shilling a-head per week. 

There were the same old selections--about as far off as ever frombecoming freeholds--shoved back among the barren ridges; dusty littlepatches in the scrub, full of stones and stumps, and called farms, deserted every few years, and tackled again by some little dried-upfamily, or some old hatter, and then given best once more. There wasthe cluster of farms on the flat, and in the foot of the gully, owned byAustralians of Irish or English descent, with the same number of stumpsin the wheat-paddock, the same broken fences and tumble-down huts andyards, and the same weak, sleepy attempt made every season to scratch upthe ground and raise a crop. And along the creek the German farmers--theonly people there worthy of the name--toiling (men, women, and children)from daylight till dark, like slaves, just as they always had done; theelder sons stoop-shouldered old men at thirty. 

The row about the boundary fence between the Sweeneys and the Joneseswas unfinished still, and the old feud between the Dunderblitzensand the Blitzendunders was more deadly than ever--it started threegenerations ago over a stray bull. The O'Dunn was still fighting for hisgreat object in life, which was not to be 'onneighborly', as he put it. 'I DON'T want to be onneighborly, ' he said, 'but I'll be aven wid someof 'em yit. It's almost impossible for a dacent man to live in sich aneighborhood and not be onneighborly, thry how he will. But I'll be avenwid some of 'em yit, marruk my wurrud. '

Jones's red steer--it couldn't have been the same red steer--wascontinually breaking into Rooney's 'whate an' bringin' ivery head avthe other cattle afther him, and ruinin' him intirely. ' The Rooneys andM'Kenzies were at daggers drawn, even to the youngest child, over theimpounding of a horse belonging to Pat Rooney's brother-in-law, by adistant relation of the M'Kenzies, which had happened nine years ago. 

The same sun-burned, masculine women went past to market twice a-weekin the same old carts and driving much the same quality of carrion. Thestring of overloaded spring-carts, buggies, and sweating horses wentwhirling into town, to 'service', through clouds of dust and broilingheat, on Sunday morning, and came driving cruelly out again at noon. The neighbours' sons rode over in the afternoon, as of old, and hung uptheir poor, ill-used little horses to bake in the sun, and sat on theirheels about the verandah, and drawled drearily concerning crops, fruit, trees, and vines, and horses and cattle; the drought and 'smut' and'rust' in wheat, and the 'ploorer' (pleuro-pneumonia) in cattle, and other cheerful things; that there colt or filly, or that therecattle-dog (pup or bitch) o' mine (or 'Jim's'). They always talkedmost of farming there, where no farming worthy of the name waspossible--except by Germans and Chinamen. Towards evening the old localrelic of the golden days dropped in and announced that he intended to'put down a shaft' next week, in a spot where he'd been going to putit down twenty years ago--and every week since. It was nearly time thatsomebody sunk a hole and buried him there. 

An old local body named Mrs Witherly still went into town twice a-weekwith her 'bit av prodjuce', as O'Dunn called it. She still drove a long, bony, blind horse in a long rickety dray, with a stout sapling for awhip, and about twenty yards of clothes-line reins. The floor of thedray covered part of an acre, and one wheel was always ahead of theother--or behind, according to which shaft was pulled. She wore, to allappearances, the same short frock, faded shawl, men's 'lastic sides, andwhite hood that she had on when the world was made. She still stoppedjust twenty minutes at old Mrs Leatherly's on the way in for a yarn anda cup of tea--as she had always done, on the same days and at the sametime within the memory of the hoariest local liar. However, she had anew clothes-line bent on to the old horse's front end--and we fancy thatwas the reason she didn't recognise us at first. She had never lookedyounger than a hard hundred within the memory of man. Her shrivelledface was the colour of leather, and crossed and recrossed with linestill there wasn't room for any more. But her eyes were bright yet, andtwinkled with humour at times. 

She had been in the Bush for fifty years, and had fought fires, droughts, hunger and thirst, floods, cattle and crop diseases, and allthe things that God curses Australian settlers with. She had had twohusbands, and it could be said of neither that he had ever done anhonest day's work, or any good for himself or any one else. She hadreared something under fifteen children, her own and others; and therewas scarcely one of them that had not given her trouble. Her sons hadbrought disgrace on her old head over and over again, but she held upthat same old head through it all, and looked her narrow, ignorant worldin the face--and 'lived it down'. She had worked like a slave for fiftyyears; yet she had more energy and endurance than many modern city womenin her shrivelled old body. She was a daughter of English aristocrats. 

And we who live our weak lives of fifty years or so in the cities--wegrow maudlin over our sorrows (and beer), and ask whether life is worthliving or not. 

I sought in the farming town relief from the general and particularsameness of things, but there was none. The railway station was aboutthe only new building in town. The old signs even were as badly in needof retouching as of old. I picked up a copy of the local 'Advertiser', which newspaper had been started in the early days by a brilliantdrunkard, who drank himself to death just as the fathers of our nationwere beginning to get educated up to his style. He might have madeAustralian journalism very different from what it is. There was nothingnew in the 'Advertiser'--there had been nothing new since the last timethe drunkard had been sober enough to hold a pen. There was the sameold 'enjoyable trip' to Drybone (whereof the editor was the hero), andsomething about an on-the-whole very enjoyable evening in some placethat was tastefully decorated, and where the visitors did justice to thegood things provided, and the small hours, and dancing, and our host andhostess, and respected fellow-townsmen; also divers young ladies sangvery nicely, and a young Mr Somebody favoured the company with a comicsong. 

There was the same trespassing on the valuable space by the oldsubscriber, who said that 'he had said before and would say again', andhe proceeded to say the same things which he said in the same paper whenwe first heard our father reading it to our mother. Farther on the oldsubscriber proceeded to 'maintain', and recalled attention to the factthat it was just exactly as he had said. After which he made a fewabstract, incoherent remarks about the 'surrounding district', andconcluded by stating that he 'must now conclude', and thanking theeditor for trespassing on the aforesaid valuable space. 

There was the usual leader on the Government; and an agitation was stillcarried on, by means of horribly-constructed correspondence to bothpapers, for a bridge over Dry-Hole Creek at Dustbin--a place where nosane man ever had occasion to go. 

I took up the 'unreliable contemporary', but found nothing there excepta letter from 'Parent', another from 'Ratepayer', a leader on theGovernment, and 'A Trip to Limeburn', which latter I suppose was made inopposition to the trip to Drybone. 

There was nothing new in the town. Even the almost inevitable gang ofcity spoilers hadn't arrived with the railway. They would have beena relief. There was the monotonous aldermanic row, and the worse thanhopeless little herd of aldermen, the weird agricultural portion of whomcame in on council days in white starched and ironed coats, as we hadalways remembered them. They were aggressively barren of ideas; buton this occasion they had risen above themselves, for one of them hadremembered something his grandfather (old time English alderman) hadtold him, and they were stirring up all the old local quarrels andfamily spite of the district over a motion, or an amendment on a motion, that a letter--from another enlightened body and bearing on anequally important matter (which letter had been sent through thepost sufficiently stamped, delivered to the secretary, handed to thechairman, read aloud in council, and passed round several times forprivate perusal)--over a motion that such letter be received. 

There was a maintenance case coming on--to the usual well-ventilateddisgust of the local religious crank, who was on the jury; but the casediffered in no essential point from other cases which were always comingon and going off in my time. It was not at all romantic. The local youthwas not even brilliant in adultery. 

After I had been a week in that town the Governor decided to visitit, and preparations were made to welcome him and present him withan address. Then I thought that it was time to go, and slipped awayunnoticed in the general lunacy. 

The Never-Never Country. 

 By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed, By railroad, coach, and track-- By lonely graves of our brave dead, Up-Country and Out-Back: To where 'neath glorious clustered stars The dreamy plains expand-- My home lies wide a thousand miles In the Never-Never Land. 

 It lies beyond the farming belt, Wide wastes of scrub and plain, A blazing desert in the drought, A lake-land after rain; To the sky-line sweeps the waving grass, Or whirls the scorching sand-- A phantom land, a mystic land! The Never-Never Land. 

 Where lone Mount Desolation lies, Mounts Dreadful and Despair-- 'Tis lost beneath the rainless skies In hopeless deserts there; It spreads nor'-west by No-Man's Land-- Where clouds are seldom seen-- To where the cattle-stations lie Three hundred miles between. 

 The drovers of the Great Stock Routes The strange Gulf country know-- Where, travelling from the southern droughts, The big lean bullocks go; And camped by night where plains lie wide, Like some old ocean's bed, The watchmen in the starlight ride Round fifteen hundred head. 

 And west of named and numbered days The shearers walk and ride-- Jack Cornstalk and the Ne'er-do-well, And the grey-beard side by side; They veil their eyes from moon and stars, And slumber on the sand-- Sad memories sleep as years go round In Never-Never Land. 

 By lonely huts north-west of Bourke, Through years of flood and drought, The best of English black-sheep work Their own salvation out: Wild fresh-faced boys grown gaunt and brown-- Stiff-lipped and haggard-eyed-- They live the Dead Past grimly down! Where boundary-riders ride. 

 The College Wreck who sunk beneath, Then rose above his shame, Tramps West in mateship with the man Who cannot write his name. 'Tis there where on the barren track No last half-crust's begrudged-- Where saint and sinner, side by side, Judge not, and are not judged. 

 Oh rebels to society! The Outcasts of the West-- Oh hopeless eyes that smile for me, And broken hearts that jest! The pluck to face a thousand miles-- The grit to see it through! The communism perfected!-- And--I am proud of you!

 The Arab to true desert sand, The Finn to fields of snow; The Flax-stick turns to Maoriland, Where the seasons come and go; And this old fact comes home to me-- And will not let me rest-- However barren it may be, Your own land is the best!

 And, lest at ease I should forget True mateship after all, My water-bag and billy yet Are hanging on the wall; And if my fate should show the sign, I'd tramp to sunsets grand With gaunt and stern-eyed mates of mine In Never-Never Land. 

[End of original text. ]

*****

A Note on the Author and the Text:

Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on 17June 1867. Although he has since become the most acclaimed Australianwriter, in his own lifetime his writing was often "on the side"--his"real" work was whatever he could find, often painting houses, ordoing rough carpentry. His writing was often taken from memories of hischildhood, especially at Pipeclay/Eurunderee. In his autobiography, hestates that many of his characters were taken from the better class ofdiggers and bushmen he knew there. His experiences at this timedeeply influenced his work, for it is interesting to note a number ofdescriptions and phrases that are identical in his autobiography and inhis stories and poems. He died in Sydney, 2 September 1922. Much of hiswriting was for periodicals, and even his regular publications wereso varied, including books originally released as one volume beingreprinted as two, and vice versa, that the multitude of permutationscannot be listed here. However, the following should give a basicoutline of his major works. 

 Books of Short Stories: While the Billy Boils (1896) On the Track (1900) Over the Sliprails (1900) The Country I Come From (1901) | These works were first published Joe Wilson and His Mates (1901) | in England, during or shortly after Children of the Bush (1902) | Lawson's stay there. Send Round the Hat (1907) | These two books were first published The Romance of the Swag (1907) | as "Children of the Bush". The Rising of the Court (1910)

 Poetry: In the Days When the World Was Wide (1896) Verses Popular and Humorous (1900) When I Was King and Other Verses (1905) The Skyline Riders (1910) Selected Poems of Henry Lawson (1918)

Joe Wilson and His Mates was later published as two separate volumes, "Joe Wilson" and "Joe Wilson's Mates", which correspond to Parts I & IIin Joe Wilson and His Mates. This work was first published in England, which may be evident from some of Lawson's comments in the text whichare directed at English readers. For example, Lawson writes in 'TheGolden Graveyard': "A gold washing-dish is a flat dish--nearer the shapeof a bedroom bath-tub than anything else I have seen in England, or thedish we used for setting milk--I don't know whether the same is usedhere. .. . "

Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, June 1997.