ON THE TRACK

by Henry Lawson

Author of "While the Billy Boils", and "When the World was Wide"

[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALISED. Some obviouserrors have been corrected after being confirmed. ]

Preface

 Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared in (various periodicals), while several now appear in print for the first time. 

 H. L. Sydney, March 17th, 1900. 

Contents

 The Songs They used to Sing A Vision of Sandy Blight Andy Page's Rival The Iron-Bark Chip "Middleton's Peter" The Mystery of Dave Regan Mitchell on Matrimony Mitchell on Women No Place for a Woman Mitchell's Jobs Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster Bush Cats Meeting Old Mates Two Larrikins Mr. Smellingscheck "A Rough Shed" Payable Gold An Oversight of Steelman's How Steelman told his Story

ON THE TRACK

The Songs They used to Sing

On the diggings up to twenty odd years ago--and as far back as I canremember--on Lambing Flat, the Pipe Clays, Gulgong, Home Rule, and sothrough the roaring list; in bark huts, tents, public-houses, sly grogshanties, and--well, the most glorious voice of all belonged to a badgirl. We were only children and didn't know why she was bad, but weweren't allowed to play near or go near the hut she lived in, and wewere trained to believe firmly that something awful would happen to usif we stayed to answer a word, and didn't run away as fast as our legscould carry us, if she attempted to speak to us. We had before us thedread example of one urchin, who got an awful hiding and went on breadand water for twenty-four hours for allowing her to kiss him and givehim lollies. She didn't look bad--she looked to us like a grand andbeautiful lady-girl--but we got instilled into us the idea that she wasan awful bad woman, something more terrible even than a drunken man, andone whose presence was to be feared and fled from. There were two othergirls in the hut with her, also a pretty little girl, who called her"Auntie", and with whom we were not allowed to play--for they were allbad; which puzzled us as much as child-minds can be puzzled. We couldn'tmake out how everybody in one house could be bad. We used to wonder whythese bad people weren't hunted away or put in gaol if they were sobad. And another thing puzzled us. Slipping out after dark, when the badgirls happened to be singing in their house, we'd sometimes run againstmen hanging round the hut by ones and twos and threes, listening. Theyseemed mysterious. They were mostly good men, and we concluded they werelistening and watching the bad women's house to see that they didn'tkill anyone, or steal and run away with any bad little boys--ourselves, for instance--who ran out after dark; which, as we were informed, thosebad people were always on the lookout for a chance to do. 

We were told in after years that old Peter McKenzie (a respectable, married, hard-working digger) would sometimes steal up opposite the baddoor in the dark, and throw in money done up in a piece of paper, andlisten round until the bad girl had sung the "Bonnie Hills of Scotland"two or three times. Then he'd go and get drunk, and stay drunk two orthree days at a time. And his wife caught him throwing the money in onenight, and there was a terrible row, and she left him; and people alwayssaid it was all a mistake. But we couldn't see the mistake then. 

But I can hear that girl's voice through the night, twenty years ago:

 Oh! the bloomin' heath, and the pale blue bell, In my bonnet then I wore; And memory knows no brighter theme Than those happy days of yore. Scotland! Land of chief and song! Oh, what charms to thee belong!

And I am old enough to understand why poor Peter McKenzie--who wasmarried to a Saxon, and a Tartar--went and got drunk when the bad girlsang "The Bonnie Hills of Scotland. "

 His anxious eye might look in vain For some loved form it knew!

 . . . . . 

And yet another thing puzzled us greatly at the time. Next door to thebad girl's house there lived a very respectable family--a family of goodgirls with whom we were allowed to play, and from whom we got lollies(those hard old red-and-white "fish lollies" that grocers sent home withparcels of groceries and receipted bills). Now one washing day, theybeing as glad to get rid of us at home as we were to get out, we wentover to the good house and found no one at home except the grown-updaughter, who used to sing for us, and read "Robinson Crusoe" of nights, "out loud", and give us more lollies than any of the rest--and withwhom we were passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she wasengaged to a "grown-up man"--(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of theway by the time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. She had carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence whichseparated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment anddismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over against her side of thefence. They stood and worked with their shoulders to the fence betweenthem, and heads bent down close to it. The bad girl would sing a fewwords, and the good girl after her, over and over again. They sang verylow, we thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head andcaught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laidhold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence ina hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. Thegood grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw--that she'dbeen talking to a bad girl--else she would never, never marry us. 

She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing "Madeline"that day. 

I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himselfone night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what afrightfully bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; andthereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, lest we should go and do what the digger did. 

 . . . . . 

I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being fromanother world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing:

 Out in the cold world--out in the street-- Asking a penny from each one I meet; Cheerless I wander about all the day, Wearing my young life in sorrow away!

That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened bywomen sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night inthat circus. 

"Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now", was a sacred song then, not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar "business" for fourth-rateclowns and corner-men. Then there was "The Prairie Flower". "Out on thePrairie, in an Early Day"--I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was theprettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept intocamp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up withgold-dishes, shovels, &c. , &c. , and gave them a real good tinkettling inthe old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. She had a very sweet voice. 

 Fair as a lily, joyous and free, Light of the prairie home was she. 

She's a "granny" now, no doubt--or dead. 

And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a blackeye mostly, and singing "Love Amongst the Roses" at her work. And theysang the "Blue Tail Fly", and all the first and best coon songs--in thedays when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill. 

 . . . . . 

The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' "Redclay Inn". A freshback-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Companysettled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie. 

Flash Jack--red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothingin it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jackvolunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through hisnose:

 Hoh!-- There was a wild kerlonial youth, John Dowlin was his name! He bountied on his parients, Who lived in Castlemaine!

and so on to--

 He took a pistol from his breast And waved that lit--tle toy--

"Little toy" with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on FlashJack's part--

 "I'll fight, but I won't surrender!" said The wild Kerlonial Boy. 

Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. "Give us a song, Abe!Give us the 'Lowlands'!" Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lyingon the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under hishead--his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through andthrough, from hair to toenails, as a child. 

They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts itbehind his head on the end of the stool:

 The ship was built in Glasgow; 'Twas the "Golden Vanitee"--Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gonebetween--

 And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as alldo within hearing, when Abe sings. 

"Now then, boys:

 And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

"Now, all together!

 The Low Lands! The Low Lands! And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!"

Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and hornyhands to slap patched knees in accompaniment. 

 "Oh! save me, lads!" he cried, "I'm drifting with the current, And I'm drifting with the tide! And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low!

 The Low Lands! The Low Lands!"--

The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases understools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on thetable. 

 And we sewed him in his hammock, And we slipped him o'er the side, And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! The Low Lands! The Low Lands! And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!

Old Boozer Smith--a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in thecorner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug--oldBoozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hourspast, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with asuddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comesa bellow from under the horse rug:

 Wot though!--I wear!--a rag!--ged coat! I'll wear it like a man!

and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruinedhead and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no onequestioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; andsubsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he isconcerned. 

Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. "Go on, Jimmy!Give us a song!"

 In the days when we were hard up For want of wood and wire--Jimmy always blunders; it should have been "food and fire"--

 We used to tie our boots up With lit--tle bits--er wire;

and--

 I'm sitting in my lit--tle room, It measures six by six; The work-house wall is opposite, I've counted all the bricks!

"Give us a chorus, Jimmy!"

Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, and describing a circle round his crown--as if he were stirring a pintof hot tea--with his forefinger, at the end of every line:

 Hall!--Round!--Me--Hat! I wore a weepin' willer!

Jimmy is a Cockney. 

"Now then, boys!"

 Hall--round--me hat!

How many old diggers remember it?

And:

 A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker, All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar. 

I used to wonder as a child what the "railway bar" meant. 

And:

 I would, I would, I would in vain That I were single once again! But ah, alas, that will not be Till apples grow on the willow tree. 

A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song--to herself. 

A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of "Pinter, " and old Poynton, Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, and they proceed to "git Pinter on the singin' lay, " and at last talkhim round. He has a good voice, but no "theory", and blunders worse thanJimmy Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl--

 Hoh! Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings A-strolling I did go, To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers That e'er in gardings grow. 

He saw the rose and lily--the red and white and blue--and he saw thesweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovelymaidens (Pinter calls 'em "virgings") underneath (he must have meant ontop of) "a garding chair", sings Pinter. 

 And one was lovely Jessie, With the jet black eyes and hair, roars Pinter, And the other was a vir-ir-ging, I solemn-lye declare!

"Maiden, Pinter!" interjects Mr. Nowlett. 

"Well, it's all the same, " retorts Pinter. "A maiden IS a virging, Jimmy. If you're singing, Jimmy, and not me, I'll leave off!" Chorus of"Order! Shut up, Jimmy!"

 I quicklye step-ped up to her, And unto her did sa-a-y: Do you belong to any young man, Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y?

Her answer, according to Pinter, was surprisingly prompt andunconventional; also full and concise:

 No; I belong to no young man-- I solemnlye declare! I mean to live a virging And still my laurels wear!

Jimmy Nowlett attempts to move an amendment in favour of "maiden", but is promptly suppressed. It seems that Pinter's suit has a happytermination, for he is supposed to sing in the character of a "SailorBold", and as he turns to pursue his stroll in "Covent Gar-ar-dings":

 "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" she cried, "I love a Sailor Bold!"

"Hong-kore, Pinter! Give us the 'Golden Glove', Pinter!"

Thus warmed up, Pinter starts with an explanatory "spoken" to the effectthat the song he is about to sing illustrates some of the little ways ofwoman, and how, no matter what you say or do, she is bound to have herown way in the end; also how, in one instance, she set about getting it. 

Hoh!

 Now, it's of a young squoire near Timworth did dwell, Who courted a nobleman's daughter so well--

The song has little or nothing to do with the "squire", except so far as"all friends and relations had given consent, " and--

 The troo-soo was ordered--appointed the day, And a farmer were appointed for to give her away--

which last seemed a most unusual proceeding, considering the wedding wasa toney affair; but perhaps there were personal interests--the noblemanmight have been hard up, and the farmer backing him. But there was anextraordinary scene in the church, and things got mixed. 

 For as soon as this maiding this farmer espied: "Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart! Hoh, my heart!" then she cried. 

Hysterics? Anyway, instead of being wed--

 This maiden took sick and she went to her bed. 

(N. B. --Pinter sticks to 'virging'. )

Whereupon friends and relations and guests left the house in a body (astrange but perhaps a wise proceeding, after all--maybe they smelt arat) and left her to recover alone, which she did promptly. And then:

 Shirt, breeches, and waistcoat this maiding put on, And a-hunting she went with her dog and her gun; She hunted all round where this farmier did dwell, Because in her own heart she love-ed him well. 

The cat's out of the bag now:

 And often she fired, but no game she killed--

which was not surprising--

 Till at last the young farmier came into the field--

No wonder. She put it to him straight:

 "Oh, why are you not at the wedding?" she cried, "For to wait on the squoire, and to give him his bride. "

He was as prompt and as delightfully unconventional in his reply as theyoung lady in Covent Gardings:

 "Oh, no! and oh, no! For the truth I must sa-a-y, I love her too well for to give her a-w-a-a-y!"

which was satisfactory to the disguised "virging". 

 ". .. . And I'd take sword in hand, And by honour I'd win her if she would command. "

Which was still more satisfactory. 

 Now this virging, being--(Jimmy Nowlett: "Maiden, Pinter--" Jim is thrown on a stool and sat onby several diggers. )

 Now this maiding, being please-ed to see him so bold, She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold, and explained that she found it in his field while hunting around withher dog and her gun. It is understood that he promised to look upthe owner. Then she went home and put an advertisement in the local'Herald'; and that ad. Must have caused considerable sensation. Shestated that she had lost her golden glove, and

 The young man that finds it and brings it to me, Hoh! that very young man my husband shall be!

She had a saving clause in case the young farmer mislaid the glovebefore he saw the ad. , and an OLD bloke got holt of it and fetched italong. But everything went all right. The young farmer turned up withthe glove. He was a very respectable young farmer, and expressed hisgratitude to her for having "honour-ed him with her love. " They weremarried, and the song ends with a picture of the young farmeress milkingthe cow, and the young farmer going whistling to plough. The fact thatthey lived and grafted on the selection proves that I hit the right nailon the head when I guessed, in the first place, that the old noblemanwas "stony". 

In after years, . .. She told him of the fun, How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun. 

But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years ofmatrimonial experiences, the old song doesn't say, for it ends there. 

Flash Jack is more successful with "Saint Patrick's Day". 

 I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever! Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever, St. Patrick's own day in the mornin'!

This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads thanwhen at home. 

 . . . . . 

"Sam Holt" was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years. 

 Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt? Black Alice so dirty and dark-- Who'd a nose on her face--I forget how it goes-- And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark. 

Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, for

 Do you remember the 'possums and grubs She baked for you down by the creek?

Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack. 

 You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt. 

Reference is made to his "manner of holding a flush", and he is askedto remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, including

 . .. The hiding you got from the boys. 

The song is decidedly personal. 

But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worseman to pad the hoof Out Back. And--Jim Nowlett sang this with so muchfeeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and theabsent Holt--

 And, don't you remember the fiver, Sam Holt, You borrowed so careless and free? I reckon I'll whistle a good many tunes

(with increasing feeling)

 Ere you think of that fiver and me. 

For the chances will be that Sam Holt's old mate

 Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road To the end of the chapter of fate. 

 . . . . . 

An echo from "The Old Bark Hut", sung in the opposition camp across thegully:

 You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut, There's no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut. 

 . . . . . 

 The tucker's in the gin-case, but you'd better keep it shut-- For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut. 

However:

 What's out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut. 

 . . . . . 

 We washed our greasy moleskins On the banks of the Condamine. --

Somebody tackling the "Old Bullock Dray"; it must be over fifty versesnow. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he'dget up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At lasthe sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, restinghis wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It wasvery funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through. 

Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across thegully:

 Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales!

and

 Yankee Doodle came to town On a little pony-- Stick a feather in his cap, And call him Maccaroni!

All the camps seem to be singing to-night:

 Ring the bell, watchman! Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring, for the good news Is now on the wing!

Good lines, the introduction:

 High on the belfry the old sexton stands, Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!. .. Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land. .. Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell!

 . . . . . 

Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuadesher to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt 'sub rosa' from the badgirl who sang "Madeline". Such as have them on instinctively take theirhats off. Diggers, &c. , strolling past, halt at the first notes of thegirl's voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight:

 Shall we gather at the river, Where bright angel feet have trod? The beautiful--the beautiful river That flows by the throne of God!--

Diggers wanted to send that girl "Home", but Granny Mathews had theold-fashioned horror of any of her children becoming "public"--

 Gather with the saints at the river, That flows by the throne of God!

 . . . . . 

But it grows late, or rather, early. The "Eyetalians" go by in thefrosty moonlight, from their last shift in the claim (for it is Saturdaynight), singing a litany. 

"Get up on one end, Abe!--stand up all!" Hands are clasped across thekitchen table. Redclay, one of the last of the alluvial fields, haspetered out, and the Roaring Days are dying. .. . The grand old song thatis known all over the world; yet how many in ten thousand know more thanone verse and the chorus? Let Peter McKenzie lead:

 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'?

And hearts echo from far back in the past and across wide, wide seas:

 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

Now boys! all together!

 For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. 

 We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. 

The world was wide then. 

 We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine:

the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia-- But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin' auld lang syne. 

The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemedsuddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a mistyveil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years:

 And here's a hand, my trusty frien', And gie's a grup o' thine; And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. 

 . . . . . 

And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spotwhere Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood. 

A Vision of Sandy Blight

I'd been humping my back, and crouching and groaning for an hour or soin the darkest corner of the travellers' hut, tortured by the demonof sandy blight. It was too hot to travel, and there was no one thereexcept ourselves and Mitchell's cattle pup. We were waiting till aftersundown, for I couldn't have travelled in the daylight, anyway. Mitchellhad tied a wet towel round my eyes, and led me for the last mile or twoby another towel--one end fastened to his belt behind, and the other inmy hand as I walked in his tracks. And oh! but this was a relief! It wasout of the dust and glare, and the flies didn't come into the dark hut, and I could hump and stick my knees in my eyes and groan in comfort. Ididn't want a thousand a year, or anything; I only wanted relief for myeyes--that was all I prayed for in this world. When the sun got down abit, Mitchell started poking round, and presently he found amongst therubbish a dirty-looking medicine bottle, corked tight; when he rubbedthe dirt off a piece of notepaper that was pasted on, he saw "eye-water"written on it. He drew the cork with his teeth, smelt the water, stuckhis little finger in, turned the bottle upside down, tasted the top ofhis finger, and reckoned the stuff was all right. 

"Here! Wake up, Joe!" he shouted. "Here's a bottle of tears. "

"A bottler wot?" I groaned. 

"Eye-water, " said Mitchell. 

"Are you sure it's all right?" I didn't want to be poisoned or have myeyes burnt out by mistake; perhaps some burning acid had got intothat bottle, or the label had been put on, or left on, in mistake orcarelessness. 

"I dunno, " said Mitchell, "but there's no harm in tryin'. "

I chanced it. I lay down on my back in a bunk, and Mitchell dragged mylids up and spilt half a bottle of eye-water over my eye-balls. 

The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quickcure in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long timeafterwards, with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind atlast in a camp. 

Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while. 

"I think I'll wait a bit longer, " he said at last, "and if it doesn'tblind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myselfnow. That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catchingsomething that's no good to him. "

As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite, andsand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot, and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees, Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwardsalong tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles he hadtravelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track thatends in a vague, misty point--like the end of a long, straight, clearedroad in the moonlight--as far back as we can remember. 

 . . . . . 

"I had about fourteen hives, " said Mitchell--"we used to call them'swarms', no matter whether they were flying or in the box--when I lefthome first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade, on tablesof galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes; but I had to make legslater on, and stand them in pans of water, on account of the ants. Whenthe bees swarmed--and some hives sent out the Lord knows how many swarmsin a year, it seemed to me--we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, to make 'em believe the biggest thunderstorm was coming to drown theoldest inhabitant; and, if they didn't get the start of us and rise, they'd settle on a branch--generally on one of the scraggy fruit trees. It was rough on the bees--come to think of it; their instinct toldthem it was going to be fine, and the noise and water told them it wasraining. They must have thought that nature was mad, drunk, or goneratty, or the end of the world had come. We'd rig up a table, with a boxupside down, under the branch, cover our face with a piece of mosquitonet, have rags burning round, and then give the branch a sudden jerk, turn the box down, and run. If we got most of the bees in, the restthat were hanging to the bough or flying round would follow, and thenwe reckoned we'd shook the queen in. If the bees in the box came out andjoined the others, we'd reckon we hadn't shook the queen in, and go forthem again. When a hive was full of honey we'd turn the box upside down, turn the empty box mouth down on top of it, and drum and hammer on thelower box with a stick till all the bees went up into the top box. Isuppose it made their heads ache, and they went up on that account. 

"I suppose things are done differently on proper bee-farms. I've heardthat a bee-farmer will part a hanging swarm with his fingers, take outthe queen bee and arrange matters with her; but our ways suited us, and there was a lot of expectation and running and excitement init, especially when a swarm took us by surprise. The yell of 'Beesswarmin'!' was as good to us as the yell of 'Fight!' is now, or 'Bolt!'in town, or 'Fire' or 'Man overboard!' at sea. 

"There was tons of honey. The bees used to go to the vineyards atwine-making and get honey from the heaps of crushed grape-skins thrownout in the sun, and get so drunk sometimes that they wobbled in theirbee-lines home. They'd fill all the boxes, and then build in between andunder the bark, and board, and tin covers. They never seemed to get theidea out of their heads that this wasn't an evergreen country, and itwasn't going to snow all winter. My younger brother Joe used to putpieces of meat on the tables near the boxes, and in front of the holeswhere the bees went in and out, for the dogs to grab at. But one olddog, 'Black Bill', was a match for him; if it was worth Bill's while, he'd camp there, and keep Joe and the other dogs from touching themeat--once it was put down--till the bees turned in for the night. AndJoe would get the other kids round there, and when they weren't lookingor thinking, he'd brush the bees with a stick and run. I'd lam him whenI caught him at it. He was an awful young devil, was Joe, and he grew upsteady, and respectable, and respected--and I went to the bad. I nevertrust a good boy now. .. . Ah, well!

"I remember the first swarm we got. We'd been talking of getting a fewswarms for a long time. That was what was the matter with us Englishand Irish and English-Irish Australian farmers: we used to talk so muchabout doing things while the Germans and Scotch did them. And we eventalked in a lazy, easy-going sort of way. 

"Well, one blazing hot day I saw father coming along the road, hometo dinner (we had it in the middle of the day), with his axe over hisshoulder. I noticed the axe particularly because father was bringing ithome to grind, and Joe and I had to turn the stone; but, when I noticedJoe dragging along home in the dust about fifty yards behind father, Ifelt easier in my mind. Suddenly father dropped the axe and startedto run back along the road towards Joe, who, as soon as he saw fathercoming, shied for the fence and got through. He thought he was going tocatch it for something he'd done--or hadn't done. Joe used to do so manythings and leave so many things not done that he could never be sureof father. Besides, father had a way of starting to hammer usunexpectedly--when the idea struck him. But father pulled himself up inabout thirty yards and started to grab up handfuls of dust and sand andthrow them into the air. My idea, in the first flash, was to get hold ofthe axe, for I thought it was sun-stroke, and father might take it intohis head to start chopping up the family before I could persuade himto put it (his head, I mean) in a bucket of water. But Joe came runninglike mad, yelling:

"'Swarmer--bees! Swawmmer--bee--ee--es!Bring--a--tin--dish--and--a--dippera--wa-a-ter!'

"I ran with a bucket of water and an old frying-pan, and pretty soonthe rest of the family were on the spot, throwing dust and water, and banging everything, tin or iron, they could get hold of. The onlybullock bell in the district (if it was in the district) was on the oldpoley cow, and she'd been lost for a fortnight. Mother brought up therear--but soon worked to the front--with a baking-dish and a big spoon. The old lady--she wasn't old then--had a deep-rooted prejudice that shecould do everything better than anybody else, and that the selectionand all on it would go to the dogs if she wasn't there to look after it. There was no jolting that idea out of her. She not only believed thatshe could do anything better than anybody, and hers was the only rightor possible way, and that we'd do everything upside down if she wasn'tthere to do it or show us how--but she'd try to do things herself orinsist on making us do them her way, and that led to messes and rows. She was excited now, and took command at once. She wasn't tongue-tied, and had no impediment in her speech. 

"'Don't throw up dust!--Stop throwing up dust!--Do you want to smother'em?--Don't throw up so much water!--Only throw up a pannikin at atime!--D'yer want to drown 'em? Bang! Keep on banging, Joe!--Look atthat child! Run, someone!--run! you, Jack!--D'yer want the child to bestung to death?--Take her inside!. .. Dy' hear me?. .. Stop throwing updust, Tom! (To father. ) You're scaring 'em away! Can't you see they wantto settle?' [Father was getting mad and yelping: 'For Godsake shettupand go inside. '] 'Throw up water, Jack! Throw up--Tom! Take that bucketfrom him and don't make such a fool of yourself before the children!Throw up water! Throw--keep on banging, children! Keep on banging!'[Mother put her faith in banging. ] 'There!--they're off! You've lost'em! I knew you would! I told yer--keep on bang--!'

"A bee struck her in the eye, and she grabbed at it!

"Mother went home--and inside. 

"Father was good at bees--could manage them like sheep when he got toknow their ideas. When the swarm settled, he sent us for the old washingstool, boxes, bags, and so on; and the whole time he was fixing the beesI noticed that whenever his back was turned to us his shoulders wouldjerk up as if he was cold, and he seemed to shudder from inside, and nowand then I'd hear a grunting sort of whimper like a boy that wasjust starting to blubber. But father wasn't weeping, and bees weren'tstinging him; it was the bee that stung mother that was tickling father. When he went into the house, mother's other eye had bunged for sympathy. Father was always gentle and kind in sickness, and he bathed mother'seyes and rubbed mud on, but every now and then he'd catch inside, andjerk and shudder, and grunt and cough. Mother got wild, but presentlythe humour of it struck her, and she had to laugh, and a rum laugh itwas, with both eyes bunged up. Then she got hysterical, and started tocry, and father put his arm round her shoulder and ordered us out of thehouse. 

"They were very fond of each other, the old people were, under itall--right up to the end. .. . Ah, well!"

Mitchell pulled the swags out of a bunk, and started to fasten thenose-bags on. 

Andy Page's Rival

 Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; That was the picture of Andy-- Middleton's rouseabout. On Middleton's wide dominions Plied the stock-whip and shears; Hadn't any opinions------

And he hadn't any "ideers"--at least, he said so himself--exceptas regarded anything that looked to him like what he called "funnybusiness", under which heading he catalogued tyranny, treachery, interference with the liberty of the subject by the subject, "blanky"lies, or swindles--all things, in short, that seemed to his slowunderstanding dishonest, mean or paltry; most especially, and above all, treachery to a mate. THAT he could never forget. Andy was uncomfortably"straight". His mind worked slowly and his decisions were, as a rule, right and just; and when he once came to a conclusion concerning anyman or matter, or decided upon a course of action, nothing short of anearthquake or a Nevertire cyclone could move him back an inch--unless aconviction were severely shaken, and then he would require as much timeto "back" to his starting point as he did to come to the decision. 

Andy had come to a conclusion with regard to a selector'sdaughter--name, Lizzie Porter--who lived (and slaved) on her father'sselection, near the township corner of the run on which Andy was ageneral "hand". He had been in the habit for several years of callingcasually at the selector's house, as he rode to and fro between thestation and the town, to get a drink of water and exchange the time ofday with old Porter and his "missus". The conversation concerned thedrought, and the likelihood or otherwise of their ever going to geta little rain; or about Porter's cattle, with an occasional enquiryconcerning, or reference to, a stray cow belonging to the selection, but preferring the run; a little, plump, saucy, white cow, by-the-way, practically pure white, but referred to by Andy--who had eyes like ablackfellow--as "old Speckledy". No one else could detect a spot orspeckle on her at a casual glance. Then after a long bovine silence, which would have been painfully embarrassing in any other society, anda tilting of his cabbage-tree hat forward, which came of tickling andscratching the sun-blotched nape of his neck with his little finger, Andy would slowly say: "Ah, well. I must be gettin'. So-long, Mr. Porter. So-long, Mrs. Porter. " And, if SHE were in evidence--as shegenerally was on such occasions--"So-long, Lizzie. " And they'd shout:"So-long, Andy, " as he galloped off from the jump. Strange that thoseshy, quiet, gentle-voiced bushmen seem the hardest and most recklessriders. 

But of late his horse had been seen hanging up outside Porter's for anhour or so after sunset. He smoked, talked over the results of the lastdrought (if it happened to rain), and the possibilities of the next one, and played cards with old Porter; who took to winking, automatically, athis "old woman", and nudging, and jerking his thumb in the direction ofLizzie when her back was turned, and Andy was scratching the nape of hisneck and staring at the cards. 

Lizzie told a lady friend of mine, years afterwards, how Andy poppedthe question; told it in her quiet way--you know Lizzie's quiet way(something of the old, privileged house-cat about her); never a sign inexpression or tone to show whether she herself saw or appreciated thehumour of anything she was telling, no matter how comical it might be. She had witnessed two tragedies, and had found a dead man in the bush, and related the incidents as though they were common-place. 

It happened one day--after Andy had been coming two or three times aweek for about a year--that she found herself sitting with him on a logof the woodheap, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the sunset breeze. Andy's arm had got round her--just as it might have gone round a post hehappened to be leaning against. They hadn't been talking about anythingin particular. Andy said he wouldn't be surprised if they had athunderstorm before mornin'--it had been so smotherin' hot all day. 

Lizzie said, "Very likely. "

Andy smoked a good while, then he said: "Ah, well! It's a weary world. "

Lizzie didn't say anything. 

By-and-bye Andy said: "Ah, well; it's a lonely world, Lizzie. "

"Do you feel lonely, Andy?" asked Lizzie, after a while. 

"Yes, Lizzie; I do. "

Lizzie let herself settle, a little, against him, without either seemingto notice it, and after another while she said, softly: "So do I, Andy. "

Andy knocked the ashes from his pipe very slowly and deliberately, andput it away; then he seemed to brighten suddenly, and said briskly:"Well, Lizzie! Are you satisfied!"

"Yes, Andy; I'm satisfied. "

"Quite sure, now?"

"Yes; I'm quite sure, Andy. I'm perfectly satisfied. "

"Well, then, Lizzie--it's settled!"

 . . . . . 

But to-day--a couple of months after the proposal described above--Andyhad trouble on his mind, and the trouble was connected with LizziePorter. He was putting up a two-rail fence along the old log-paddock onthe frontage, and working like a man in trouble, trying to work it offhis mind; and evidently not succeeding--for the last two panels were outof line. He was ramming a post--Andy rammed honestly, from the bottom ofthe hole, not the last few shovelfuls below the surface, as some do. Hewas ramming the last layer of clay when a cloud of white dust came alongthe road, paused, and drifted or poured off into the scrub, leaving longDave Bentley, the horse-breaker, on his last victim. 

"'Ello, Andy! Graftin'?"

"I want to speak to you, Dave, " said Andy, in a strange voice. 

"All--all right!" said Dave, rather puzzled. He got down, wondering whatwas up, and hung his horse to the last post but one. 

Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, aswomen do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum andmate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. Butnow, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on scraping the earth from thesurface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiouslyround the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lipsset grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths):

"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you?What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?"

Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for "funny business" flashing inhis eyes. 

"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?"

Dave started; then he whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, Andy!" headvised. 

"You said she was travellin' with a feller!"

"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that--"

"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter--look here, me and you'sgot to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still greater vehemence, asthough he had a share in the garment: "Take off that coat!"

"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes tobrave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: "Me and youain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden energy) "if you try it onI'll knock you into jim-rags!"

Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: "Andy, thisthing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you. " Andhe led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed aludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one withinsight or hearing save Dave's horse. 

"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with youand Lizzie Porter?"

"I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married intwo years!"

Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and makeup his mind. 

"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?"

"Yes; I know that. "

"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back?Do you? Spit it out!"

"N--no, I don't!"

"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and--why, I've fought for youbehind your back!"

"I know that, Dave. "

"There's my hand on it!"

Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard. 

"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!"

They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with hisjaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised hisdisengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and askedin a broken voice:

"How--how do you know it, Dave?"

"Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!"

"You did, Dave?" in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger atDave's part in the seeing of them. 

"Gorstruth, Andy!"

 . . . . . 

"Tell me, Dave, who was the feller? That's all I want to know. "

"I can't tell you that. I only seen them when I was canterin' past inthe dusk. "

"Then how'd you know it was a man at all?"

"It wore trousers, anyway, and was as big as you; so it couldn't havebeen a girl. I'm pretty safe to swear it was Mick Kelly. I saw his horsehangin' up at Porter's once or twice. But I'll tell you what I'll do:I'll find out for you, Andy. And, what's more, I'll job him for you if Icatch him!"

Andy said nothing; his hands clenched and his chest heaved. Dave laid afriendly hand on his shoulder. 

"It's red hot, Andy, I know. Anybody else but you and I wouldn't havecared. But don't be a fool; there's any Gorsquantity of girls knockin'round. You just give it to her straight and chuck her, and have donewith it. You must be bad off to bother about her. Gorstruth! she ain'tmuch to look at anyway! I've got to ride like blazes to catch the coach. Don't knock off till I come back; I won't be above an hour. I'm goin' togive you some points in case you've got to fight Mick; and I'll have tobe there to back you!" And, thus taking the right moment instinctively, he jumped on his horse and galloped on towards the town. 

His dust-cloud had scarcely disappeared round a corner of the paddockswhen Andy was aware of another one coming towards him. He had adazed idea that it was Dave coming back, but went on digging anotherpost-hole, mechanically, until a spring-cart rattled up, and stoppedopposite him. Then he lifted his head. It was Lizzie herself, drivinghome from town. She turned towards him with her usual faint smile. Hersmall features were "washed out" and rather haggard. 

"'Ello, Andy!"

But, at the sight of her, all his hatred of "funnybusiness"--intensified, perhaps, by a sense of personal injury--came toa head, and he exploded:

"Look here, Lizzie Porter! I know all about you. You needn't thinkyou're goin' to cotton on with me any more after this! I wouldn't beseen in a paddock with yer! I'm satisfied about you! Get on out ofthis!"

The girl stared at him for a moment thunderstruck; then she lammed intothe old horse with a stick she carried in place of a whip. 

She cried, and wondered what she'd done, and trembled so that she couldscarcely unharness the horse, and wondered if Andy had got a touch ofthe sun, and went in and sat down and cried again; and pride came to heraid and she hated Andy; thought of her big brother, away droving, andmade a cup of tea. She shed tears over the tea, and went through it allagain. 

Meanwhile Andy was suffering a reaction. He started to fill the holebefore he put the post in; then to ram the post before the rails werein position. Dubbing off the ends of the rails, he was in danger ofamputating a toe or a foot with every stroke of the adze. And, at last, trying to squint along the little lumps of clay which he had placed inthe centre of the top of each post for several panels back--to assisthim to take a line--he found that they swam and doubled, and ran off inwatery angles, for his eyes were too moist to see straight and single. 

Then he threw down the tools hopelessly, and was standing helplesslyundecided whether to go home or go down to the creek and drown himself, when Dave turned up again. 

"Seen her?" asked Dave. 

"Yes, " said Andy. 

"Did you chuck her?"

"Look here, Dave; are you sure the feller was Mick Kelly?"

"I never said I was. How was I to know? It was dark. You don't expectI'd 'fox' a feller I see doing a bit of a bear-up to a girl, do you? Itmight have been you, for all I knowed. I suppose she's been talking youround?"

"No, she ain't, " said Andy. "But, look here, Dave; I was properly goneon that girl, I was, and--and I want to be sure I'm right. "

The business was getting altogether too psychological for Dave Bentley. "You might as well, " he rapped out, "call me a liar at once!"

"'Taint that at all, Dave. I want to get at who the feller is; that'swhat I want to get at now. Where did you see them, and when?"

"I seen them Anniversary night, along the road, near Ross' farm; andI seen 'em Sunday night afore that--in the trees near the oldculvert--near Porter's sliprails; and I seen 'em one night outsidePorter's, on a log near the woodheap. They was thick that time, andbearin' up proper, and no mistake. So I can swear to her. Now, are yousatisfied about her?"

But Andy was wildly pitchforking his thatch under his hat with all tenfingers and staring at Dave, who began to regard him uneasily; thenthere came to Andy's eyes an awful glare, which caused Dave to step backhastily. 

"Good God, Andy! Are yer goin' ratty?"

"No!" cried Andy, wildly. 

"Then what the blazes is the matter with you? You'll have rats if youdon't look out!"

"JIMMINY FROTH!--It was ME all the time!"

"What?"

"It was me that was with her all them nights. It was me that you seen. WHY, I POPPED ON THE WOODHEAP!"

Dave was taken too suddenly to whistle this time. 

"And you went for her just now?"

"Yes!" yelled Andy. 

"Well--you've done it!"

"Yes, " said Andy, hopelessly; "I've done it!"

Dave whistled now--a very long, low whistle. "Well, you're a bloomin'goat, Andy, after this. But this thing'll have to be fixed up!" and hecantered away. Poor Andy was too badly knocked to notice the abruptnessof Dave's departure, or to see that he turned through the sliprails onto the track that led to Porter's. 

 . . . . . 

Half an hour later Andy appeared at Porter's back door, with anexpression on his face as though the funeral was to start in tenminutes. In a tone befitting such an occasion, he wanted to see Lizzie. 

Dave had been there with the laudable determination of fixing thebusiness up, and had, of course, succeeded in making it much worse thanit was before. But Andy made it all right. 

The Iron-Bark Chip

Dave Regan and party--bush-fencers, tank-sinkers, rough carpenters, &c. --were finishing the third and last culvert of their contract onthe last section of the new railway line, and had already sent in theirvouchers for the completed contract, so that there might be no excusefor extra delay in connection with the cheque. 

Now it had been expressly stipulated in the plans and specificationsthat the timber for certain beams and girders was to be iron-bark andno other, and Government inspectors were authorised to order the removalfrom the ground of any timber or material they might deem inferior, or not in accordance with the stipulations. The railway contractor'sforeman and inspector of sub-contractors was a practical man and abushman, but he had been a timber-getter himself; his sympathies werebushy, and he was on winking terms with Dave Regan. Besides, extendedtime was expiring, and the contractors were in a hurry to complete theline. But the Government inspector was a reserved man who poked roundon his independent own and appeared in lonely spots at unexpectedtimes--with apparently no definite object in life--like a grey kangaroobothered by a new wire fence, but unsuspicious of the presence ofhumans. He wore a grey suit, rode, or mostly led, an ashen-grey horse;the grass was long and grey, so he was seldom spotted until he waswell within the horizon and bearing leisurely down on a party ofsub-contractors, leading his horse. 

Now iron-bark was scarce and distant on those ridges, and anothertimber, similar in appearance, but much inferior in grain and "standing"quality, was plentiful and close at hand. Dave and party were "aboutfull of" the job and place, and wanted to get their cheque and be goneto another "spec" they had in view. So they came to reckon they'd getthe last girder from a handy tree, and have it squared, in place, andcarefully and conscientiously tarred before the inspector happenedalong, if he did. But they didn't. They got it squared, and ready to belifted into its place; the kindly darkness of tar was ready to cover afraud that took four strong men with crowbars and levers to shift; andnow (such is the regular cussedness of things) as the fraudulent pieceof timber lay its last hour on the ground, looking and smelling, totheir guilty imaginations like anything but iron-bark, they were awareof the Government inspector drifting down upon them obliquely, withsomething of the atmosphere of a casual Bill or Jim who had dropped outof his easy-going track to see how they were getting on, and borrow amatch. They had more than half hoped that, as he had visited them prettyfrequently during the progress of the work, and knew how near it was tocompletion, he wouldn't bother coming any more. But it's the way withthe Government. You might move heaven and earth in vain endeavour toget the "Guvermunt" to flutter an eyelash over something of the mostmomentous importance to yourself and mates and the district--even tothe country; but just when you are leaving authority severely alone, andhave strong reasons for not wanting to worry or interrupt it, and notdesiring it to worry about you, it will take a fancy into its head tocome along and bother. 

"It's always the way!" muttered Dave to his mates. "I knew the beggarwould turn up!. .. And the only cronk log we've had, too!" he added, inan injured tone. "If this had 'a' been the only blessed iron-bark in thewhole contract, it would have been all right. .. . Good-day, sir!" (to theinspector). "It's hot?"

The inspector nodded. He was not of an impulsive nature. He got downfrom his horse and looked at the girder in an abstracted way; andpresently there came into his eyes a dreamy, far-away, sad sort ofexpression, as if there had been a very sad and painful occurrence inhis family, way back in the past, and that piece of timber in some wayreminded him of it and brought the old sorrow home to him. He blinkedthree times, and asked, in a subdued tone:

"Is that iron-bark?"

Jack Bentley, the fluent liar of the party, caught his breath with ajerk and coughed, to cover the gasp and gain time. "I--iron-bark? Ofcourse it is! I thought you would know iron-bark, mister. " (Mister wassilent. ) "What else d'yer think it is?"

The dreamy, abstracted expression was back. The inspector, by-the-way, didn't know much about timber, but he had a great deal of instinct, andwent by it when in doubt. 

"L--look here, mister!" put in Dave Regan, in a tone of innocentpuzzlement and with a blank bucolic face. "B--but don't the plans andspecifications say iron-bark? Ours does, anyway. I--I'll git the papersfrom the tent and show yer, if yer like. "

It was not necessary. The inspector admitted the fact slowly. Hestooped, and with an absent air picked up a chip. He looked at itabstractedly for a moment, blinked his threefold blink; then, seeming torecollect an appointment, he woke up suddenly and asked briskly:

"Did this chip come off that girder?"

Blank silence. The inspector blinked six times, divided in threes, rapidly, mounted his horse, said "Day, " and rode off. 

Regan and party stared at each other. 

"Wha--what did he do that for?" asked Andy Page, the third in the party. 

"Do what for, you fool?" enquired Dave. 

"Ta--take that chip for?"

"He's taking it to the office!" snarled Jack Bentley. 

"What--what for? What does he want to do that for?"

"To get it blanky well analysed! You ass! Now are yer satisfied?" AndJack sat down hard on the timber, jerked out his pipe, and said to Dave, in a sharp, toothache tone:

"Gimmiamatch!"

"We--well! what are we to do now?" enquired Andy, who was the hardestgrafter, but altogether helpless, hopeless, and useless in a crisis likethis. 

"Grain and varnish the bloomin' culvert!" snapped Bentley. 

But Dave's eyes, that had been ruefully following the inspector, suddenly dilated. The inspector had ridden a short distance along theline, dismounted, thrown the bridle over a post, laid the chip (whichwas too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence, and was now walking back at an angle across the line in the directionof the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side, a little morethan opposite the culvert. 

Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly. 

"Gimme an iron-bark chip!" he said suddenly. 

Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him, as is akangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent), glanced in the line ofDave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip about the same size as that whichthe inspector had taken. 

Now the "lay of the country" sloped generally to the line from bothsides, and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party, and the culvert was well within a clear concave space; but a coupleof hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it (on the side onwhich Dave's party worked their timber) a fringe of scrub ran to withina few yards of a point which would be about in line with a single treeon the cleared slope, the horse, and the fencing party. 

Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course intothe scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely, thoughwithout breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree intoline between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers. Thenhe began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree (which was athin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides, and working, as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party werekangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them. The inspector, by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then in the direction of hishorse, as though under the impression that it was flighty and restlessand inclined to bolt on opportunity. It was an anxious moment for allparties concerned--except the inspector. They didn't want HIM to beperturbed. And, just as Dave reached the foot of the tree, the inspectorfinished what he had to say to the fencers, turned, and started to walkbriskly back to his horse. There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was thecritical moment--there were certain prearranged signals between Dave'sparty and the fencers which might have interested the inspector, butnone to meet a case like this. 

Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea of interceptingthe inspector and holding him for a few minutes in bogus conversation. Inspirations come to one at a critical moment, and it flashed on Jack'smind to send Andy instead. Andy looked as innocent and guileless as hewas, but was uncomfortable in the vicinity of "funny business", andmust have an honest excuse. "Not that that mattered, " commented Jackafterwards; "it would have taken the inspector ten minutes to get atwhat Andy was driving at, whatever it was. "

"Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd betterstay in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blankyfool. He'll be gone!"

Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencersstarted after the inspector, hailing him as "Hi, mister!" He wanted tobe set right about the survey or something--or to pretend to want to beset right--from motives of policy which I haven't time to explain here. 

That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he "seen what youcoves was up to, " and that's why he called the inspector back. But hetold them that after they had told their yarn--which was a mistake. 

"Come back, Andy!" cried Jack Bentley. 

Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees, and madequick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall on thethirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse. Close tothe horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up, and sent a shiveralong his spine and a hungry feeling under it. The horse wouldbreak away and bolt! But the case was desperate. Dave ventured aninterrogatory "Cope, cope, cope?" The horse turned its head wearily andregarded him with a mild eye, as if he'd expected him to come, and comeon all fours, and wondered what had kept him so long; then he wenton thinking. Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obliginglyleaning over on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiouslybehind the post, like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly--thefirst time he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he putthe iron-bark one in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled offfor the tree like a gigantic tailless "goanna". 

A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek, smoking hard to settle his nerves. 

The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of thethunderstorm came pelting down. The inspector hurried to his horse, andcantered off along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp. 

He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post!

Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively. 

"Middleton's Peter"

 I. 

 The First Born

The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the"struggling farmer". The Australian squatter is not always the mightywool king that English and American authors and other uninformed peopleapparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game ofchance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Walesat least, depends on nothing. 

Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distanceto the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum". His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, andhis stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consistedof his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as "Middleton's Peter"(who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever since JoeMiddleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin andtwo boys. 

It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a veryordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was anangel. He really worshipped her. 

One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with theexception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door, and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual wasthe matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone acrossthe flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intentlywith bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried:

"I can hear the cart. I can see it!"

You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk thegibberish with which they are credited by story writers. 

It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that thewhite--or, rather, the brown--portion of the party could see or evenhear the approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of thenative apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearerit was evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horsescantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first onewheel and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a strikingresemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart. One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did theduties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother. 

The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement ofspeed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawlingon to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon asshe had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into thebedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale andfrightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not doneblowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. Itcontained old Mr. And Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a smallfarm not far from Palmer's place. 

As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and, mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, gallopedoff through the scrub in a different direction. 

Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had beenalmost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival, and he anxiously asked her:

"How is she?"

"Did you find Doc. Wild?" asked the mother. 

"No, confound him!" exclaimed Joe bitterly. "He promised me faithfullyto come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Nowhe has left Dean's and gone--Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinkingagain. How is Maggie?"

"It's all over now--the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak. Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at oncethat Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor Maggiewon't live. "

"Good God! and what am I to do?" cried Joe desperately. 

"Is there any other doctor within reach?"

"No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, and he islaid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. Where's Dave?"

"Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he rememberedsomeone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen milesaway. "

"But it is our only hope, " said Joe dejectedly. "I wish to God that Ihad taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago. "

Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New SouthWales, and although the profession did not recognise him, and denouncedhim as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith inhim, and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring himto the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldomincapable of treating a patient; he would, however, sometimes be foundin an obstinate mood and refuse to travel to the side of a sick person, and then the devil himself could not make the doctor budge. But for allthis he was very generous--a fact that could, no doubt, be testified toby many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush. 

 II. 

 The Only Hope

Night came on, and still there was no change in the condition ofthe young wife, and no sign of the doctor. Several stockmen fromthe neighbouring stations, hearing that there was trouble at JoeMiddleton's, had ridden over, and had galloped off on long, hopelessrides in search of a doctor. Being generally free from sicknessthemselves, these bushmen look upon it as a serious business even in itsmildest form; what is more, their sympathy is always practical whereit is possible for it to be so. One day, while out on the run afteran "outlaw", Joe Middleton was badly thrown from his horse, and thebreak-neck riding that was done on that occasion from the time the horsecame home with empty saddle until the rider was safe in bed and attendedby a doctor was something extraordinary, even for the bush. 

Before the time arrived when Dave Middleton might reasonably have beenexpected to return, the station people were anxiously watching for him, all except the old blackfellow and the two boys, who had gone to yardthe sheep. 

The party had been increased by Jimmy Nowlett, the bullocky, who hadjust arrived with a load of fencing wire and provisions for Middleton. Jimmy was standing in the moonlight, whip in hand, looking as anxious asthe husband himself, and endeavouring to calculate by mental arithmeticthe exact time it ought to take Dave to complete his double journey, taking into consideration the distance, the obstacles in the way, andthe chances of horse-flesh. 

But the time which Jimmy fixed for the arrival came without Dave. 

Old Peter (as he was generally called, though he was not really old)stood aside in his usual sullen manner, his hat drawn down over hisbrow and eyes, and nothing visible but a thick and very horizontalblack beard, from the depth of which emerged large clouds of very strongtobacco smoke, the product of a short, black, clay pipe. 

They had almost given up all hope of seeing Dave return that night, whenPeter slowly and deliberately removed his pipe and grunted:

"He's a-comin'. "

He then replaced the pipe, and smoked on as before. 

All listened, but not one of them could hear a sound. 

"Yer ears must be pretty sharp for yer age, Peter. We can't hear him, "remarked Jimmy Nowlett. 

"His dog ken, " said Peter. 

The pipe was again removed and its abbreviated stem pointed in thedirection of Dave's cattle dog, who had risen beside his kennel withpointed ears, and was looking eagerly in the direction from which hismaster was expected to come. 

Presently the sound of horse's hoofs was distinctly heard. 

"I can hear two horses, " cried Jimmy Nowlett excitedly. 

"There's only one, " said old Peter quietly. 

A few moments passed, and a single horseman appeared on the far side ofthe flat. 

"It's Doc. Wild on Dave's horse, " cried Jimmy Nowlett. "Dave don't ridelike that. "

"It's Dave, " said Peter, replacing his pipe and looking more unsociablethan ever. 

Dave rode up and, throwing himself wearily from the saddle, stoodominously silent by the side of his horse. 

Joe Middleton said nothing, but stood aside with an expression of utterhopelessness on his face. 

"Not there?" asked Jimmy Nowlett at last, addressing Dave. 

"Yes, he's there, " answered Dave, impatiently. 

This was not the answer they expected, but nobody seemed surprised. 

"Drunk?" asked Jimmy. 

"Yes. "

Here old Peter removed his pipe, and pronounced the one word--"How?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?" muttered Dave, whose patience hadevidently been severely tried by the clever but intemperate bush doctor. 

"How drunk?" explained Peter, with great equanimity. 

"Stubborn drunk, blind drunk, beastly drunk, dead drunk, and damned welldrunk, if that's what you want to know!"

"What did Doc. Say?" asked Jimmy. 

"Said he was sick--had lumbago--wouldn't come for the Queen of England;said he wanted a course of treatment himself. Curse him! I have nopatience to talk about him. "

"I'd give him a course of treatment, " muttered Jimmy viciously, trailingthe long lash of his bullock-whip through the grass and spittingspitefully at the ground. 

Dave turned away and joined Joe, who was talking earnestly to his motherby the kitchen door. He told them that he had spent an hour trying topersuade Doc. Wild to come, and, that before he had left the shanty, Black had promised him faithfully to bring the doctor over as soon ashis obstinate mood wore off. 

Just then a low moan was heard from the sick room, followed by the soundof Mother Palmer's voice calling old Mrs. Middleton, who went insideimmediately. 

No one had noticed the disappearance of Peter, and when he presentlyreturned from the stockyard, leading the only fresh horse that remained, Jimmy Nowlett began to regard him with some interest. Peter transferredthe saddle from Dave's horse to the other, and then went into a smallroom off the kitchen, which served him as a bedroom; from it he soonreturned with a formidable-looking revolver, the chambers of which heexamined in the moonlight in full view of all the company. They thoughtfor a moment the man had gone mad. Old Middleton leaped quickly behindNowlett, and Black Mary, who had come out to the cask at the corner fora dipper of water, dropped the dipper and was inside like a shot. One ofthe black boys came softly up at that moment; as soon as his sharp eye"spotted" the weapon, he disappeared as though the earth had swallowedhim. 

"What the mischief are yer goin' ter do, Peter?" asked Jimmy. 

"Goin' to fetch him, " said Peter, and, after carefully emptying his pipeand replacing it in a leather pouch at his belt, he mounted and rode offat an easy canter. 

Jimmy watched the horse until it disappeared at the edge of the flat, and then after coiling up the long lash of his bullock-whip in the dustuntil it looked like a sleeping snake, he prodded the small end of thelong pine handle into the middle of the coil, as though driving home apoint, and said in a tone of intense conviction:

"He'll fetch him. "

 III. 

 Doc. Wild

Peter gradually increased his horse's speed along the rough bush trackuntil he was riding at a good pace. It was ten miles to the main road, and five from there to the shanty kept by Black. 

For some time before Peter started the atmosphere had been very closeand oppressive. The great black edge of a storm-cloud had risen in theeast, and everything indicated the approach of a thunderstorm. It wasnot long coming. Before Peter had completed six miles of his journey, the clouds rolled over, obscuring the moon, and an Australianthunderstorm came on with its mighty downpour, its blinding lightning, and its earth-shaking thunder. Peter rode steadily on, only pausing nowand then until a flash revealed the track in front of him. 

Black's shanty--or, rather, as the sign had it, "Post Office and GeneralStore"--was, as we have said, five miles along the main road from thepoint where Middleton's track joined it. The building was of the usualstyle of bush architecture. About two hundred yards nearer the creek, which crossed the road further on, stood a large bark and slab stable, large enough to have met the requirements of a legitimate bush "public". 

The reader may doubt that a "sly grog shop" could openly carry onbusiness on a main Government road along which mounted troopers werecontinually passing. But then, you see, mounted troopers get thirstylike other men; moreover, they could always get their thirst quenched'gratis' at these places; so the reader will be prepared to hear thaton this very night two troopers' horses were stowed snugly away in thestable, and two troopers were stowed snugly away in the back room of theshanty, sleeping off the effects of their cheap but strong potations. 

There were two rooms, of a sort, attached to the stables--one at eachend. One was occupied by a man who was "generally useful", and the otherwas the surgery, office, and bedroom 'pro tem. ' of Doc. Wild. 

Doc. Wild was a tall man, of spare proportions. He had a cadaverousface, black hair, bushy black eyebrows, eagle nose, and eagle eyes. Henever slept while he was drinking. On this occasion he sat in front ofthe fire on a low three-legged stool. His knees were drawn up, his toeshooked round the front legs of the stool, one hand resting on one knee, and one elbow (the hand supporting the chin) resting on the other. Hewas staring intently into the fire, on which an old black saucepanwas boiling and sending forth a pungent odour of herbs. There seemedsomething uncanny about the doctor as the red light of the fire fell onhis hawk-like face and gleaming eyes. He might have been Mephistopheleswatching some infernal brew. 

He had sat there some time without stirring a finger, when the doorsuddenly burst open and Middleton's Peter stood within, dripping wet. The doctor turned his black, piercing eyes upon the intruder (whoregarded him silently) for a moment, and then asked quietly:

"What the hell do you want?"

"I want you, " said Peter. 

"And what do you want me for?"

"I want you to come to Joe Middleton's wife. She's bad, " said Petercalmly. 

"I won't come, " shouted the doctor. "I've brought enough horse-stealersinto the world already. If any more want to come they can go to blazesfor me. Now, you get out of this!"

"Don't get yer rag out, " said Peter quietly. "The hoss-stealer's come, an' nearly killed his mother ter begin with; an' if yer don't get yerphysic-box an' come wi' me, by the great God I'll----"

Here the revolver was produced and pointed at Doc. Wild's head. Thesight of the weapon had a sobering effect upon the doctor. He rose, looked at Peter critically for a moment, knocked the weapon out of hishand, and said slowly and deliberately:

"Wall, ef the case es as serious as that, I (hic) reckon I'd bettercome. "

Peter was still of the same opinion, so Doc. Wild proceeded to get hismedicine chest ready. He explained afterwards, in one of his softermoments, that the shooter didn't frighten him so much as it touched hismemory--"sorter put him in mind of the old days in California, and madehim think of the man he might have been, " he'd say, --"kinder touchedhis heart and slid the durned old panorama in front of him like a flash;made him think of the time when he slipped three leaden pills into 'BlueShirt' for winking at a new chum behind his (the Doc. 's) back when hewas telling a truthful yarn, and charged the said 'Blue Shirt' a hundreddollars for extracting the said pills. "

Joe Middleton's wife is a grandmother now. 

Peter passed after the manner of his sort; he was found dead in hisbunk. 

Poor Doc. Wild died in a shepherd's hut at the Dry Creeks. The shepherds(white men) found him, "naked as he was born and with the hide halfburned off him with the sun, " rounding up imaginary snakes on a dustyclearing, one blazing hot day. The hut-keeper had some "quare" (queer)experiences with the doctor during the next three days and used, inafter years, to tell of them, between the puffs of his pipe, calmlyand solemnly and as if the story was rather to the doctor's credit thanotherwise. The shepherds sent for the police and a doctor, and sent wordto Joe Middleton. Doc. Wild was sensible towards the end. His interviewwith the other doctor was characteristic. "And, now you see how far Iam, " he said in conclusion--"have you brought the brandy?" The otherdoctor had. Joe Middleton came with his waggonette, and in it thesoftest mattress and pillows the station afforded. He also, in hisinnocence, brought a dozen of soda-water. Doc. Wild took Joe's handfeebly, and, a little later, he "passed out" (as he would have said)murmuring "something that sounded like poetry", in an unknown tongue. Joe took the body to the home station. "Who's the boss bringin'?" askedthe shearers, seeing the waggonette coming very slowly and the bosswalking by the horses' heads. "Doc. Wild, " said a station hand. "Takeyer hats off. "

They buried him with bush honours, and chiselled his name on a slab ofbluegum--a wood that lasts. 

The Mystery of Dave Regan

"And then there was Dave Regan, " said the traveller. "Dave used to dieoftener than any other bushman I knew. He was always being reporteddead and turnin' up again. He seemed to like it--except once, when hisbrother drew his money and drank it all to drown his grief at what hecalled Dave's 'untimely end'. Well, Dave went up to Queensland once withcattle, and was away three years and reported dead, as usual. He wasdrowned in the Bogan this time while tryin' to swim his horse acrosta flood--and his sweetheart hurried up and got spliced to a worse manbefore Dave got back. 

"Well, one day I was out in the bush lookin' for timber, when thebiggest storm ever knowed in that place come on. There was hail in it, too, as big as bullets, and if I hadn't got behind a stump and croucheddown in time I'd have been riddled like a--like a bushranger. As it was, I got soakin' wet. The storm was over in a few minutes, the water runoff down the gullies, and the sun come out and the scrub steamed--andstunk like a new pair of moleskin trousers. I went on along the track, and presently I seen a long, lanky chap get on to a long, lanky horseand ride out of a bush yard at the edge of a clearin'. I knowed it wasDave d'reckly I set eyes on him. 

"Dave used to ride a tall, holler-backed thoroughbred with a body andlimbs like a kangaroo dog, and it would circle around you and sidle awayas if it was frightened you was goin' to jab a knife into it. 

"''Ello! Dave!' said I, as he came spurrin' up. 'How are yer!'

"''Ello, Jim!' says he. 'How are you?'

"'All right!' says I. 'How are yer gettin' on?'

"But, before we could say any more, that horse shied away and broke offthrough the scrub to the right. I waited, because I knowed Dave wouldcome back again if I waited long enough; and in about ten minutes hecame sidlin' in from the scrub to the left. 

"'Oh, I'm all right, ' says he, spurrin' up sideways; 'How are you?'

"'Right!' says I. 'How's the old people?'

"'Oh, I ain't been home yet, ' says he, holdin' out his hand; but, aforeI could grip it, the cussed horse sidled off to the south end of theclearin' and broke away again through the scrub. 

"I heard Dave swearin' about the country for twenty minutes or so, andthen he came spurrin' and cursin' in from the other end of the clearin'. 

"'Where have you been all this time?' I said, as the horse came curvin'up like a boomerang. 

"'Gulf country, ' said Dave. 

"'That was a storm, Dave, ' said I. 

"'My oath!' says Dave. 

"'Get caught in it?'

"'Yes. '

"'Got to shelter?'

"'No. '

"'But you're as dry's a bone, Dave!'

"Dave grinned. '------and------and------the--------!' he yelled. 

"He said that to the horse as it boomeranged off again and broke awaythrough the scrub. I waited; but he didn't come back, and I reckonedhe'd got so far away before he could pull up that he didn't think itworth while comin' back; so I went on. By-and-bye I got thinkin'. Davewas as dry as a bone, and I knowed that he hadn't had time to get toshelter, for there wasn't a shed within twelve miles. He wasn't onlydry, but his coat was creased and dusty too--same as if he'd beensleepin' in a holler log; and when I come to think of it, his faceseemed thinner and whiter than it used ter, and so did his hands andwrists, which always stuck a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and therewas blood on his face--but I thought he'd got scratched with a twig. (Dave used to wear a coat three or four sizes too small for him, withsleeves that didn't come much below his elbows and a tail that scarcelyreached his waist behind. ) And his hair seemed dark and lank, insteadof bein' sandy and stickin' out like an old fibre brush, as it usedter. And then I thought his voice sounded different, too. And, whenI enquired next day, there was no one heard of Dave, and the chapsreckoned I must have been drunk, or seen his ghost. 

"It didn't seem all right at all--it worried me a lot. I couldn't makeout how Dave kept dry; and the horse and saddle and saddle-cloth waswet. I told the chaps how he talked to me and what he said, and how heswore at the horse; but they only said it was Dave's ghost and nobodyelse's. I told 'em about him bein' dry as a bone after gettin' caught inthat storm; but they only laughed and said it was a dry place where Davewent to. I talked and argued about it until the chaps began to tap theirforeheads and wink--then I left off talking. But I didn't leave offthinkin'--I always hated a mystery. Even Dave's father told me that Davecouldn't be alive or else his ghost wouldn't be round--he said he knewDave better than that. One or two fellers did turn up afterwards thathad seen Dave about the time that I did--and then the chaps said theywas sure that Dave was dead. 

"But one fine day, as a lot of us chaps was playin' pitch and toss atthe shanty, one of the fellers yelled out:

"'By Gee! Here comes Dave Regan!'

"And I looked up and saw Dave himself, sidlin' out of a cloud of dust ona long lanky horse. He rode into the stockyard, got down, hung his horseup to a post, put up the rails, and then come slopin' towards us witha half-acre grin on his face. Dave had long, thin bow-legs, and when hewas on the ground he moved as if he was on roller skates. 

"''El-lo, Dave!' says I. 'How are yer?'

"''Ello, Jim!' said he. 'How the blazes are you?'

"'All right!' says I, shakin' hands. 'How are yer?'

"'Oh! I'm all right!' he says. 'How are yer poppin' up!'

"Well, when we'd got all that settled, and the other chaps had asked howhe was, he said: 'Ah, well! Let's have a drink. '

"And all the other chaps crawfished up and flung themselves round thecorner and sidled into the bar after Dave. We had a lot of talk, and hetold us that he'd been down before, but had gone away without seein' anyof us, except me, because he'd suddenly heard of a mob of cattle at astation two hundred miles away; and after a while I took him aside andsaid:

"'Look here, Dave! Do you remember the day I met you after the storm?'

"He scratched his head. 

"'Why, yes, ' he says. 

"'Did you get under shelter that day?'

"'Why--no. '

"'Then how the blazes didn't yer get wet?'

"Dave grinned; then he says:

"'Why, when I seen the storm coming I took off me clothes and stuck 'emin a holler log till the rain was over. '

"'Yes, ' he says, after the other coves had done laughin', but beforeI'd done thinking; 'I kept my clothes dry and got a good refreshin'shower-bath into the bargain. '

"Then he scratched the back of his neck with his little finger, anddropped his jaw, and thought a bit; then he rubbed the top of his headand his shoulder, reflective-like, and then he said:

"'But I didn't reckon for them there blanky hailstones. '"

Mitchell on Matrimony

"I suppose your wife will be glad to see you, " said Mitchell to hismate in their camp by the dam at Hungerford. They were overhauling theirswags, and throwing away the blankets, and calico, and old clothes, andrubbish they didn't want--everything, in fact, except their pocket-booksand letters and portraits, things which men carry about with themalways, that are found on them when they die, and sent to theirrelations if possible. Otherwise they are taken in charge by theconstable who officiates at the inquest, and forwarded to the Ministerof Justice along with the depositions. 

It was the end of the shearing season. Mitchell and his mate had beenlucky enough to get two good sheds in succession, and were going to takethe coach from Hungerford to Bourke on their way to Sydney. The morningstars were bright yet, and they sat down to a final billy of tea, twodusty Johnny-cakes, and a scrag of salt mutton. 

"Yes, " said Mitchell's mate, "and I'll be glad to see her too. "

"I suppose you will, " said Mitchell. He placed his pint-pot between hisfeet, rested his arm against his knee, and stirred the tea meditativelywith the handle of his pocket-knife. It was vaguely understood thatMitchell had been married at one period of his chequered career. 

"I don't think we ever understood women properly, " he said, as he tooka cautious sip to see if his tea was cool and sweet enough, for his lipswere sore; "I don't think we ever will--we never took the trouble totry, and if we did it would be only wasted brain power that might justas well be spent on the blackfellow's lingo; because by the time you'velearnt it they'll be extinct, and woman 'll be extinct before you'velearnt her. .. . The morning star looks bright, doesn't it?"

"Ah, well, " said Mitchell after a while, "there's many little thingswe might try to understand women in. I read in a piece of newspaper theother day about how a man changes after he's married; how he gets short, and impatient, and bored (which is only natural), and sticks up a wallof newspaper between himself and his wife when he's at home; and how itcomes like a cold shock to her, and all her air-castles vanish, andin the end she often thinks about taking the baby and the clothes shestands in, and going home for sympathy and comfort to mother. 

"Perhaps she never got a word of sympathy from her mother in her life, nor a day's comfort at home before she was married; but that doesn'tmake the slightest difference. It doesn't make any difference in yourcase either, if you haven't been acting like a dutiful son-in-law. 

"Somebody wrote that a woman's love is her whole existence, while aman's love is only part of his--which is true, and only natural andreasonable, all things considered. But women never consider as a rule. Aman can't go on talking lovey-dovey talk for ever, and listening to hisyoung wife's prattle when he's got to think about making a living, andnursing her and answering her childish questions and telling her heloves his little ownest every minute in the day, while the bills arerunning up, and rent mornings begin to fly round and hustle and crowdhim. 

"He's got her and he's satisfied; and if the truth is known he lovesher really more than he did when they were engaged, only she won't besatisfied about it unless he tells her so every hour in the day. Atleast that's how it is for the first few months. 

"But a woman doesn't understand these things--she never will, shecan't--and it would be just as well for us to try and understand thatshe doesn't and can't understand them. "

Mitchell knocked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin against his boot, and reached for the billy. 

"There's many little things we might do that seem mere trifles andnonsense to us, but mean a lot to her; that wouldn't be any troubleor sacrifice to us, but might help to make her life happy. It's justbecause we never think about these little things--don't think them worththinking about, in fact--they never enter our intellectual foreheads. 

"For instance, when you're going out in the morning you might put yourarms round her and give her a hug and a kiss, without her having toremind you. You may forget about it and never think any more of it--butshe will. 

"It wouldn't be any trouble to you, and would only take a couple ofseconds, and would give her something to be happy about when you'regone, and make her sing to herself for hours while she bustles about herwork and thinks up what she'll get you for dinner. "

Mitchell's mate sighed, and shifted the sugar-bag over towards Mitchell. He seemed touched and bothered over something. 

"Then again, " said Mitchell, "it mightn't be convenient for you to gohome to dinner--something might turn up during the morning--you mighthave some important business to do, or meet some chaps and get invitedto lunch and not be very well able to refuse, when it's too late, or youhaven't a chance to send a message to your wife. But then again, chapsand business seem very big things to you, and only little things to thewife; just as lovey-dovey talk is important to her and nonsense to you. And when you come to analyse it, one is not so big, nor the other sosmall, after all; especially when you come to think that chaps canalways wait, and business is only an inspiration in your mind, ninecases out of ten. 

"Think of the trouble she takes to get you a good dinner, and how shekeeps it hot between two plates in the oven, and waits hour after hourtill the dinner gets dried up, and all her morning's work is wasted. Think how it hurts her, and how anxious she'll be (especially if you'reinclined to booze) for fear that something has happened to you. Youcan't get it out of the heads of some young wives that you're liable toget run over, or knocked down, or assaulted, or robbed, or get into oneof the fixes that a woman is likely to get into. But about the dinnerwaiting. Try and put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you get mad underthe same circumstances? I know I would. 

"I remember once, only just after I was married, I was invitedunexpectedly to a kidney pudding and beans--which was my favourite grubat the time--and I didn't resist, especially as it was washing day andI told the wife not to bother about anything for dinner. I got home anhour or so late, and had a good explanation thought out, when the wifemet me with a smile as if we had just been left a thousand pounds. She'dgot her washing finished without assistance, though I'd told her to getsomebody to help her, and she had a kidney pudding and beans, with a lotof extras thrown in, as a pleasant surprise for me. 

"Well, I kissed her, and sat down, and stuffed till I thought everymouthful would choke me. I got through with it somehow, but I've nevercared for kidney pudding or beans since. "

Mitchell felt for his pipe with a fatherly smile in his eyes. 

"And then again, " he continued, as he cut up his tobacco, "your wifemight put on a new dress and fix herself up and look well, and you mightthink so and be satisfied with her appearance and be proud to take herout; but you want to tell her so, and tell her so as often as you thinkabout it--and try to think a little oftener than men usually do, too. "

 . . . . . 

"You should have made a good husband, Jack, " said his mate, in asoftened tone. 

"Ah, well, perhaps I should, " said Mitchell, rubbing up his tobacco;then he asked abstractedly: "What sort of a husband did you make, Joe?"

"I might have made a better one than I did, " said Joe seriously, andrather bitterly, "but I know one thing, I'm going to try and make up forit when I go back this time. "

"We all say that, " said Mitchell reflectively, filling his pipe. "Sheloves you, Joe. "

"I know she does, " said Joe. 

Mitchell lit up. 

"And so would any man who knew her or had seen her letters to you, " hesaid between the puffs. "She's happy and contented enough, I believe?"

"Yes, " said Joe, "at least while I was there. She's never easy when I'maway. I might have made her a good deal more happy and contented withouthurting myself much. "

Mitchell smoked long, soft, measured puffs. 

His mate shifted uneasily and glanced at him a couple of times, andseemed to become impatient, and to make up his mind about something;or perhaps he got an idea that Mitchell had been "having" him, andfelt angry over being betrayed into maudlin confidences; for he askedabruptly:

"How is your wife now, Mitchell?"

"I don't know, " said Mitchell calmly. 

"Don't know?" echoed the mate. "Didn't you treat her well?"

Mitchell removed his pipe and drew a long breath. 

"Ah, well, I tried to, " he said wearily. 

"Well, did you put your theory into practice?"

"I did, " said Mitchell very deliberately. 

Joe waited, but nothing came. 

"Well?" he asked impatiently, "How did it act? Did it work well?"

"I don't know, " said Mitchell (puff); "she left me. "

"What!"

Mitchell jerked the half-smoked pipe from his mouth, and rapped theburning tobacco out against the toe of his boot. 

"She left me, " he said, standing up and stretching himself. Then, with avicious jerk of his arm, "She left me for--another kind of a fellow!"

He looked east towards the public-house, where they were taking thecoach-horses from the stable. 

"Why don't you finish your tea, Joe? The billy's getting cold. "

Mitchell on Women

"All the same, " said Mitchell's mate, continuing an argument by thecamp-fire; "all the same, I think that a woman can stand cold waterbetter than a man. Why, when I was staying in a boarding-house inDunedin, one very cold winter, there was a lady lodger who went down tothe shower-bath first thing every morning; never missed one; sometimeswent in freezing weather when I wouldn't go into a cold bath for afiver; and sometimes she'd stay under the shower for ten minutes at atime. "

"How'd you know?"

"Why, my room was near the bath-room, and I could hear the shower andtap going, and her floundering about. "

"Hear your grandmother!" exclaimed Mitchell, contemptuously. "You don'tknow women yet. Was this woman married? Did she have a husband there?"

"No; she was a young widow. "

"Ah! well, it would have been the same if she was a young girl--or anold one. Were there some passable men-boarders there?"

"_I_ was there. "

"Oh, yes! But I mean, were there any there beside you?"

"Oh, yes, there were three or four; there was--a clerk and a----"

"Never mind, as long as there was something with trousers on. Did itever strike you that she never got into the bath at all?"

"Why, no! What would she want to go there at all for, in that case?"

"To make an impression on the men, " replied Mitchell promptly. "Shewanted to make out she was nice, and wholesome, and well-washed, and particular. Made an impression on YOU, it seems, or you wouldn'tremember it. "

"Well, yes, I suppose so; and, now I come to think of it, the bathdidn't seem to injure her make-up or wet her hair; but I supposed sheheld her head from under the shower somehow. "

"Did she make-up so early in the morning?" asked Mitchell. 

"Yes--I'm sure. "

"That's unusual; but it might have been so where there was a lot ofboarders. And about the hair--that didn't count for anything, becausewashing-the-head ain't supposed to be always included in a lady's bath;it's only supposed to be washed once a fortnight, and some don't do itonce a month. The hair takes so long to dry; it don't matter so much ifthe woman's got short, scraggy hair; but if a girl's hair was down toher waist it would take hours to dry. "

"Well, how do they manage it without wetting their heads?"

"Oh, that's easy enough. They have a little oilskin cap that fits tightover the forehead, and they put it on, and bunch their hair up in itwhen they go under the shower. Did you ever see a woman sit in a sunnyplace with her hair down after having a wash?"

"Yes, I used to see one do that regular where I was staying; but Ithought she only did it to show off. "

"Not at all--she was drying her hair; though perhaps she was showingoff at the same time, for she wouldn't sit where you--or even aChinaman--could see her, if she didn't think she had a good head ofhair. Now, I'LL tell you a yarn about a woman's bath. I was stoppingat a shabby-genteel boarding-house in Melbourne once, and one very coldwinter, too; and there was a rather good-looking woman there, lookingfor a husband. She used to go down to the bath every morning, no matterhow cold it was, and flounder and splash about as if she enjoyed it, till you'd feel as though you'd like to go and catch hold of her andwrap her in a rug and carry her in to the fire and nurse her till shewas warm again. "

Mitchell's mate moved uneasily, and crossed the other leg; he seemedgreatly interested. 

"But she never went into the water at all!" continued Mitchell. "As soonas one or two of the men was up in the morning she'd come down from herroom in a dressing-gown. It was a toney dressing-gown, too, and set heroff properly. She knew how to dress, anyway; most of that sort of womendo. The gown was a kind of green colour, with pink and white flowersall over it, and red lining, and a lot of coffee-coloured lace round theneck and down the front. Well, she'd come tripping downstairs and alongthe passage, holding up one side of the gown to show her littlebare white foot in a slipper; and in the other hand she carried hertooth-brush and bath-brush, and soap--like this--so's we all could see'em; trying to make out she was too particular to use soap after anyoneelse. She could afford to buy her own soap, anyhow; it was hardly everwet. 

"Well, she'd go into the bathroom and turn on the tap and shower; whenshe got about three inches of water in the bath, she'd step in, holdingup her gown out of the water, and go slithering and kicking up and downthe bath, like this, making a tremendous splashing. Of course she'd turnoff the shower first, and screw it off very tight--wouldn't do to letthat leak, you know; she might get wet; but she'd leave the other tapon, so as to make all the more noise. "

"But how did you come to know all about this?"

"Oh, the servant girl told me. One morning she twigged her through acorner of the bathroom window that the curtain didn't cover. "

"You seem to have been pretty thick with servant girls. "

"So do you with landladies! But never mind--let me finish the yarn. Whenshe thought she'd splashed enough, she'd get out, wipe her feet, washher face and hands, and carefully unbutton the two top buttons of hergown; then throw a towel over her head and shoulders, and listen at thedoor till she thought she heard some of the men moving about. Thenshe'd start for her room, and, if she met one of the men-boarders in thepassage or on the stairs, she'd drop her eyes, and pretend to see forthe first time that the top of her dressing-gown wasn't buttoned--andshe'd give a little start and grab the gown and scurry off to her roombuttoning it up. 

"And sometimes she'd come skipping into the breakfast-room late, lookingawfully sweet in her dressing-gown; and if she saw any of us there, she'd pretend to be much startled, and say that she thought all the menhad gone out, and make as though she was going to clear; and someone 'djump up and give her a chair, while someone else said, 'Come in, MissBrown! come in! Don't let us frighten you. Come right in, and haveyour breakfast before it gets cold. ' So she'd flutter a bit in prettyconfusion, and then make a sweet little girly-girly dive for her chair, and tuck her feet away under the table; and she'd blush, too, but Idon't know how she managed that. 

"I know another trick that women have; it's mostly played by privatebarmaids. That is, to leave a stocking by accident in the bathroom forthe gentlemen to find. If the barmaid's got a nice foot and ankle, sheuses one of her own stockings; but if she hasn't she gets hold ofa stocking that belongs to a girl that has. Anyway, she'll have onereadied up somehow. The stocking must be worn and nicely darned; onethat's been worn will keep the shape of the leg and foot--at leasttill it's washed again. Well, the barmaid generally knows what time thegentlemen go to bath, and she'll make it a point of going down just asa gentleman's going. Of course he'll give her the preference--let her gofirst, you know--and she'll go in and accidentally leave the stockingin a place where he's sure to see it, and when she comes out he'll go inand find it; and very likely he'll be a jolly sort of fellow, and whenthey're all sitting down to breakfast he'll come in and ask them toguess what he's found, and then he'll hold up the stocking. The barmaidlikes this sort of thing; but she'll hold down her head, and pretendto be confused, and keep her eyes on her plate, and there'll be muchblushing and all that sort of thing, and perhaps she'll gammon to bemad at him, and the landlady'll say, 'Oh, Mr. Smith! how can yer? At thebreakfast table, too!' and they'll all laugh and look at the barmaid, and she'll get more embarrassed than ever, and spill her tea, and makeout as though the stocking didn't belong to her. "

No Place for a Woman

He had a selection on a long box-scrub siding of the ridges, about halfa mile back and up from the coach road. There were no neighbours thatI ever heard of, and the nearest "town" was thirty miles away. He grewwheat among the stumps of his clearing, sold the crop standing to aCockie who lived ten miles away, and had some surplus sons; or, someseasons, he reaped it by hand, had it thrashed by travelling "steamer"(portable steam engine and machine), and carried the grain, a few bagsat a time, into the mill on his rickety dray. 

He had lived alone for upwards of 15 years, and was known to those whoknew him as "Ratty Howlett". 

Trav'lers and strangers failed to see anything uncommonly ratty abouthim. It was known, or, at least, it was believed, without question, thatwhile at work he kept his horse saddled and bridled, and hung up to thefence, or grazing about, with the saddle on--or, anyway, close handyfor a moment's notice--and whenever he caught sight, over the scrub andthrough the quarter-mile break in it, of a traveller on the road, hewould jump on his horse and make after him. If it was a horsemanhe usually pulled him up inside of a mile. Stories were told ofunsuccessful chases, misunderstandings, and complications arising out ofHowlett's mania for running down and bailing up travellers. Sometimes hecaught one every day for a week, sometimes not one for weeks--it was alonely track. 

The explanation was simple, sufficient, and perfectly natural--from abushman's point of view. Ratty only wanted to have a yarn. He and thetraveller would camp in the shade for half an hour or so and yarn andsmoke. The old man would find out where the traveller came from, andhow long he'd been there, and where he was making for, and how longhe reckoned he'd be away; and ask if there had been any rain along thetraveller's back track, and how the country looked after the drought;and he'd get the traveller's ideas on abstract questions--if he had any. If it was a footman (swagman), and he was short of tobacco, old Howlettalways had half a stick ready for him. Sometimes, but very rarely, he'dinvite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea, or a bit of meat, flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track. 

And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back, refreshed, to his lonely selection, and work on into the night as longas he could see his solitary old plough horse, or the scoop of hislong-handled shovel. 

And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance--or, rather, that hemade mine. I was cantering easily along the track--I was making for thenorth-west with a pack horse--when about a mile beyond the track to theselection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud following me. Ihad heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually, and so was prepared for him. 

A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven, except fora frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hairwas turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me of onefull-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen. He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows, and withsomething of the blackfellow in them--the sort of eyes that will peerat something on the horizon that no one else can see. He had a way oftalking to the horizon, too--more than to his companion; and he had adeep vertical wrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen. 

I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile onbush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily, it seemedto me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone, if I wasmarried. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially in mycase, as I was little more than a boy then. 

He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been, andasked after men he knew, or had known--drovers and others--and whetherthey were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back before my time;but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders with whom he had beenmates in his time, had grown old into mine, and I knew them. I noticenow, though I didn't then--and if I had it would not have seemedstrange from a bush point of view--that he didn't ask for news, nor seeminterested in it. 

Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses inthe dust with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and withoutlooking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything aboutdoctoring--if I'd ever studied it. 

I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said"No. " Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question, andhe was so long about answering that I began to think he was hard ofhearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face remindinghim of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney to "study for adoctor". That might have been, and looked natural enough; but why didn'the ask me straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"? Travellers donot like beating about the bush in conversation. 

He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded, and lookingabsently away over the dead level of the great scrubs that spreadfrom the foot of the ridge we were on to where a blue peak or two of adistant range showed above the bush on the horizon. 

I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wakeup. "Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner, " he said. "The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful ofhay for the horses. "

The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of awife, for I thought he was a hatter--I had always heard so; butperhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately; or had got ahousekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing in the scrub, with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fencealong the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was aboutas lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen someout-of-the-way, God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut wasin the top corner, a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, whichmust have been uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built. I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been putup by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and forsomeone else beside himself. But there were two unfinished skillingrooms built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, andwall-plates had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls wereup, but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrsand nettles inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and acouple of yokes were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains ofa straw-stack, some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and anold stiff coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw aboutthe place. 

But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of a cleanwhite tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes driveninto the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth--nota spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors--and perfectlyclean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins that served as sugarbowls and salt cellars were polished brightly. The walls and fireplacewere whitewashed, the clay floor swept, and clean sheets of newspaperlaid on the slab mantleshelf under the row of biscuit tins that held thegroceries. I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was, was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on thesofa--a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends--lay awoman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers. He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead, then took itup absently and folded it. I saw then that it was a riding skirt andjacket. He bundled them into the newspapers and took them into thebedroom. 

"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon, " he saidrapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if to have anotherlook through the door at those distant peaks. "I suppose she got tiredo' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her. But, never mind, the grub is ready. " There was a camp-oven with a leg of mutton andpotatoes sizzling in it on the hearth, and billies hanging over thefire. I noticed the billies had been scraped, and the lids polished. 

There seemed to be something queer about the whole business, but then heand his wife might have had a "breeze" during the morning. I thoughtso during the meal, when the subject of women came up, and he said onenever knew how to take a woman, etc. ; but there was nothing in what hesaid that need necessarily have referred to his wife or to any woman inparticular. For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging, and old bushranging--but never about live things and living men, unlessany of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident. He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off. 

There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near thedoor, but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for alifetime. There seemed something queer about the whole place--somethingwanting; but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by thatsomething wanting, or, more likely, by the spirits of the things thatshould have been there, but never had been. 

As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howletthard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel. 

I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port, and puthis hand once or twice to the small of his back, and I set it down tolumbago, or something of that sort. 

Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett thathis wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman, ifshe was his wife, was, of course, his second wife. The drover seemedsurprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett going in formatrimony again. 

 . . . . . 

I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never. It wasearly in the morning--I had ridden since midnight. I didn't think theold man would be up and about; and, besides, I wanted to get on home, and have a look at the old folk, and the mates I'd left behind--and thegirl. But I hadn't got far past the point where Howlett's track joinedthe road, when I happened to look back, and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up. 

He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked verymuch broken down. I thought it would have come down every step, andfallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind. And the old man wasnot much better off. I saw at once that he was a very sick man. His facewas drawn, and he bent forward as if he was hurt. He got down stifflyand awkwardly, like a hurt man, and as soon as his feet touched theground he grabbed my arm, or he would have gone down like a man whosteps off a train in motion. He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were, for the ground, with his free hand, as Ieased him down. I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to makehim comfortable. 

"Help me with my back agen the tree, " he said. "I must sit up--it's nouse lyin' me down. "

He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully. 

"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked. 

"No. " He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words were jerked out ofhim by a spasm: "She ain't there. "

I took it that she had left him. 

"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?"

He took no notice of the question. I thought it was a touch of rheumaticfever, or something of that sort. "It's gone into my back and sidesnow--the pain's worse in me back, " he said presently. 

I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease, while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek near a claimwe were working; he let the dish slip into the water, fell back, crying, "O, my back!" and was gone. And now I felt by instinct that it was poorold Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart is in his back as wellas in his arms and hands. 

The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint ina heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplesslywith the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too, and thesick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs. Bushmenstand in awe of sickness and death. 

But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the waterbag the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit; hedrew up his arms and folded them across his chest. He let his head restback against the tree--his slouch hat had fallen off revealing a broad, white brow, much higher than I expected. He seemed to gaze on the azurefin of the range, showing above the dark blue-green bush on the horizon. 

Then he commenced to speak--taking no notice of me when I asked him ifhe felt better now--to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone thatawes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously--in set words, asI believe now, as he had often told it before; if not to others, then tothe loneliness of the bush. And he used the names of people and placesthat I had never heard of--just as if I knew them as well as he did. 

"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for awoman. I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got theplace a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down thecreek. I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have somecompany--a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop. It was no place for a woman. 

"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country. She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me. "

He repeated himself a great deal--said the same thing over and overagain sometimes. He was only mad on one track. He'd tail off andsit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me in a hurried, half-scared way, and apologise for putting me to all that trouble, andthank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly. Best take the horses up to thehut and have some breakfast; you'll find it by the fire. I'll folleryou, d'reckly. The wife'll be waitin' an'----" He would drop off, and begoing again presently on the old track:--

"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year, but theold man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming, but one of theyoungsters got sick and there was trouble at home. I saw the doctor inthe town--thirty miles from here--and fixed it up with him. He was aboozer--I'd 'a shot him afterwards. I fixed up with a woman in the townto come and stay. I thought Mary was wrong in her time. She must havebeen a month or six weeks out. But I listened to her. .. . Don't arguewith a woman. Don't listen to a woman. Do the right thing. We shouldhave had a mother woman to talk to us. But it was no place for a woman!"

He rocked his head, as if from some old agony of mind, against thetree-trunk. 

"She was took bad suddenly one night, but it passed off. False alarm. Iwas going to ride somewhere, but she said to wait till daylight. Someonewas sure to pass. She was a brave and sensible girl, but she had aterror of being left alone. It was no place for a woman!

"There was a black shepherd three or four miles away. I rode over whileMary was asleep, and started the black boy into town. I'd 'a shot himafterwards if I'd 'a caught him. The old black gin was dead the weekbefore, or Mary would a' bin alright. She was tied up in a bunch withstrips of blanket and greenhide, and put in a hole. So there wasn't evena gin near the place. It was no place for a woman!

"I was watchin' the road at daylight, and I was watchin' the road atdusk. I went down in the hollow and stooped down to get the gap agen thesky, so's I could see if anyone was comin' over. .. . I'd get on the horseand gallop along towards the town for five miles, but something woulddrag me back, and then I'd race for fear she'd die before I got to thehut. I expected the doctor every five minutes. 

"It come on about daylight next morning. I ran back'ards and for'ardsbetween the hut and the road like a madman. And no one come. I wasrunning amongst the logs and stumps, and fallin' over them, when I sawa cloud of dust agen sunrise. It was her mother an' sister in thespring-cart, an' just catchin' up to them was the doctor in his buggywith the woman I'd arranged with in town. The mother and sister wasstaying at the town for the night, when they heard of the black boy. Ittook him a day to ride there. I'd 'a shot him if I'd 'a caught him everafter. The doctor'd been on the drunk. If I'd had the gun and known shewas gone I'd have shot him in the buggy. They said she was dead. And thechild was dead, too. 

"They blamed me, but I didn't want her to come; it was no place for awoman. I never saw them again after the funeral. I didn't want to seethem any more. "

He moved his head wearily against the tree, and presently drifted onagain in a softer tone--his eyes and voice were growing more absent anddreamy and far away. 

"About a month after--or a year, I lost count of the time long ago--shecame back to me. At first she'd come in the night, then sometimes whenI was at work--and she had the baby--it was a girl--in her arms. Andby-and-bye she came to stay altogether. .. . I didn't blame her for goingaway that time--it was no place for a woman. .. . She was a good wife tome. She was a jolly girl when I married her. The little girl grew uplike her. I was going to send her down country to be educated--it was noplace for a girl. 

"But a month, or a year, ago, Mary left me, and took the daughter, andnever came back till last night--this morning, I think it was. I thoughtat first it was the girl with her hair done up, and her mother's skirton, to surprise her old dad. But it was Mary, my wife--as she was whenI married her. She said she couldn't stay, but she'd wait for me on theroad; on--the road. .. . "

His arms fell, and his face went white. I got the water-bag. "Anotherturn like that and you'll be gone, " I thought, as he came to again. ThenI suddenly thought of a shanty that had been started, when I came thatway last, ten or twelve miles along the road, towards the town. Therewas nothing for it but to leave him and ride on for help, and a cart ofsome kind. 

"You wait here till I come back, " I said. "I'm going for the doctor. "

He roused himself a little. "Best come up to the hut and get some grub. The wife'll be waiting. .. . " He was off the track again. 

"Will you wait while I take the horse down to the creek?"

"Yes--I'll wait by the road. "

"Look!" I said, "I'll leave the water-bag handy. Don't move till I comeback. "

"I won't move--I'll wait by the road, " he said. 

I took the packhorse, which was the freshest and best, threw thepack-saddle and bags into a bush, left the other horse to take care ofitself, and started for the shanty, leaving the old man with his back tothe tree, his arms folded, and his eyes on the horizon. 

One of the chaps at the shanty rode on for the doctor at once, while theother came back with me in a spring-cart. He told me that old Howlett'swife had died in child-birth the first year on the selection--"she was afine girl he'd heered!" He told me the story as the old man had told it, and in pretty well the same words, even to giving it as his opinion thatit was no place for a woman. "And he 'hatted' and brooded over it tillhe went ratty. "

I knew the rest. He not only thought that his wife, or the ghost of hiswife, had been with him all those years, but that the child had livedand grown up, and that the wife did the housework; which, of course, hemust have done himself. 

When we reached him his knotted hands had fallen for the last time, andthey were at rest. I only took one quick look at his face, but couldhave sworn that he was gazing at the blue fin of the range on thehorizon of the bush. 

Up at the hut the table was set as on the first day I saw it, andbreakfast in the camp-oven by the fire. 

Mitchell's Jobs

"I'm going to knock off work and try to make some money, " said Mitchell, as he jerked the tea-leaves out of his pannikin and reached for thebilly. "It's been the great mistake of my life--if I hadn't wasted allmy time and energy working and looking for work I might have been anindependent man to-day. "

"Joe!" he added in a louder voice, condescendingly adapting his languageto my bushed comprehension. "I'm going to sling graft and try and getsome stuff together. "

I didn't feel in a responsive humour, but I lit up and settled backcomfortably against the tree, and Jack folded his arms on his knees andpresently continued, reflectively:

"I remember the first time I went to work. I was a youngster then. Mother used to go round looking for jobs for me. She reckoned, perhaps, that I was too shy to go in where there was a boy wanted and barrack formyself properly, and she used to help me and see me through to the bestof her ability. I'm afraid I didn't always feel as grateful to her as Ishould have felt. I was a thankless kid at the best of times--most kidsare--but otherwise I was a straight enough little chap as nippers go. Sometimes I almost wish I hadn't been. My relations would have thoughta good deal more of me and treated me better--and, besides, it's acomfort, at times, to sit and watch the sun going down in the bed of thebush, and think of your wicked childhood and wasted life, and the wayyou treated your parents and broke their hearts, and feel just properlyrepentant and bitter and remorseful and low-spirited about it when it'stoo late. 

"Ah, well!. .. I generally did feel a bit backward in going in when Icame to the door of an office or shop where there was a 'Strong Lad', ora 'Willing Youth', wanted inside to make himself generally useful. Iwas a strong lad and a willing youth enough, in some things, for thatmatter; but I didn't like to see it written up on a card in a shopwindow, and I didn't want to make myself generally useful in a closeshop in a hot dusty street on mornings when the weather was fine and thegreat sunny rollers were coming in grand on the Bondi Beach and down atCoogee, and I could swim. .. . I'd give something to be down along therenow. "

Mitchell looked away out over the sultry sandy plain that we were totackle next day, and sighed. 

"The first job I got was in a jam factory. They only had 'Boy Wanted' onthe card in the window, and I thought it would suit me. They set me towork to peel peaches, and, as soon as the foreman's back was turned, I picked out a likely-looking peach and tried it. They soaked thosepeaches in salt or acid or something--it was part of the process--andI had to spit it out. Then I got an orange from a boy who was slicingthem, but it was bitter, and I couldn't eat it. I saw that I'd been hadproperly. I was in a fix, and had to get out of it the best way I could. I'd left my coat down in the front shop, and the foreman and boss werethere, so I had to work in that place for two mortal hours. It was aboutthe longest two hours I'd ever spent in my life. At last the foremancame up, and I told him I wanted to go down to the back for a minute. Islipped down, watched my chance till the boss' back was turned, got mycoat, and cleared. 

"The next job I got was in a mat factory; at least, Aunt got that forme. I didn't want to have anything to do with mats or carpets. The worstof it was the boss didn't seem to want me to go, and I had a job to gethim to sack me, and when he did he saw some of my people and took meback again next week. He sacked me finally the next Saturday. 

"I got the next job myself. I didn't hurry; I took my time and pickedout a good one. It was in a lolly factory. I thought it would suitme--and it did, for a while. They put me on stirring up and mixing stuffin the jujube department; but I got so sick of the smell of it and sofull of jujube and other lollies that I soon wanted a change; so I hada row with the chief of the jujube department and the boss gave me thesack. 

"I got a job in a grocery then. I thought I'd have more variety there. But one day the boss was away, sick or something, all the afternoon, andI sold a lot of things too cheap. I didn't know. When a customer came inand asked for something I'd just look round in the window till I sawa card with the price written up on it, and sell the best qualityaccording to that price; and once or twice I made a mistake the otherway about and lost a couple of good customers. It was a hot, drowsyafternoon, and by-and-bye I began to feel dull and sleepy. So I lookedround the corner and saw a Chinaman coming. I got a big tin gardensyringe and filled it full of brine from the butter keg, and, when hecame opposite the door, I let him have the full force of it in the ear. 

"That Chinaman put down his baskets and came for me. I was strong for myage, and thought I could fight, but he gave me a proper mauling. 

"It was like running up against a thrashing machine, and it wouldn'thave been well for me if the boss of the shop next door hadn'tinterfered. He told my boss, and my boss gave me the sack at once. 

"I took a spell of eighteen months or so after that, and was growingup happy and contented when a married sister of mine must needs cometo live in town and interfere. I didn't like married sisters, though Ialways got on grand with my brothers-in-law, and wished there were moreof them. The married sister comes round and cleans up the place andpulls your things about and finds your pipe and tobacco and things, andcigarette portraits, and "Deadwood Dicks", that you've got put away allright, so's your mother and aunt wouldn't find them in a generation ofcats, and says:

"'Mother, why don't you make that boy go to work. It's a scandalousshame to see a big boy like that growing up idle. He's going to the badbefore your eyes. ' And she's always trying to make out that you're aliar, and trying to make mother believe it, too. My married sister gotme a job with a chemist, whose missus she knew. 

"I got on pretty well there, and by-and-bye I was put upstairs in thegrinding and mixing department; but, after a while, they put anotherboy that I was chummy with up there with me, and that was a mistake. I didn't think so at the time, but I can see it now. We got up to allsorts of tricks. We'd get mixing together chemicals that weren't relatedto see how they'd agree, and we nearly blew up the shop several times, and set it on fire once. But all the chaps liked us, and fixed things upfor us. One day we got a big black dog--that we meant to take home thatevening--and sneaked him upstairs and put him on a flat roof outside thelaboratory. He had a touch of the mange and didn't look well, so we gavehim a dose of something; and he scrambled over the parapet and slippeddown a steep iron roof in front, and fell on a respected townsman thatknew my people. We were awfully frightened, and didn't say anything. Nobody saw it but us. The dog had the presence of mind to leave at once, and the respected townsman was picked up and taken home in a cab; andhe got it hot from his wife, too, I believe, for being in that drunken, beastly state in the main street in the middle of the day. 

"I don't think he was ever quite sure that he hadn't been drunk orwhat had happened, for he had had one or two that morning; so it didn'tmatter much. Only we lost the dog. 

"One day I went downstairs to the packing-room and saw a lot ofphosphorus in jars of water. I wanted to fix up a ghost for Billy, mymate, so I nicked a bit and slipped it into my trouser pocket. 

"I stood under the tap and let it pour on me. The phosphorus burnt cleanthrough my pocket and fell on the ground. I was sent home that nightwith my leg dressed with lime-water and oil, and a pair of the boss'spants on that were about half a yard too long for me, and I feltmiserable enough, too. They said it would stop my tricks for a while, and so it did. I'll carry the mark to my dying day--and for two or threedays after, for that matter. "

 . . . . . 

I fell asleep at this point, and left Mitchell's cattle pup to hear itout. 

Bill, the Ventriloquial Rooster

"When we were up country on the selection, we had a rooster at ourplace, named Bill, " said Mitchell; "a big mongrel of no particularbreed, though the old lady said he was a 'brammer'--and many an argumentshe had with the old man about it too; she was just as stubborn andobstinate in her opinion as the governor was in his. But, anyway, wecalled him Bill, and didn't take any particular notice of him till acousin of some of us came from Sydney on a visit to the country, andstayed at our place because it was cheaper than stopping at a pub. Well, somehow this chap got interested in Bill, and studied him for two orthree days, and at last he says:

"'Why, that rooster's a ventriloquist!'

"'A what?'

"'A ventriloquist!'

"'Go along with yer!'

"'But he is. I've heard of cases like this before; but this is the firstI've come across. Bill's a ventriloquist right enough. '

"Then we remembered that there wasn't another rooster within fivemiles--our only neighbour, an Irishman named Page, didn't have one atthe time--and we'd often heard another cock crow, but didn't thinkto take any notice of it. We watched Bill, and sure enough he WASa ventriloquist. The 'ka-cocka' would come all right, but the'co-ka-koo-oi-oo' seemed to come from a distance. And sometimes thewhole crow would go wrong, and come back like an echo that had been lostfor a year. Bill would stand on tiptoe, and hold his elbows out, andcurve his neck, and go two or three times as if he was swallowingnest-eggs, and nearly break his neck and burst his gizzard; and thenthere'd be no sound at all where he was--only a cock crowing in thedistance. 

"And pretty soon we could see that Bill was in great trouble about ithimself. You see, he didn't know it was himself--thought it was anotherrooster challenging him, and he wanted badly to find that other bird. He would get up on the wood-heap, and crow and listen--crow and listenagain--crow and listen, and then he'd go up to the top of the paddock, and get up on the stack, and crow and listen there. Then down to theother end of the paddock, and get up on a mullock-heap, and crow andlisten there. Then across to the other side and up on a log among thesaplings, and crow 'n' listen some more. He searched all over the placefor that other rooster, but, of course, couldn't find him. Sometimeshe'd be out all day crowing and listening all over the country, and thencome home dead tired, and rest and cool off in a hole that the hens hadscratched for him in a damp place under the water-cask sledge. 

"Well, one day Page brought home a big white rooster, and when he letit go it climbed up on Page's stack and crowed, to see if there was anymore roosters round there. Bill had come home tired; it was a hot day, and he'd rooted out the hens, and was having a spell-oh under the caskwhen the white rooster crowed. Bill didn't lose any time getting out andon to the wood-heap, and then he waited till he heard the crow again;then he crowed, and the other rooster crowed again, and they crowed ateach other for three days, and called each other all the wretches theycould lay their tongues to, and after that they implored each otherto come out and be made into chicken soup and feather pillows. Butneither'd come. You see, there were THREE crows--there was Bill's crow, and the ventriloquist crow, and the white rooster's crow--and eachrooster thought that there was TWO roosters in the opposition camp, andthat he mightn't get fair play, and, consequently, both were afraid toput up their hands. 

"But at last Bill couldn't stand it any longer. He made up his mind togo and have it out, even if there was a whole agricultural show of prizeand honourable-mention fighting-cocks in Page's yard. He got down fromthe wood-heap and started off across the ploughed field, his head down, his elbows out, and his thick awkward legs prodding away at the furrowsbehind for all they were worth. 

"I wanted to go down badly and see the fight, and barrack for Bill. ButI daren't, because I'd been coming up the road late the night beforewith my brother Joe, and there was about three panels of turkeysroosting along on the top rail of Page's front fence; and we brushed 'emwith a bough, and they got up such a blessed gobbling fuss about it thatPage came out in his shirt and saw us running away; and I knew he waslaying for us with a bullock whip. Besides, there was friction betweenthe two families on account of a thoroughbred bull that Page borrowedand wouldn't lend to us, and that got into our paddock on account of memending a panel in the party fence, and carelessly leaving the toprail down after sundown while our cows was moving round there in thesaplings. 

"So there was too much friction for me to go down, but I climbed a treeas near the fence as I could and watched. Bill reckoned he'd found thatrooster at last. The white rooster wouldn't come down from the stack, so Bill went up to him, and they fought there till they tumbled down theother side, and I couldn't see any more. Wasn't I wild? I'd have givenmy dog to have seen the rest of the fight. I went down to the far sideof Page's fence and climbed a tree there, but, of course, I couldn'tsee anything, so I came home the back way. Just as I got home Page cameround to the front and sung out, 'Insoid there!' And me and Jim wentunder the house like snakes and looked out round a pile. But Page wasall right--he had a broad grin on his face, and Bill safe under his arm. He put Bill down on the ground very carefully, and says he to the oldfolks:

"'Yer rooster knocked the stuffin' out of my rooster, but I bear nomalice. 'Twas a grand foight. '

"And then the old man and Page had a yarn, and got pretty friendly afterthat. And Bill didn't seem to bother about any more ventriloquism; butthe white rooster spent a lot of time looking for that other rooster. Perhaps he thought he'd have better luck with him. But Page was on thelook-out all the time to get a rooster that would lick ours. He didnothing else for a month but ride round and enquire about roosters; andat last he borrowed a game-bird in town, left five pounds deposit onhim, and brought him home. And Page and the old man agreed to have amatch--about the only thing they'd agreed about for five years. And theyfixed it up for a Sunday when the old lady and the girls and kids weregoing on a visit to some relations, about fifteen miles away--to stopall night. The guv'nor made me go with them on horseback; but I knewwhat was up, and so my pony went lame about a mile along the road, andI had to come back and turn him out in the top paddock, and hide thesaddle and bridle in a hollow log, and sneak home and climb up on theroof of the shed. It was a awful hot day, and I had to keep climbingbackward and forward over the ridge-pole all the morning to keep out ofsight of the old man, for he was moving about a good deal. 

"Well, after dinner, the fellows from roundabout began to ride in andhang up their horses round the place till it looked as if there wasgoing to be a funeral. Some of the chaps saw me, of course, but I tippedthem the wink, and they gave me the office whenever the old man happenedaround. 

"Well, Page came along with his game-rooster. Its name was Jim. Itwasn't much to look at, and it seemed a good deal smaller and weakerthan Bill. Some of the chaps were disgusted, and said it wasn't agame-rooster at all; Bill'd settle it in one lick, and they wouldn'thave any fun. 

"Well, they brought the game one out and put him down near thewood-heap, and rousted Bill out from under his cask. He got interestedat once. He looked at Jim, and got up on the wood-heap and crowed andlooked at Jim again. He reckoned THIS at last was the fowl that had beenhumbugging him all along. Presently his trouble caught him, and thenhe'd crow and take a squint at the game 'un, and crow again, andhave another squint at gamey, and try to crow and keep his eye on thegame-rooster at the same time. But Jim never committed himself, untilat last he happened to gape just after Bill's whole crow went wrong, andBill spotted him. He reckoned he'd caught him this time, and he got downoff that wood-heap and went for the foe. But Jim ran away--and Bill ranafter him. 

"Round and round the wood-heap they went, and round the shed, and roundthe house and under it, and back again, and round the wood-heap and overit and round the other way, and kept it up for close on an hour. Bill'sbill was just within an inch or so of the game-rooster's tail feathersmost of the time, but he couldn't get any nearer, do how he liked. Andall the time the fellers kept chyackin Page and singing out, 'What priceyer game 'un, Page! Go it, Bill! Go it, old cock!' and all that sort ofthing. Well, the game-rooster went as if it was a go-as-you-please, andhe didn't care if it lasted a year. He didn't seem to take any interestin the business, but Bill got excited, and by-and-by he got mad. He heldhis head lower and lower and his wings further and further out from hissides, and prodded away harder and harder at the ground behind, but itwasn't any use. Jim seemed to keep ahead without trying. They stuckto the wood-heap towards the last. They went round first one way for awhile, and then the other for a change, and now and then they'd go overthe top to break the monotony; and the chaps got more interested in therace than they would have been in the fight--and bet on it, too. ButBill was handicapped with his weight. He was done up at last; he sloweddown till he couldn't waddle, and then, when he was thoroughly knockedup, that game-rooster turned on him, and gave him the father of ahiding. 

"And my father caught me when I'd got down in the excitement, and wasn'tthinking, and HE gave ME the step-father of a hiding. But he had alively time with the old lady afterwards, over the cock-fight. 

"Bill was so disgusted with himself that he went under the cask anddied. "

Bush Cats

"Domestic cats" we mean--the descendants of cats who came from thenorthern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know thename of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came outto Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of theFirst Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage--two lots, perhaps--the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt thedisembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety. 

 . . . . . 

The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical pointof view--not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a crossbetween a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to developthe common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy catsof Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs gum-treesinstead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under theobservation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She ismostly thinner than the English farm cat--which is, they say, on accountof eating lizards. 

English rats and English mice--we say "English" because everything whichisn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)--English rats andEnglish mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hutcat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things whichare unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortionswhich have not been classified yet--and perhaps could not be. 

The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, andthen go Out Back with a few bush cats. 

The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragginga long, wriggling, horrid, black snake--she seems to prefer blacksnakes--into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down ina conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking upfor approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such ahurry to leave. 

Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially ifshe has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of herprogeny--well, it is bad for that particular serpent. 

This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in thescrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name--the cat'sname--was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within aninch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her bodyand squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mindto keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that ifshe wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go homefor help. So she started home, snake and all. 

The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although shestood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. Shecouldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-byeone of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with ashriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. Theeldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second would havekilled more cat than snake; but his father interfered. The father wasa shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair ofshears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and oneside of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. Shekept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped the rest of thesnake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown. Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out andlicked herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which shewent out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and draggedit home the same evening. 

Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose catused to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbitsfor breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap themwith a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicateshis sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and politicalopinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until hefound some rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He wouldshepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it wasa duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day heprospected a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more goingdown underneath. The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had noluck. The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found that hecould not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company. He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares, and they watched the holes together, or in turns--they worked shifts. The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, foreach cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week. 

A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits werebeginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itselfyet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden--andthey protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing toeat, and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to theturnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag therabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until thefarmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then the catswould turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits andwatchful cats round the door in the morning. They sold the product oftheir labour direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cathad been unlucky--had not got a rabbit--each had an equal share in thegeneral result. They were true socialists, those cats. 

One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death onrabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging themhome. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times everyother night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned hehad done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and gothree miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her outfor a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose aplace where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier thanusual, so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-byehe heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two bigears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it wasan extra big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. Inabout five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if catsthink) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneerhare--not an ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lankythings which the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by anunusual commotion and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came alongwith his gun in time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag thehare, and then the hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be downtogether, and then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally hegot his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to dragthe corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend ahand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much tothe family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he tooka spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed itdown with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for agoodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the harewas lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again, and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired. 

Meeting Old Mates

 I. 

 Tom Smith

You are getting well on in the thirties, and haven't left off being afool yet. You have been away in another colony or country for a year orso, and have now come back again. Most of your chums have gone away orgot married, or, worse still, signed the pledge--settled down and gotsteady; and you feel lonely and desolate and left-behind enough foranything. While drifting aimlessly round town with an eye out for somechance acquaintance to have a knock round with, you run against an oldchum whom you never dreamt of meeting, or whom you thought to be in someother part of the country--or perhaps you knock up against someone whoknows the old chum in question, and he says:

"I suppose you know Tom Smith's in Sydney?"

"Tom Smith! Why, I thought he was in Queensland! I haven't seen him formore than three years. Where's the old joker hanging out at all? Why, except you, there's no one in Australia I'd sooner see than Tom Smith. Here I've been mooning round like an unemployed for three weeks, lookingfor someone to have a knock round with, and Tom in Sydney all the time. I wish I'd known before. Where'll I run against him--where does helive?"

"Oh, he's living at home. "

"But where's his home? I was never there. "

"Oh, I'll give you his address. .. . There, I think that's it. I'm notsure about the number, but you'll soon find out in that street--most of'em'll know Tom Smith. "

"Thanks! I rather think they will. I'm glad I met you. I'll hunt Tom upto-day. "

So you put a few shillings in your pocket, tell your landlady thatyou're going to visit an old aunt of yours or a sick friend, and mayn'tbe home that night; and then you start out to hunt up Tom Smith and haveat least one more good night, if you die for it. 

 . . . . . 

This is the first time you have seen Tom at home; you knew of his homeand people in the old days, but only in a vague, indefinite sort of way. Tom has changed! He is stouter and older-looking; he seems solemn andsettled down. You intended to give him a surprise and have a good oldjolly laugh with him, but somehow things get suddenly damped at thebeginning. He grins and grips your hand right enough, but there seemssomething wanting. You can't help staring at him, and he seems to lookat you in a strange, disappointing way; it doesn't strike you that youalso have changed, and perhaps more in his eyes than he in yours. Heintroduces you to his mother and sisters and brothers, and the rest ofthe family; or to his wife, as the case may be; and you have to suppressyour feelings and be polite and talk common-place. You hate to be politeand talk common-place. You aren't built that way--and Tom wasn't either, in the old days. The wife (or the mother and sisters) receives youkindly, for Tom's sake, and makes much of you; but they don't know youyet. You want to get Tom outside, and have a yarn and a drink and alaugh with him--you are bursting to tell him all about yourself, and gethim to tell you all about himself, and ask him if he remembers things;and you wonder if he is bursting the same way, and hope he is. The oldlady and sisters (or the wife) bore you pretty soon, and you wonderif they bore Tom; you almost fancy, from his looks, that they do. Youwonder whether Tom is coming out to-night, whether he wants to get out, and if he wants to and wants to get out by himself, whether he'll beable to manage it; but you daren't broach the subject, it wouldn't bepolite. You've got to be polite. Then you get worried by the thoughtthat Tom is bursting to get out with you and only wants an excuse; iswaiting, in fact, and hoping for you to ask him in an off-hand sort ofway to come out for a stroll. But you're not quite sure; and besides, ifyou were, you wouldn't have the courage. By-and-bye you get tired ofit all, thirsty, and want to get out in the open air. You get tired ofsaying, "Do you really, Mrs. Smith?" or "Do you think so, Miss Smith?"or "You were quite right, Mrs. Smith, " and "Well, I think so too, Mrs. Smith, " or, to the brother, "That's just what I thought, Mr. Smith. "You don't want to "talk pretty" to them, and listen to their wishy-washynonsense; you want to get out and have a roaring spree with Tom, as youhad in the old days; you want to make another night of it with yourold mate, Tom Smith; and pretty soon you get the blues badly, and feelnearly smothered in there, and you've got to get out and have a beeranyway--Tom or no Tom; and you begin to feel wild with Tom himself; andat last you make a bold dash for it and chance Tom. You get up, lookat your hat, and say: "Ah, well, I must be going, Tom; I've got to meetsomeone down the street at seven o'clock. Where'll I meet you in townnext week?"

But Tom says:

"Oh, dash it; you ain't going yet. Stay to tea, Joe, stay to tea. It'llbe on the table in a minute. Sit down--sit down, man! Here, gimme yourhat. "

And Tom's sister, or wife, or mother comes in with an apron on and herhands all over flour, and says:

"Oh, you're not going yet, Mr. Brown? Tea'll be ready in a minute. Dostay for tea. " And if you make excuses, she cross-examines you about thetime you've got to keep that appointment down the street, and tells youthat their clock is twenty minutes fast, and that you have got plenty oftime, and so you have to give in. But you are mightily encouraged bya winksome expression which you see, or fancy you see, on your side ofTom's face; also by the fact of his having accidentally knocked his footagainst your shins. So you stay. 

One of the females tells you to "Sit there, Mr. Brown, " and you takeyour place at the table, and the polite business goes on. You've got tohold your knife and fork properly, and mind your p's and q's, and whenshe says, "Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Brown?" you've got to say, "Yes, please, Miss Smith--thanks--that's plenty. " And when they pressyou, as they will, to have more, you've got to keep on saying, "No, thanks, Mrs. Smith; no, thanks, Miss Smith; I really couldn't; I've donevery well, thank you; I had a very late dinner, and so on"--bother suchtommy-rot. And you don't seem to have any appetite, anyway. And youthink of the days out on the track when you and Tom sat on yourswags under a mulga at mid-day, and ate mutton and johnny-cake withclasp-knives, and drank by turns out of the old, battered, leaky billy. 

And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes arewasted, and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on thefidget to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you knowsome girls. 

And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential, and seizes anopportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is now thathe never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society (or theY. M. C. A. ), and never stays out of nights. 

Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier thatyou wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again by a glimpse ofTom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit; but when youare ready to go, and ask him if he's coming a bit down the streetwith you, he says he thinks he will in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone, that he makes you mad. 

At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown, whenever you'repassing, " and to "don't forget to call, " and thanking them for theirassurance that they'll "be always glad to see you, " and telling themthat you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself, and areawfully sorry you couldn't stay--you get away with Tom. 

You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner anddown the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation is mostlycommon-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on all thistime, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?" and so on. 

But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind to chancethe alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink, hethrows a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder, says "Comeon, " and disappears sideways into a pub. 

 . . . . . 

"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me. " "Well, here's luck, old man. " "Here's luck. " You take a drink, and look overyour glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face, and itmakes you glad--you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years. Thensomething tickles him--your expression, perhaps, or a recollection ofthe past--and he sets down his glass on the bar and laughs. Then youlaugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile that old mates favour eachother with over the tops of their glasses when they meet again afteryears. It is eloquent, because of the memories that give it birth. 

"Here's another. Do you remember----? Do you remember----?" Oh, it allcomes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit; just the samegood-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again! "It'sjust like old times, " says Tom, after three or four more drinks. 

 . . . . . 

And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly. You get as"glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter, and have abetter "time" than any of the times you had in the old days. And you seeTom as nearly home in the morning as you dare, and he reckons he'll getit hot from his people--which no doubt he will--and he explains thatthey are very particular up at home--church people, you know--and, ofcourse, especially if he's married, it's understood between you thatyou'd better not call for him up at home after this--at least, not tillthings have cooled down a bit. It's always the way. The friend of thehusband always gets the blame in cases like this. But Tom fixes up ayarn to tell them, and you aren't to "say anything different" in caseyou run against any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you fornext Saturday night, and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he MIGHT have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girlssomewhere; and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and becareful, and wait--at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which isarranged--for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won'tbe able to get off at all. 

And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" have comeback once more. 

 . . . . . 

But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance to fall inlove with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be another anda totally different story to tell. 

 II. 

 Jack Ellis

Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the track", so tospeak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city. Well, while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days--VERYother days--call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack. Heknows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting; he acts asthough he thinks you might cut him--which, of course, if you are a truemate, you have not the slightest intention of doing. His coat is yellowand frayed, his hat is battered and green, his trousers "gone" invarious places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots burst and innocentof polish. You try not to notice these things--or rather, not to seemto notice them--but you cannot help doing so, and you are afraid he'llnotice that you see these things, and put a wrong construction on it. How men will misunderstand each other! You greet him with more than thenecessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety to set him at his ease and makehim believe that nothing--not even money--can make a difference in yourfriendship, you over-act the business; and presently you are afraid thathe'll notice that too, and put a wrong construction on it. You wish thatyour collar was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known youwould meet him, you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion. 

You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed--you arealmost afraid to look at him lest he'll think you are looking at hisshabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink, but he doesn't respondso heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days; he doesn't likedrinking with anybody when he isn't "fixed", as he calls it--when hecan't shout. 

It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there wasplenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck toyou through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now, buthe is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride. There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp inthose days; but times have changed--your lives have drifted too widelyapart--you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, withoutintending to, makes you feel that it is so. 

You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat, as far as Jackis concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel on", and presentlyhe escapes under plea of an engagement, and promises to see you again. 

And you wish that the time was come when no one could have more or lessto spend than another. 

 . . . . . 

P. S. --I met an old mate of that description once, and so successfullypersuaded him out of his beastly pride that he borrowed two pounds offme till Monday. I never got it back since, and I want it badly atthe present time. In future I'll leave old mates with their prideunimpaired. 

Two Larrikins

"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care. Y'orter to do something. "

Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post, andscowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room openinginto Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing--a thin, sallow girlwith weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy as her surroundings. 

"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?"

She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny, unfinishedarticles of clothing, and bent to her work. 

"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie, " she said, quietly. "Where am I to get the money from?"

"Who asked yer to get it?"

She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman who hasdetermined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments that maybe brought against it. 

"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, impatiently. 

She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?"

"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily--he had half suspected what wascoming. Then, with an impatient oath, "You must be gettin' ratty. "

She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes. 

"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him, and keep himclean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different from all theother youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty, sickly little bratsout there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would. I'll lookafter him night and day, and bring him up well and strong. We'd trainhis little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able to knock 'emall out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much, and I'd work hard and becareful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him, too, Ernie--I knowyou would. "

Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was"touched", or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent. 

"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, presently. 

Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well--wot o' that?"

"You came into the bar-parlour at the 'Cricketers' Arms' and caught apush of 'em chyacking your old man. "

"Well, I altered that. "

"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another, and twowas bigger than you. "

"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest, " said Stowsher, softening at the recollection. 

"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your oldmother like a dog----"

"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" hereflected. "Only, " he added, "the old woman might have had the knockerto keep away from the lush while I was in quod. .. . But wot's all thisgot to do with it?"

"HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie, " she said softly, "when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you. "

The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher; not that hefelt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated to be drawn intoa conversation that might be considered "soft". 

"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat, and I'll takeyer for a trot. "

She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that it was notgood policy to betray eagerness in response to an invitation from Ernie. 

"But--you know--I don't like to go out like this. You can't--youwouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!"

"Why not? Wot rot!"

"The fellows would see me, and--and----"

"And. .. Wot?"

"They might notice----"

"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't?Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day. "

They walked towards Flagstaff Hill. 

One or two, slouching round a pub. Corner, saluted with "Wotcher, Stowsher!"

"Not too stinkin', " replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads. "

"Stowsher's goin' to stick, " said one privately. 

"An' so he orter, " said another. "Wish I had the chanst. "

The two turned up a steep lane. 

"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know. "

"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?"

She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct, afterthe manner of women when they have gained their point by words. 

Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. "Gorblime!" hesaid, "I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!"

When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half aquid. Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in themornin', and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night. "

Still she seemed troubled and uneasy. 

"Ernie. "

"Well. Wot now?"

"S'posin' it's a girl, Ernie. "

Stowsher flung himself round impatiently. 

"Oh, for God's sake, stow that! Yer always singin' out before yerhurt. .. . There's somethin' else, ain't there--while the bloomin' shop'sopen?"

"No, Ernie. Ain't you going to kiss me?. .. I'm satisfied. "

"Satisfied! Yer don't want the kid to be arst 'oo 'is father was, doyer? Yer'd better come along with me some day this week and git spliced. Yer don't want to go frettin' or any of that funny business while it'son. "

"Oh, Ernie! do you really mean it?"--and she threw her arms round hisneck, and broke down at last. 

 . . . . . 

"So-long, Liz. No more funny business now--I've had enough of it. Keepyer pecker up, old girl. To-morrer night, mind. " Then he added suddenly:"Yer might have known I ain't that sort of a bloke"--and left abruptly. 

Liz was very happy. 

Mr. Smellingscheck

I met him in a sixpenny restaurant--"All meals, 6d. --Good beds, 1s. "That was before sixpenny restaurants rose to a third-class position, and became possibly respectable places to live in, through theestablishment, beneath them, of fourpenny hash-houses (good beds, 6d. ), and, beneath THEM again, of THREE-penny "dining-rooms--CLEAN beds, 4d. "

There were five beds in our apartment, the head of one against the footof the next, and so on round the room, with a space where the door andwashstand were. I chose the bed the head of which was near the foot ofhis, because he looked like a man who took his bath regularly. Ishould like, in the interests of sentiment, to describe the place as amiserable, filthy, evil-smelling garret; but I can't--because it wasn't. The room was large and airy; the floor was scrubbed and the windowscleaned at least once a week, and the beds kept fresh and neat, whichis more--a good deal more--than can be said of many genteel privateboarding-houses. The lodgers were mostly respectable unemployed, andone or two--fortunate men!--in work; it was the casual boozer, the professional loafer, and the occasional spieler--theone-shilling-bed-men--who made the place objectionable, not thehard-working people who paid ten pounds a week for the house; and, butfor the one-night lodgers and the big gilt black-and-red bordered and"shaded" "6d. " in the window--which made me glance guiltily up and downthe street, like a burglar about to do a job, before I went in--I waspretty comfortable there. 

They called him "Mr. Smellingscheck", and treated him with a peculiarkind of deference, the reason for which they themselves were doubtlessunable to explain or even understand. The haggard woman who made thebeds called him "Mr. Smell-'is-check". Poor fellow! I didn't think, bythe look of him, that he'd smelt his cheque, or anyone else's, or thatanyone else had smelt his, for many a long day. He was a fat man, slowand placid. He looked like a typical monopolist who had unaccountablygot into a suit of clothes belonging to a Domain unemployed, and hadn'tnoticed, or had entirely forgotten, the circumstance in his businesscares--if such a word as care could be connected with such a calm, self-contained nature. He wore a suit of cheap slops of some kind ofshoddy "tweed". The coat was too small and the trousers too short, andthey were drawn up to meet the waistcoat--which they did with painfuldifficulty, now and then showing, by way of protest, two pairs of brassbuttons and the ends of the brace-straps; and they seemed to blame theirresponsive waistcoat or the wearer for it all. Yet he never gave wayto assist them. A pair of burst elastic-sides were in full evidence, anda rim of cloudy sock, with a hole in it, showed at every step. 

But he put on his clothes and wore them like--like a gentleman. He hadtwo white shirts, and they were both dirty. He'd lay them out onthe bed, turn them over, regard them thoughtfully, choose that whichappeared to his calm understanding to be the cleaner, and put it on, andwear it until it was unmistakably dirtier than the other; then he'dwear the other till it was dirtier than the first. He managed his threecollars the same way. His handkerchiefs were washed in the bathroom, anddried, without the slightest disguise, in the bedroom. He never hurriedin anything. The way he cleaned his teeth, shaved, and made his toiletalmost transformed the place, in my imagination, into a gentleman'sdressing-room. 

He talked politics and such things in the abstract--always in theabstract--calmly in the abstract. He was an old-fashioned Conservativeof the Sir Leicester Deadlock style. When he was moved by an extrashower of aggressive democratic cant--which was seldom--he defendedCapital, but only as if it needed no defence, and as if its opponentswere merely thoughtless, ignorant children whom he condescended to setright because of their inexperience and for their own good. He stuckcalmly to his own order--the order which had dropped him like a foulthing when the bottom dropped out of his boom, whatever that was. Henever talked of his misfortunes. 

He took his meals at the little greasy table in the dark cornerdownstairs, just as if he were dining at the Exchange. He had achop--rather well-done--and a sheet of the 'Herald' for breakfast. Hecarried two handkerchiefs; he used one for a handkerchief and the otherfor a table-napkin, and sometimes folded it absently and laid it on thetable. He rose slowly, putting his chair back, took down his batteredold green hat, and regarded it thoughtfully--as though it had justoccurred to him in a calm, casual way that he'd drop into his hatter's, if he had time, on his way down town, and get it blocked, or else sendthe messenger round with it during business hours. He'd draw his stickout from behind the next chair, plant it, and, if you hadn't quitefinished your side of the conversation, stand politely waiting until youwere done. Then he'd look for a suitable reply into his hat, put iton, give it a twitch to settle it on his head--as gentlemen do a"chimney-pot"--step out into the gangway, turn his face to the door, andwalk slowly out on to the middle of the pavement--looking more placidlywell-to-do than ever. The saying is that clothes make a man, but HEmade his almost respectable just by wearing them. Then he'd consult hiswatch--(he stuck to the watch all through, and it seemed a good one--Ioften wondered why he didn't pawn it); then he'd turn slowly, rightturn, and look down the street. Then slowly back, left-about turn, andtake a cool survey in that direction, as if calmly undecided whether totake a cab and drive to the Exchange, or (as it was a very fine morning, and he had half an hour to spare) walk there and drop in at his clubon the way. He'd conclude to walk. I never saw him go anywhere inparticular, but he walked and stood as if he could. 

Coming quietly into the room one day, I surprised him sitting at thetable with his arms lying on it and his face resting on them. I heardsomething like a sob. He rose hastily, and gathered up some papers whichwere on the table; then he turned round, rubbing his forehead andeyes with his forefinger and thumb, and told me that he sufferedfrom--something, I forget the name of it, but it was a well-to-doailment. His manner seemed a bit jolted and hurried for a minute or so, and then he was himself again. He told me he was leaving for Melbournenext day. He left while I was out, and left an envelope downstairs forme. There was nothing in it except a pound note. 

I saw him in Brisbane afterwards, well-dressed, getting out of a cab atthe entrance of one of the leading hotels. But his manner was no moreself-contained and well-to-do than it had been in the old sixpennydays--because it couldn't be. We had a well-to-do whisky together, andhe talked of things in the abstract. He seemed just as if he'd met me inthe Australia. 

"A Rough Shed"

A hot, breathless, blinding sunrise--the sun having appeared suddenlyabove the ragged edge of the barren scrub like a great disc of moltensteel. No hint of a morning breeze before it, no sign on earth or sky toshow that it is morning--save the position of the sun. 

A clearing in the scrub--bare as though the surface of the earth wereploughed and harrowed, and dusty as the road. Two oblong huts--one forthe shearers and one for the rouseabouts--in about the centre of theclearing (as if even the mongrel scrub had shrunk away from them) builtend-to-end, of weatherboards, and roofed with galvanised iron. Littleventilation; no verandah; no attempt to create, artificially, a breathof air through the buildings. Unpainted, sordid--hideous. Outside, heapsof ashes still hot and smoking. Close at hand, "butcher's shop"--a bushand bag breakwind in the dust, under a couple of sheets of iron, withoffal, grease and clotted blood blackening the surface of theground about it. Greasy, stinking sheepskins hanging everywhere withblood-blotched sides out. Grease inches deep in great black patchesabout the fireplace ends of the huts, where wash-up and "boiling" wateris thrown. 

Inside, a rough table on supports driven into the black, greasy groundfloor, and formed of flooring boards, running on uneven lines the lengthof the hut from within about 6ft. Of the fire-place. Lengths of singlesix-inch boards or slabs on each side, supported by the projecting endsof short pieces of timber nailed across the legs of the table to serveas seats. 

On each side of the hut runs a rough framework, like the partitions in astable; each compartment battened off to about the size of a manger, andcontaining four bunks, one above the other, on each side--their ends, of course, to the table. Scarcely breathing space anywhere between. Fireplace, the full width of the hut in one end, where all the cookingand baking for forty or fifty men is done, and where flour, sugar, etc. , are kept in open bags. Fire, like a very furnace. Buckets of tea andcoffee on roasting beds of coals and ashes on the hearth. Pile of"brownie" on the bare black boards at the end of the table. Unspeakablearoma of forty or fifty men who have little inclination and lessopportunity to wash their skins, and who soak some of the grease outof their clothes--in buckets of hot water--on Saturday afternoons orSundays. And clinging to all, and over all, the smell of the dried, stale yolk of wool--the stink of rams!

 . . . . . 

"I am a rouseabout of the rouseabouts. I have fallen so far that itis beneath me to try to climb to the proud position of 'ringer' of theshed. I had that ambition once, when I was the softest of green hands;but then I thought I could work out my salvation and go home. I've gotused to hell since then. I only get twenty-five shillings a week (lessstation store charges) and tucker here. I have been seven years west ofthe Darling and never shore a sheep. Why don't I learn to shear, andso make money? What should I do with more money? Get out of this and gohome? I would never go home unless I had enough money to keep me forthe rest of my life, and I'll never make that Out Back. Otherwise, whatshould I do at home? And how should I account for the seven years, ifI were to go home? Could I describe shed life to them and explain howI lived. They think shearing only takes a few days of the year--at thebeginning of summer. They'd want to know how I lived the rest of theyear. Could I explain that I 'jabbed trotters' and was a 'tea-and-sugarburglar' between sheds. They'd think I'd been a tramp and a beggar allthe time. Could I explain ANYTHING so that they'd understand? I'd haveto be lying all the time and would soon be tripped up and found out. For, whatever else I have been I was never much of a liar. No, I'llnever go home. 

"I become momentarily conscious about daylight. The flies on the trackgot me into that habit, I think; they start at day-break--when themosquitoes give over. 

"The cook rings a bullock bell. 

"The cook is fire-proof. He is as a fiend from the nethermost sheoland needs to be. No man sees him sleep, for he makes bread--or worse, brownie--at night, and he rings a bullock bell loudly at half-pastfive in the morning to rouse us from our animal torpors. Others, thesheep-ho's or the engine-drivers at the shed or wool-wash, call him, ifhe does sleep. They manage it in shifts, somehow, and sleep somewhere, sometime. We haven't time to know. The cook rings the bullock bell andyells the time. It was the same time five minutes ago--or a year ago. No time to decide which. I dash water over my head and face and slaphandfuls on my eyelids--gummed over aching eyes--still blighted by theyolk o' wool--grey, greasy-feeling water from a cut-down kerosenetin which I sneaked from the cook and hid under my bunk and had theforesight to refill from the cask last night, under cover of warm, still, suffocating darkness. Or was it the night before last? Anyhow, itwill be sneaked from me to-day, and from the crawler who will collar itto-morrow, and 'touched' and 'lifted' and 'collared' and recovered bythe cook, and sneaked back again, and cause foul language, and fights, maybe, till we 'cut-out'. 

"No; we didn't have sweet dreams of home and mother, gentle poet--noryet of babbling brooks and sweethearts, and love's young dream. We aretoo dirty and dog-tired when we tumble down, and have too little time tosleep it off. We don't want to dream those dreams out here--they'd onlybe nightmares for us, and we'd wake to remember. We MUSTN'T rememberhere. 

"At the edge of the timber a great galvanised-iron shed, nearly allroof, coming down to within 6ft. 6in. Of the 'board' over the 'shoots'. Cloud of red dust in the dead timber behind, going up--noon-day dust. Fence covered with skins; carcases being burned; blue smoke goingstraight up as in noonday. Great glossy (greasy-glossy) black crows'flopping' around. 

"The first syren has gone. We hurry in single files from opposite endsof rouseabouts' and shearers' huts (as the paths happen to run to theshed) gulping hot tea or coffee from a pint-pot in one hand and bitingat a junk of brownie in the other. 

"Shed of forty hands. Shearers rush the pens and yank out sheep andthrow them like demons; grip them with their knees, take up machines, jerk the strings; and with a rattling whirring roar the greatmachine-shed starts for the day. 

"'Go it, you----tigers!' yells a tar-boy. 'Wool away!' 'Tar!' 'SheepHo!' We rush through with a whirring roar till breakfast time. 

"We seize our tin plate from the pile, knife and fork from thecandle-box, and crowd round the camp-oven to jab out lean chops, dry aschips, boiled in fat. Chops or curry-and-rice. There is some growlingand cursing. We slip into our places without removing our hats. There'sno time to hunt for mislaid hats when the whistle goes. Row of hatbrims, level, drawn over eyes, or thrust back--according to charactersor temperaments. Thrust back denotes a lucky absence of brains, I fancy. Row of forks going up, or jabbing, or poised, loaded, waiting for lastmouthful to be bolted. 

"We pick up, sweep, tar, sew wounds, catch sheep that break from thepens, jump down and pick up those that can't rise at the bottom ofthe shoots, 'bring-my-combs-from-the-grinder-will-yer, ' laugh at dirtyjokes, and swear--and, in short, are the 'will-yer' slaves, body andsoul, of seven, six, five, or four shearers, according to the distancefrom the rolling tables. 

"The shearer on the board at the shed is a demon. He gets so much ahundred; we, 25s. A week. He is not supposed, by the rules of the shed, the Union, and humanity, to take a sheep out of the pen AFTER the bellgoes (smoke-ho, meals, or knock-off), but his watch is hanging on thepost, and he times himself to get so many sheep out of the pen BEFOREthe bell goes, and ONE MORE--the 'bell-sheep'--as it is ringing. We haveto take the last fleece to the table and leave our board clean. We gothrough the day of eight hours in runs of about an hour and 20 minutesbetween smoke-ho's--from 6 to 6. If the shearers shore 200 instead of100, they'd get 2 Pounds a day instead of 1 Pound, and we'd have twiceas much work to do for our 25s. Per week. But the shearers are racingeach other for tallies. And it's no use kicking. There is no God hereand no Unionism (though we all have tickets). But what am I growlingabout? I've worked from 6 to 6 with no smoke-ho's for half the wages, and food we wouldn't give the sheep-ho dog. It's the bush growl, born ofheat, flies, and dust. I'd growl now if I had a thousand a year. We MUSTgrowl, swear, and some of us drink to d. T. 's, or go mad sober. 

"Pants and shirts stiff with grease as though a couple of pounds of softblack putty were spread on with a painter's knife. 

"No, gentle bard!--we don't sing at our work. Over the whirr and roarand hum all day long, and with iteration that is childish and irritatingto the intelligent greenhand, float unthinkable adjectives and adverbs, addressed to jumbucks, jackaroos, and mates indiscriminately. And worsewords for the boss over the board--behind his back. 

"I came of a Good Christian Family--perhaps that's why I went to theDevil. When I came out here I'd shrink from the man who used foullanguage. In a short time I used it with the worst. I couldn't help it. 

"That's the way of it. If I went back to a woman's country again Iwouldn't swear. I'd forget this as I would a nightmare. That's theway of it. There's something of the larrikin about us. We don't existindividually. Off the board, away from the shed (and each other) we arequiet--even gentle. 

"A great-horned ram, in poor condition, but shorn of a heavy fleece, picks himself up at the foot of the 'shoot', and hesitates, as ifashamed to go down to the other end where the ewes are. The mostridiculous object under Heaven. 

"A tar-boy of fifteen, of the bush, with a mouth so vile thata street-boy, same age (up with a shearing uncle), kicks himbehind--having proved his superiority with his fists before the shedstarted. Of which unspeakable little fiend the roughest shearer of arough shed was heard to say, in effect, that if he thought there wasthe slightest possibility of his becoming the father of such a boyhe'd----take drastic measures to prevent the possibility of his becominga proud parent at all. 

"Twice a day the cooks and their familiars carry buckets ofoatmeal-water and tea to the shed, two each on a yoke. We cry, 'Whereare you coming to, my pretty maids?'

"In ten minutes the surfaces of the buckets are black with flies. Wehave given over trying to keep them clear. We stir the living creamaside with the bottoms of the pints, and guzzle gallons, and sweat itout again. Occasionally a shearer pauses and throws the perspirationfrom his forehead in a rain. 

"Shearers live in such a greedy rush of excitement that often a strongman will, at a prick of the shears, fall in a death-like faint on theboard. 

"We hate the Boss-of-the-Board as the shearers' 'slushy' hates theshearers' cook. I don't know why. He's a very fair boss. 

"He refused to put on a traveller yesterday, and the traveller knockedhim down. He walked into the shed this morning with his hat back andthumbs in waistcoat--a tribute to man's weakness. He threatened todismiss the traveller's mate, a bigger man, for rough shearing--atribute to man's strength. The shearer said nothing. We hate the bossbecause he IS boss, but we respect him because he is a strong man. He isas hard up as any of us, I hear, and has a sick wife and a large, smallfamily in Melbourne. God judge us all!

"There is a gambling-school here, headed by the shearers' cook. Aftertea they head-'em, and advance cheques are passed from hand to hand, andthrown in the dust until they are black. When it's too dark to see withnose to the ground, they go inside and gamble with cards. Sometimesthey start on Saturday afternoon, heading 'em till dark, play cards allnight, start again heading 'em Sunday afternoon, play cards all Sundaynight, and sleep themselves sane on Monday, or go to work ghastly--likedead men. 

"Cry of 'Fight'; we all rush out. But there isn't much fighting. Afraidof murdering each other. I'm beginning to think that most bush crime isdue to irritation born of dust, heat, and flies. 

"The smothering atmosphere shudders when the sun goes down. We call itthe sunset breeze. 

"Saturday night or Sunday we're invited into the shearers' hut. Thereare songs that are not hymns and recitations and speeches that are notprayers. 

"Last Sunday night: Slush lamps at long intervals on table. Men playingcards, sewing on patches--(nearly all smoking)--some writing, andthe rest reading Deadwood Dick. At one end of the table a ChristianEndeavourer endeavouring; at the other a cockney Jew, from the hawker'sboat, trying to sell rotten clothes. In response to complaints, directand not chosen generally for Sunday, the shearers' rep. Requests bothapostles to shut up or leave. 

"He couldn't be expected to take the Christian and leave the Jew, anymore than he could take the Jew and leave the Christian. We are justamongst ourselves in our hell. 

 . . . . . 

"Fiddle at the end of rouseabouts' hut. Voice of Jackeroo, from upperbunk with apologetic oaths: 'For God's sake chuck that up; it makes aman think of blanky old things!'

"A lost soul laughs (mine) and dreadful night smothers us. "

Payable Gold

Among the crowds who left the Victorian side for New South Wales aboutthe time Gulgong broke out was an old Ballarat digger named PeterMcKenzie. He had married and retired from the mining some yearspreviously and had made a home for himself and family at the village ofSt. Kilda, near Melbourne; but, as was often the case with old diggers, the gold fever never left him, and when the fields of New South Walesbegan to blaze he mortgaged his little property in order to raise fundsfor another campaign, leaving sufficient behind him to keep his wife andfamily in comfort for a year or so. 

As he often remarked, his position was now very different from what ithad been in the old days when he first arrived from Scotland, in theheight of the excitement following on the great discovery. He was ayoung man then with only himself to look out for, but now that he wasgetting old and had a family to provide for he had staked too much onthis venture to lose. His position did certainly look like a forlornhope, but he never seemed to think so. 

Peter must have been very lonely and low-spirited at times. A youngor unmarried man can form new ties, and even make new sweethearts ifnecessary, but Peter's heart was with his wife and little ones at home, and they were mortgaged, as it were, to Dame Fortune. Peter had to liftthis mortgage off. 

Nevertheless he was always cheerful, even at the worst of times, andhis straight grey beard and scrubby brown hair encircled a smile whichappeared to be a fixture. He had to make an effort in order to lookgrave, such as some men do when they want to force a smile. 

It was rumoured that Peter had made a vow never to return home untilhe could take sufficient wealth to make his all-important familycomfortable, or, at least, to raise the mortgage from the property, forthe sacrifice of which to his mad gold fever he never forgave himself. But this was one of the few things which Peter kept to himself. 

The fact that he had a wife and children at St. Kilda was well known toall the diggers. They had to know it, and if they did not know the age, complexion, history and peculiarities of every child and of the "oldwoman" it was not Peter's fault. 

He would cross over to our place and talk to the mother for hours abouthis wife and children. And nothing pleased him better than to discoverpeculiarities in us children wherein we resembled his own. It pleased usalso for mercenary reasons. "It's just the same with my old woman, "or "It's just the same with my youngsters, " Peter would exclaimboisterously, for he looked upon any little similarity between the twofamilies as a remarkable coincidence. He liked us all, and was alwaysvery kind to us, often standing between our backs and the rod thatspoils the child--that is, I mean, if it isn't used. I was veryshort-tempered, but this failing was more than condoned by the fact thatPeter's "eldest" was given that way also. Mother's second son was verygood-natured; so was Peter's third. Her "third" had a great aversionfor any duty that threatened to increase his muscles; so had Peter's"second". Our baby was very fat and heavy and was given to sucking herown thumb vigorously, and, according to the latest bulletins from home, it was just the same with Peter's "last". 

I think we knew more about Peter's family than we did about our own. Although we had never seen them, we were as familiar with their featuresas the photographer's art could make us, and always knew their domestichistory up to the date of the last mail. 

We became interested in the McKenzie family. Instead of getting bored bythem as some people were, we were always as much pleased when Peter gota letter from home as he was himself, and if a mail were missed, whichseldom happened--we almost shared his disappointment and anxiety. Shouldone of the youngsters be ill, we would be quite uneasy, on Peter'saccount, until the arrival of a later bulletin removed his anxiety, andours. 

It must have been the glorious power of a big true heart that gained forPeter the goodwill and sympathy of all who knew him. 

Peter's smile had a peculiar fascination for us children. We wouldstand by his pointing forge when he'd be sharpening picks in the earlymorning, and watch his face for five minutes at a time, wonderingsometimes whether he was always SMILING INSIDE, or whether the smilewent on externally irrespective of any variation in Peter's condition ofmind. 

I think it was the latter case, for often when he had received bad newsfrom home we have heard his voice quaver with anxiety, while the oldsmile played on his round, brown features just the same. 

Little Nelse (one of those queer old-man children who seem to come intothe world by mistake, and who seldom stay long) used to say that Peter"cried inside". 

Once, on Gulgong, when he attended the funeral of an old Ballaratmate, a stranger who had been watching his face curiously remarked thatMcKenzie seemed as pleased as though the dead digger had bequeathed hima fortune. But the stranger had soon reason to alter his opinion, forwhen another old mate began in a tremulous voice to repeat the words"Ashes to ashes, an' dust to dust, " two big tears suddenly burst fromPeter's eyes, and hurried down to get entrapped in his beard. 

Peter's goldmining ventures were not successful. He sank three duffersin succession on Gulgong, and the fourth shaft, after paying expenses, left a little over a hundred to each party, and Peter had to send thebulk of his share home. He lived in a tent (or in a hut when he couldget one) after the manner of diggers, and he "did for himself", even towashing his own clothes. He never drank nor "played", and he took littleenjoyment of any kind, yet there was not a digger on the field who woulddream of calling old Peter McKenzie "a mean man". He lived, as we knowfrom our own observations, in a most frugal manner. He always tried tohide this, and took care to have plenty of good things for us when heinvited us to his hut; but children's eyes are sharp. Some said thatPeter half-starved himself, but I don't think his family ever knew, unless he told them so afterwards. 

Ah, well! the years go over. Peter was now three years from home, and heand Fortune were enemies still. Letters came by the mail, full of littlehome troubles and prayers for Peter's return, and letters went back bythe mail, always hopeful, always cheerful. Peter never gave up. Wheneverything else failed he would work by the day (a sad thing for adigger), and he was even known to do a job of fencing until such timeas he could get a few pounds and a small party together to sink anothershaft. 

Talk about the heroic struggles of early explorers in a hostile country;but for dogged determination and courage in the face of poverty, illness, and distance, commend me to the old-time digger--the truestsoldier Hope ever had!

In the fourth year of his struggle Peter met with a terribledisappointment. His party put down a shaft called the Forlorn Hope nearHappy Valley, and after a few weeks' fruitless driving his mates jibbedon it. Peter had his own opinion about the ground--an old digger'sopinion, and he used every argument in his power to induce his mates toput a few days' more work in the claim. In vain he pointed out that thequality of the wash and the dip of the bottom exactly resembled that ofthe "Brown Snake", a rich Victorian claim. In vain he argued that in thecase of the abovementioned claim, not a colour could be got until thepayable gold was actually reached. Home Rule and The Canadian and thatcluster of fields were going ahead, and his party were eager to shift. They remained obstinate, and at last, half-convinced against hisopinion, Peter left with them to sink the "Iawatha", in Log Paddock, which turned out a rank duffer--not even paying its own expenses. 

A party of Italians entered the old claim and, after driving it a fewfeet further, made their fortune. 

 . . . . . 

We all noticed the change in Peter McKenzie when he came to "LogPaddock", whither we had shifted before him. The old smile stillflickered, but he had learned to "look" grave for an hour at a timewithout much effort. He was never quite the same after the affair ofForlorn Hope, and I often think how he must have "cried" sometimes"inside". 

However, he still read us letters from home, and came and smoked inthe evening by our kitchen-fire. He showed us some new portraits of hisfamily which he had received by a late mail, but something gave methe impression that the portraits made him uneasy. He had them in hispossession for nearly a week before showing them to us, and to the bestof our knowledge he never showed them to anybody else. Perhaps theyreminded him of the flight of time--perhaps he would have preferred hischildren to remain just as he left them until he returned. 

But stay! there was one portrait that seemed to give Peter infinitepleasure. It was the picture of a chubby infant of about three yearsor more. It was a fine-looking child taken in a sitting position ona cushion, and arrayed in a very short shirt. On its fat, soft, whiteface, which was only a few inches above the ten very podgy toes, was asmile something like Peter's. Peter was never tired of looking at andshowing the picture of his child--the child he had never seen. Perhapshe cherished a wild dream of making his fortune and returning homebefore THAT child grew up. 

 . . . . . 

McKenzie and party were sinking a shaft at the upper end of Log Paddock, generally called "The other end". We were at the lower end. 

One day Peter came down from "the other end" and told us that his partyexpected to "bottom" during the following week, and if they got noencouragement from the wash they intended to go prospecting at the"Happy Thought", near Specimen Flat. 

The shaft in Log Paddock was christened "Nil Desperandum". Towards theend of the week we heard that the wash in the "Nil" was showing goodcolours. 

Later came the news that "McKenzie and party" had bottomed on payablegold, and the red flag floated over the shaft. Long before the firstload of dirt reached the puddling machine on the creek, the news was allround the diggings. The "Nil Desperandum" was a "Golden Hole"!

 . . . . . 

We will not forget the day when Peter went home. He hurried down in themorning to have an hour or so with us before Cobb and Co. Went by. Hetold us all about his little cottage by the bay at St. Kilda. He hadnever spoken of it before, probably because of the mortgage. He told ushow it faced the bay--how many rooms it had, how much flower garden, andhow on a clear day he could see from the window all the ships that cameup to the Yarra, and how with a good telescope he could even distinguishthe faces of the passengers on the big ocean liners. 

And then, when the mother's back was turned, he hustled us childrenround the corner, and surreptitiously slipped a sovereign into eachof our dirty hands, making great pantomimic show for silence, for themother was very independent. 

And when we saw the last of Peter's face setting like a good-humouredsun on the top of Cobb and Co. 's, a great feeling of discontent andloneliness came over all our hearts. Little Nelse, who had been Peter'sfavourite, went round behind the pig-stye, where none might disturb him, and sat down on the projecting end of a trough to "have a cry", in hisusual methodical manner. But old "Alligator Desolation", the dog, hadsuspicions of what was up, and, hearing the sobs, went round to offerwhatever consolation appertained to a damp and dirty nose and a pair ofludicrously doleful yellow eyes. 

An Oversight of Steelman's

Steelman and Smith--professional wanderers--were making back forWellington, down through the wide and rather dreary-looking Hutt Valley. They were broke. They carried their few remaining belongings in twoskimpy, amateurish-looking swags. Steelman had fourpence left. They werevery tired and very thirsty--at least Steelman was, and he answered forboth. It was Smith's policy to feel and think just exactly as Steelmandid. Said Steelman:

"The landlord of the next pub. Is not a bad sort. I won't go in--hemight remember me. You'd best go in. You've been tramping round in theWairarapa district for the last six months, looking for work. You'regoing back to Wellington now, to try and get on the new corporationworks just being started there--the sewage works. You think you've got ashow. You've got some mates in Wellington, and they're looking out fora chance for you. You did get a job last week on a sawmill atSilverstream, and the boss sacked you after three days and wouldn't payyou a penny. That's just his way. I know him--at least a mate of minedoes. I've heard of him often enough. His name's Cowman. Don't forgetthe name, whatever you do. The landlord here hates him like poison;he'll sympathize with you. Tell him you've got a mate with you; he'sgone ahead--took a short cut across the paddocks. Tell him you've gotonly fourpence left, and see if he'll give you a drop in a bottle. Saysyou: 'Well, boss, the fact is we've only got fourpence, but you mightlet us have a drop in a bottle'; and very likely he'll stand you acouple of pints in a gin-bottle. You can fling the coppers on thecounter, but the chances are he won't take them. He's not a bad sort. Beer's fourpence a pint out here, same's in Wellington. See thatgin-bottle lying there by the stump; get it and we'll take it down tothe river with us and rinse it out. "

They reached the river bank. 

"You'd better take my swag--it looks more decent, " said Steelman. "No, I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll undo both swags and make them intoone--one decent swag, and I'll cut round through the lanes and wait foryou on the road ahead of the pub. "

He rolled up the swag with much care and deliberation and considerablejudgment. He fastened Smith's belt round one end of it, andthe handkerchiefs round the other, and made a towel serve as ashoulder-strap. 

"I wish we had a canvas bag to put it in, " he said, "or a cover of somesort. But never mind. The landlord's an old Australian bushman, nowI come to think of it; the swag looks Australian enough, and it mightappeal to his feelings, you know--bring up old recollections. But you'dbest not say you come from Australia, because he's been there, and he'dsoon trip you up. He might have been where you've been, you know, sodon't try to do too much. You always do mug-up the business when youtry to do more than I tell you. You might tell him your mate came fromAustralia--but no, he might want you to bring me in. Better stick toMaoriland. I don't believe in too much ornamentation. Plain lies are thebest. "

"What's the landlord's name?" asked Smith. 

"Never mind that. You don't want to know that. You are not supposed toknow him at all. It might look suspicious if you called him by his name, and lead to awkward questions; then you'd be sure to put your foot intoit. "

"I could say I read it over the door. "

"Bosh. Travellers don't read the names over the doors, when they go intopubs. You're an entire stranger to him. Call him 'Boss'. Say 'Good-day, Boss, ' when you go in, and swing down your swag as if you're used toit. Ease it down like this. Then straighten yourself up, stick your hatback, and wipe your forehead, and try to look as hearty and independentand cheerful as you possibly can. Curse the Government, and say thecountry's done. It don't matter what Government it is, for he's alwaysagainst it. I never knew a real Australian that wasn't. Say that you'rethinking about trying to get over to Australia, and then listen tohim talking about it--and try to look interested, too! Get that damnedstone-deaf expression off your face!. .. He'll run Australia down mostlikely (I never knew an Other-sider that had settled down over here whodidn't). But don't you make any mistake and agree with him, because, although successful Australians over here like to run their own countrydown, there's very few of them that care to hear anybody else do it. .. . Don't come away as soon as you get your beer. Stay and listen to him fora while, as if you're interested in his yarning, and give him time toput you on to a job, or offer you one. Give him a chance to ask how youand your mate are off for tobacco or tucker. Like as not he'll sling youhalf a crown when you come away--that is, if you work it all right. Now try to think of something to say to him, and make yourself a bitinteresting--if you possibly can. Tell him about the fight we saw backat the pub. The other day. He might know some of the chaps. This is asleepy hole, and there ain't much news knocking round. .. . I wish I couldgo in myself, but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left thelast time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides, Icame away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel a bit soreabout it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road. Come on now, wake up!"

"Bet I'll get a quart, " said Smith, brightening up, "and some tucker forit to wash down. "

"If you don't, " said Steelman, "I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle;fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub. With an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does. It looksmuch better to come out with a couple of full ones. That's what you'vegot to do. Now, come along. "

Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the roadagain, and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait. 

Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part ashe walked--repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be sure ofremembering all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, andadding, with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touchesof his own, which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman'sadvice and warning. "I'll tell him (this)--I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss, I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with youas far as that's concerned, but, " &c. And so, murmuring and mumblingto himself, Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar wassmall, and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance hecould muster, eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubtconsidered the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar, said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent, andhearty:

"Good-day, boss!"

But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old woman thatSmith had ever seen. The pub. Had changed hands. 

"I--I beg your pardon, missus, " stammered poor Smith. 

It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time. He andSteelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time, and laidtheir plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she--and one likethis--to deal with never entered into their calculations. Smith had notime to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so, without theassistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature. 

"I--I beg your pardon, missus, " he stammered. 

Painful pause. She sized him up. 

"Well, what do you want?"

"Well, missus--I--the fact is--will you give me a bottle of beer forfourpence?"

"Wha--what?"

"I mean----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left, and--I've got amate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so, in a bottle, forthat. I mean--anyway, you might let us have a pint. I'm very sorry tobother you, missus. "

But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not! All her drinkswere sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent, and a family tokeep. It wouldn't pay out there--it wasn't worth her while. It wouldn'tpay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c. , &c. 

"Well, missus, " poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation, "give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've--I've got a mateoutside. " And he put the four coppers on the bar. 

"Have you got a bottle?"

"No--but----"

"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me to giveyou a bottle as well as a drink. "

"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly. "

She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberatelymeasured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle, whichshe handed to Smith without a cork. 

Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly that heshould have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city, where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he toknow? He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same. What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say; healready heard him, in imagination, saying: "You're a mug, Smith--Smith, you ARE a mug. "

But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst by seeingSmith come along so soon. He listened to his story with an air of gentlesadness, even as a stern father might listen to the voluntary confessionof a wayward child; then he held the bottle up to the fading light ofdeparting day, looked through it (the bottle), and said:

"Well--it ain't worth while dividing it. "

Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his leftboot into the hard road. 

"Here, Smith, " said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink it, oldman; you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversightof mine. I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course, YOUcouldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith. I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out. "

Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from his surprise, drank. 

"I promised to take back the bottle, " he said, with the ghost of asmile. 

Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence. 

"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while. "

And they tramped on in the gathering starlight. 

How Steelman told his Story

It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into hisconfidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs. 

"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith--when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief. You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances arethat you don't know what I'm driving at half the time--that's the mainreason why I don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourselfhonoured; it ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far. "

Smith rubbed his head. 

"I'd sooner talk to you--or a stump--any day than to one of thosesilent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen toeverything you say--sense and rubbish alike--as if you were trying toget them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me allthe time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to betrusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there'stoo little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and nostone--though I'd manage it once, anyhow. "

"How'd you do it?" asked Smith. 

"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and finda grindstone--or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way istoo slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work--besides, it doesn'tpay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I hadonce, when I was younger, but it--well, it nearly killed me, so Idropped it. 

"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'llmake a safe mate--or a good grindstone. "

Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, withthe puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or thetrimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smiththoughtfully. 

"I--I say, Steely, " exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and scratchinghis head and blinking harder than ever--"wha--what am I?"

"How do you mean?"

"Am I the axe or the grindstone?"

"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well, you turn the grindstone and I grind. " Smith settled. "If you couldgrind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never goagainst the interests of the firm--that's fair enough, isn't it?"

"Ye-es, " admitted Smith; "I suppose so. "

"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, offand on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing, for instance--and so might you. "

Smith began to look alarmed. 

"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us--such things havehappened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death mightmistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, andcut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble, and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; orI might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get meout--though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise andcut you, or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear outafter I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you amug, and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know. You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) andthen I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me)for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become a respected andworthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of meor hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, orsoliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fixyou--so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into some desperatefix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) when I'd be obliged tosacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen. 

"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I'vefound you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part--as wewill sooner or later--and you survive, I'll give you some advice from myown experience. 

"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again--and itwouldn't do you much harm--get born with the strength of a bullock andthe hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains--at leastno more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin liketissue-paper, and brains; also a heart. 

"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear outon your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hungon. 

"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time whenyou're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like youmight take it into his head to do)--don't do it. They'll get a down onyou if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There'sno dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitudenor civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character. (You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have. )There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, themug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by hisown tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account. Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends. 

"If you ever go to work--and miracles have happened before--no matterwhat your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for grantedthat you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or you'llnever rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll befound a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chancesare the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle forstanding room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world;anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try tobe too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be toohonest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house--if youhave one--and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The honestsofty is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too muchis set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow lowand roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what mighthappen. 

"And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste)be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife willlove you. If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and ifyou're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Neverexplain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if youcan help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard foryour own self, Smith--strike hard, and you'll be respected more than ifyou fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, andwhat the people don't understand is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure hasno case, and you can't build one for it. .. . I started out in life veryyoung--and very soft. "

 . . . . . 

"I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely, " remarkedSmith. 

Steelman smiled sadly. 

[End of original text. ]

About the author:

Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimedwriter, in his own lifetime his writing was often "on the side"--his"real" work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequentlytaken from memories of his childhood, especially at Pipeclay/Eurunderee. In his autobiography, he states that many of his characters weretaken from the better class of diggers and bushmen he knew there. His experiences at this time deeply influenced his work, for it isinteresting to note a number of descriptions and phrases that areidentical in his autobiography and in his stories and poems. He died atSydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories. 

"On the Track" and "Over the Sliprails" were both published at Sydneyin 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively--and so, though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the sameyear (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in onebinding); hence they are sometimes referred to as "On the Track and Overthe Sliprails". 

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An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may provehelpful to understanding this book:

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

 Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. 

 Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with patriotism. 

 Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to "squaw" in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage. 

 Graft: Work; hard work. 

 Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, wurley, or mia-mia. 

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

 Jumbuck: A sheep. 

 Larrikin: A hoodlum. 

 Lollies: Candy, sweets. 

 'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They are not especially related to the possums of North and South America, other than 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. 

 Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent city hoodlums. 

 Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even slightly mad. 

 Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by lease or license from the government. 

 Shout: To buy a round of drinks. 

 Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence, which can be taken down in lieu of a gate. 

 Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store, especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor. 

 Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. 

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

 Stoush: Violence; to do violence to. 

 Tea: In addition to the regular meaning, Tea can also mean a light snack or a meal (i. E. , where Tea is served). In particular, Morning Tea (about 10 AM) and Afternoon Tea (about 3 PM) are nothing more than a snack, but Evening Tea (about 6 PM) is a meal. When just "Tea" is used, it usually means the evening meal. Variant: Tea- time. 

 Tucker: Food. 

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

(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998. )