Chapter 7

About Byrock we met the bush liar in all his glory. He was dressed like--like a bush larrikin. His name was Jim. He had been to a ball where some blank had “touched” his blanky overcoat. The overcoat had a cheque for ten “quid” in the pocket. He didn't seem to feel the loss much. “Wot's ten quid?” He'd been everywhere, including the Gulf country. He still had three or four sheds to go to. He had telegrams in his pocket from half a dozen squatters and supers offering him pens on any terms. He didn't give a blank whether he took them or no. He thought at first he had the telegrams on him but found that he had left them in the pocket of the overcoat aforesaid. He had learned butchering in a day. He was a bit of a scrapper himself and talked a lot about the ring. At the last station where he shore he gave the super the father of a hiding. The super was a big chap, about six-foot-three, and had knocked out Paddy Somebody in one round. He worked with a man who shore four hundred sheep in nine hours.

Here a quiet-looking bushman in a corner of the carriage grew restless, and presently he opened his mouth and took the liar down in about three minutes.

At 5.30 we saw a long line of camels moving out across the sunset. There's something snaky about camels. They remind me of turtles and goannas.

Somebody said, “Here's Bourke.”

HE'D COME BACK

The yarn was all lies, I suppose; but it wasn't bad. A city bushman told it, of course, and he told it in the travellers' hut.

“As true's God hears me I never meant to desert her in cold blood,” he said. “We'd only been married about two years, and we'd got along grand together; but times was hard, and I had to jump at the first chance of a job, and leave her with her people, an' go up-country.”

He paused and fumbled with his pipe until all ears were brought to bear on him.

“She was a beauty, and no mistake; she was far too good for me--I often wondered how she came to have a chap like me.”

He paused again, and the others thought over it--and wondered too, perhaps.

The joker opened his lips to speak, but altered his mind about it.

“Well, I travelled up into Queensland, and worked back into Victoria 'n' South Australia, an' I wrote home pretty reg'lar and sent what money I could. Last I got down on to the south-western coast of South Australia--an' there I got mixed up with another woman--you know what that means, boys?”

Sympathetic silence.

“Well, this went on for two years, and then the other woman drove me to drink. You know what a woman can do when the devil's in her?”

Sound between a sigh and a groan from Lally Thompson. “My oath,” he said, sadly.

“You should have made it _three_ years, Jack,” interposed the joker; “you said two years before.” But he was suppressed.

“Well, I got free of them both, at last--drink and the woman, I mean; but it took another--it took a couple of years to pull myself straight--”

Here the joker opened his mouth again, but was warmly requested to shut it.

“Then, chaps, I got thinking. My conscience began to hurt me, and--and hurt worse every day. It nearly drove me to drink again. Ah, boys, a man--if he is a man--can't expect to wrong a woman and escape scot-free in the end.” (Sigh from Lally Thompson.) “It's the one thing that always comes home to a man, sooner or later--you know what that means, boys.”

Lally Thompson: “My oath!”

The joker: “Dry up yer crimson oath! What do you know about women?”

Cries of “Order!”

“Well,” continued the story-teller, “I got thinking. I heard that my wife had broken her heart when I left her, and that made matters worse. I began to feel very bad about it. I felt mean. I felt disgusted with myself. I pictured my poor, ill-treated, little wife and children in misery and poverty, and my conscience wouldn't let me rest night or day”--(Lally Thompson seemed greatly moved)--“so at last I made up my mind to be a man, and make--what's the word?”

“Reparation,” suggested the joker.

“Yes, so I slaved like a nigger for a year or so, got a few pounds together and went to find my wife. I found out that she was living in a cottage in Burwood, Sydney, and struggling through the winter on what she'd saved from the money her father left her.

“I got a shave and dressed up quiet and decent. I was older-looking and more subdued like, and I'd got pretty grey in those few years that I'd been making a fool of myself; and, some how, I felt rather glad about it, because I reckoned she'd notice it first thing--she was always quick at noticing things--and forgive me all the quicker. Well, I waylaid the school kids that evening, and found out mine--a little boy and a girl--and fine youngsters they were. The girl took after her mother, and the youngster was the dead spit o' me. I gave 'em half a crows each and told them to tell their mother that someone would come when the sun went down.”

Bogan Bill nodded approvingly.

“So at sundown I went and knocked at the door. It opened and there stood my little wife looking prettier than ever--only careworn.”

Long, impressive pause.

“Well, Jack, what did she do?” asked Bogan.

“She didn't do nothing.”

“Well, Jack, and what did she say?”

Jack sighed and straightened himself up: “She said--she said--'Well, so you've come back.'”

“Painful silence.

“Well, Jack, and what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Well, and so you had!” said Tom Moonlight.

“It wasn't that, Tom,” said Jack sadly and wearily--“_It was the way she said it_!”

Lally Thompson rubbed his eyes: “And what did you do, Jack?” he asked gently.

“I stayed for a year, and then I deserted her again--but meant it that time.”

“Ah, well! It's time to turn in.”

ANOTHER OF MITCHELL'S PLANS FOR THE FUTURE

“I'll get down among the cockies along the Lachlan, or some of these rivers,” said Mitchell, throwing down his swag beneath a big tree. “A man stands a better show down there. It's a mistake to come out back. I knocked around a good deal down there among the farms. Could always get plenty of tucker, and a job if I wanted it. One cocky I worked for wanted me to stay with him for good. Sorry I didn't. I'd have been better off now. I was treated more like one of the family, and there was a couple of good-looking daughters. One of them was clean gone on me. There are some grand girls down that way. I always got on well with the girls, because I could play the fiddle and sing a bit. They'll be glad to see me when I get back there again, I know. I'll be all right--no more bother about tucker. I'll just let things slide as soon as I spot the house. I'll bet my boots the kettle will be boiling, and everything in the house will be on the table before I'm there twenty minutes. And the girls will be running to meet the old cocky when he comes riding home at night, and they'll let down the sliprails, and ask him to guess 'who's up at our place?' Yes, I'll find a job with some old cocky, with a good-looking daughter or two. I'll get on ploughing if I can; that's the sort of work I like; best graft about a farm.

“By and by the cocky'll have a few sheep he wants shorn, and one day he'll say to me, 'Jack, if you hear of a shearer knockin' round let me know--I've got a few sheep I want shore.'

“'How many have you got?' I'll say.

“'Oh, about fifteen hundred.'

“'And what d'you think of giving?'

“'Well, about twenty-five bob a hundred, but if a shearer sticks out for thirty, send him up to talk with me. I want to get 'em shore as soon as possible.'

“'It's all right,' I'll say, 'you needn't bother; I'll shear your sheep.'

“'Why,' he'll say, 'can _you_ shear?'

“'Shear? Of course I can! I shore before you were born.' It won't matter if he's twice as old as me.

“So I'll shear his sheep and make a few pounds, and he'll be glad and all the more eager to keep me on, so's to always have someone to shear his sheep. But by and by I'll get tired of stopping in the one place and want to be on the move, so I'll tell him I'm going to leave.

“'Why, what do you want to go for?' he'll say, surprised, 'ain't you satisfied?'

“'Oh, yes, I'm satisfied, but I want a change.'

“'Oh, don't go,' he'll say; 'stop and we'll call it twenty-five bob a week.'

“But I'll tell him I'm off--wouldn't stay for a hundred when I'd made up my mind; so, when he sees he can't persuade me he'll get a bit stiff and say:

“'Well, what about that there girl? Are you goin' to go away and leave her like that?'

“'Why, what d'yer mean?' I'll say. 'Leave her like what?' I won't pretend to know what he's driving at.

“'Oh!' he'll say, 'you know very well what I mean. The question is: _Are you going to marry the girl or not_?'

“I'll see that things are gettin' a little warm and that I'm in a corner, so I'll say:

“'Why, I never thought about it. This is pretty sudden and out of the common, isn't it? I don't mind marrying the girl if she'll have me. Why! I haven't asked her yet!'

“'Well, look here,' he'll say, 'if you agree to marry the girl--and I'll make you marry her, any road--I'll give you that there farm over there and a couple of hundred to start on.'

“So, I'll marry her and settle down and be a cocky myself and if you ever happen to be knocking round there hard up, you needn't go short of tucker a week or two; but don't come knocking round the house when I'm not at home.”

STEELMAN

Steelman was a hard case. If you were married, and settled down, and were so unfortunate as to have known Steelman in other days, he would, if in your neighbourhood and dead-beat, be sure to look you up. He would find you anywhere, no matter what precautions you might take. If he came to your house, he would stay to tea without invitation, and if he stayed to tea, he would ask you to “fix up a shake-down on the floor, old man,” and put him up for the night; and, if he stopped all night, he'd remain--well, until something better turned up.

There was no shaking off Steelman. He had a way about him which would often make it appear as if you had invited him to stay, and pressed him against his roving inclination, and were glad to have him round for company, while he remained only out of pure goodwill to you. He didn't like to offend an old friend by refusing his invitation.

Steelman knew his men.

The married victim generally had neither the courage nor the ability to turn him out. He was cheerfully blind and deaf to all hints, and if the exasperated missus said anything to him straight, he would look shocked, and reply, as likely as not:

“Why, my good woman, you must be mad! I'm your husband's guest!”

And if she wouldn't cook for him, he'd cook for himself. There was no choking him off. Few people care to call the police in a case like this; and besides, as before remarked, Steelman knew his men. The only way to escape from him was to move--but then, as likely as not, he'd help pack up and come along with his portmanteau right on top of the last load of furniture, and drive you and your wife to the verge of madness by the calm style in which he proceeded to superintend the hanging of your pictures.

Once he quartered himself like this on an old schoolmate of his, named Brown, who had got married and steady and settled down. Brown tried all ways to get rid of Steelman, but he couldn't do it. One day Brown said to Steelman:

“Look here, Steely, old man, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid we won't be able to accommodate you any longer--to make you comfortable, I mean. You see, a sister of the missus is coming down on a visit for a month or two, and we ain't got anywhere to put her, except in your room. I wish the missus's relations to blazes! I didn't marry the whole blessed family; but it seems I've got to keep them.”

Pause--very awkward and painful for poor Brown. Discouraging silence from Steelman. Brown rested his elbows on his knees, and, with a pathetic and appealing movement of his hand across his forehead, he continued desperately:

“I'm very sorry, you see, old man--you know I'd like you to stay--I want you to stay.... It isn't my fault--it's the missus's doings. I've done my best with her, but I can't help it. I've been more like a master in my own house--more comfortable--and I've been better treated since I've had you to back me up.... I'll feel mighty lonely, anyway, when ycu're gone.... But... you know... as soon as her sister goes... you know.... ”

Here poor Brown broke down--very sorry he had spoken at all; but Steely came to the rescue with a ray of light.

“What's the matter with the little room at the back?” he asked.

“Oh, we couldn't think of putting you there,” said Brown, with a last effort; “it's not fined up; you wouldn't be comfortable, and, besides, it's damp, and you'd catch your death of cold. It was never meant for anything but a wash-house. I'm sorry I didn't get another room built on to the house.”

“Bosh!” interrupted Steelman, cheerfully. “Catch a cold! Here I've been knocking about the country for the last five years--sleeping out in all weathers--and do you think a little damp is going to hurt me? Pooh! What do you take me for? Don't you bother your head about it any more, old man; I'll fix up the lumber-room for myself, all right; and all you've got to do is to let me know when the sister-in-law business is coming on, and I'll shift out of my room in time for the missus to get it ready for her. Here, have you got a bob on you? I'll go out and get some beer. A drop'll do you good.”

“Well, if you can make yourself comfortable, I'll be only too glad for you to stay,” said Brown, wearily.

“You'd better invite some woman you know to come on a visit, and pass her off as your sister,” said Brown to his wife, while Steelman was gone for the beer. “I've made a mess of it.”

Mrs Brown said, “I knew you would.”

Steelman knew his men.

But at last Brown reckoned that he could stand it no longer. The thought of it made him so wild that he couldn't work. He took a day off to get thoroughly worked up in, came home that night full to the chin of indignation and Dunedin beer, and tried to kick Steelman out. And Steelman gave him a hiding.

Next morning Steelman was sitting beside Brown's bed with a saucer of vinegar, some brown paper, a raw beef-steak, and a bottle of soda.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself now, Brown?” he said, sternly. “Ain't you jolly well ashamed of yourself to come home in the beastly state you did last night, and insult a guest in your house, to say nothing of an old friend--and perhaps the best friend you ever had, if you only knew it? Anybody else would have given you in charge and got you three months for the assault. You ought to have some consideration for your wife and children, and your own character--even if you haven't any for your old mate's feelings. Here, drink this, and let me fix you up a bit; the missus has got the breakfast waiting.”

DRIFTED BACK

The stranger walked into the corner grocery with the air of one who had come back after many years to see someone who would be glad to see him. He shed his swag and stood it by the wall with great deliberation; then he rested his elbow on the counter, stroked his beard, and grinned quizzically at the shopman, who smiled back presently in a puzzled way.

“Good afternoon,” said the grocer.

“Good afternoon.”

Pause.

“Nice day,” said the grocer.

Pause.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes; tell the old man there's a chap wants to speak to him for a minute.”

“Old man? What old man?”

“Hake, of course--old Ben Hake! Ain't he in?”

The grocer smiled.

“Hake ain't here now. I'm here.”

“How's that?”

“Why, he sold out to me ten years ago.”

“Well, I suppose I'll find him somewhere about town?”

“I don't think you will. He left Australia when he sold out. He's--he's dead now.”

“Dead! Old Ben Hake?”

“Yes. You knew him, then?”

The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his assurance. He turned his side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed out through the door along Sunset Track.

“You can give me half a pound of nailrod,” he said, in a quiet tone--“I s'pose young Hake is in town?”

“No; the whole family went away. I think there's one of the sons in business in Sydney now.”

“I s'pose the M'Lachlans are here yet?”

“No; they are not. The old people died about five years ago; the sons are in Queensland, I think; and both the girls are married and in Sydney.”

“Ah, well!... I see you've got the railway here now.”

“Oh, yes! Six years.”

“Times is changed a lot.”

“They are.”

“I s'pose--I s'pose you can tell me where I'll find old Jimmy Nowlett?”

“Jimmy Nowlett? Jimmy Nowlett? I never heard of the name. What was he?”

“Oh, he was a bullock-driver. Used to carry from the mountains before the railway was made.”

“Before my time, perhaps. There's no one of that name round here now.”

“Ah, well!... I don't suppose you knew the Duggans?”

“Yes, I did. The old man's dead, too, and the family's gone away--Lord knows where. They weren't much loss, to all accounts. The sons got into trouble, I b'lieve--went to the bad. They had a bad name here.”

“Did they? Well, they had good hearts--at least, old Malachi Duggan and the eldest son had.... You can give me a couple of pounds of sugar.”

“Right. I suppose it's a long time since you were here last?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. I don't s'pose I remind you of anyone you know around here?”

“N--no!” said the grocer with a smile. “I can't say you do.”

“Ah, well! I s'pose I'll find the Wilds still living in the same place?”

“The Wilds? Well, no. The old man is dead, too, and--”

“And--and where's Jim? He ain't dead?”

“No; he's married and settled down in Sydney.”

Long pause.

“Can you--” said the stranger, hesitatingly; “did you--I suppose you knew Mary--Mary Wild?”

“Mary?” said the grocer, smilingly. “That was my wife's maiden name. Would you like to see her?”

“No, no! She mightn't remember me!”

He reached hastily for his swag, and shouldered it.

“Well, I must be gettin' on.”

“I s'pose you'll camp here over Christmas?”

“No; there's nothing to stop here for--I'll push on. I did intend to have a Christmas here--in fact, I came a long way out of my road a-purpose.... I meant to have just one more Christmas with old Ben Hake an' the rest of the boys--but I didn't know as they'd moved on so far west. The old bush school is dyin' out.”

There was a smile in his eyes, but his bearded lips twitched a little.

“Things is changed. The old houses is pretty much the same, an' the old signs want touchin' up and paintin' jest as had as ever; an' there's that old palin' fence that me an' Ben Hake an' Jimmy Nowlett put up twenty year ago. I've tramped and travelled long ways since then. But things is changed--at least, people is.... Well, I must be goin'. There's nothing to keep me here. I'll push on and get into my track again. It's cooler travellin' in the night.”

“Yes, it's been pretty hot to-day.”

“Yes, it has. Well, s'long.”

“Good day. Merry Christmas!”

“Eh? What? Oh, yes! Same to you! S'long!”

“Good day!” He drifted out and away along Sunset Track.

REMAILED

There is an old custom prevalent in Australasia--and other parts, too, perhaps, for that matter--which, we think, deserves to be written up. It might not be an “honoured” custom from a newspaper manager's or proprietor's point of view, or from the point of view (if any) occupied by the shareholders on the subject; but, nevertheless, it is a time-honoured and a good old custom. Perhaps, for several reasons, it was more prevalent among diggers than with the comparatively settled bushmen of to-day--the poor, hopeless, wandering swaggy doesn't count in the matter, for he has neither the wherewithal nor the opportunity to honour the old custom; also his movements are too sadly uncertain to permit of his being honoured by it. We refer to the remailing of newspapers and journals from one mate to another.

Bill gets his paper and reads it through conscientiously from beginning to end by candle or slush-lamp as he lies on his back in the hut or tent with his pipe in his mouth; or, better still, on a Sunday afternoon as he reclines on the grass in the shade, in all the glory and comfort of a clean pair of moleskins and socks and a clean shirt. And when he has finished reading the paper--if it is not immediately bespoke--he turns it right side out, folds it, and puts it away where he'll know where to find it. The paper is generally bespoke in the following manner:

“Let's have a look at that paper after you, Bill, when yer done with it,” says Jack.

And Bill says:

“I just promised it to Bob. You can get it after him.”

And, when it is finally lent, Bill says:

“Don't forget to give that paper back to me when yer done with it. Don't let any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I won't set eyes on it again.”

But the other blanks get it in their turn after being referred to Bill. “You must ask Bill,” says Jack to the next blank, “I got it from him.” And when Bill gets his paper back finally--which is often only after much bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial--he severely and carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks it away up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillow where it will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim.

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothing about wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and in various ways, but the first result is often the best, and is finally adopted. The parcel looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weight upon it so that it won't fly open, and looks round for a piece of string to tie it with. Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimes at both ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the folds and ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it won't come undone--which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a piece of string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result to a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use thread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got the ink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he gets them, he writes the address with painful exactitude on the margin of the paper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment before he writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwards with an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, passive surprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothing else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to--

MR JAMES MITCHELL, c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq., Munnigrub Station--

and so on. “Mitchell” seems strange--Bill couldn't think of it for the moment--and so does “James.”

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northern Queensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to the post office after tea on mail night. He doesn't expect any letters, but there might be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him a newspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old mates.