THE return drive was made in slightly better time than the morning
journey, the English mail phaeton of the Messieurs Bowyer, with a pair
of exceptional trotters, taking the lead. The mounted contingent
followed at a more reasonable pace, as they had from time to time to put
“on a spurt” to come up with the drag, harness work, as is known to all
horsemen, keeping up a faster average pace than saddle. However,
everybody arrived safely at the Hall in excellent spirits, as might have
been gathered from the cheerful, not to say hilarious, tone which the
conversation had developed. Mr. Blount, in especial, whose ordinary
optimism had reasserted sway, told himself that (with one exception)
never had he enjoyed such a delicious experience of genuine country
life. There was no more time available than sufficed for a cup of
afternoon tea and the imperative duty of dressing for dinner. At this
important function the mistress of the house had exercised a wise
forecast, since, when the great table in the dining-room, duly laid,
flowered, and “decored with napery,” met the eyes of the visitors, it
was seen that at least double as many guests had been provided for as
had assembled at breakfast. “Dick!” said the host to Mr. Dereker, “Mrs.
Claremont says you are to take the vice-chair; you’ll have her on your
right and Miss Allan on your left—wisdom and beauty, you see—so you
can’t go wrong. Philip, my boy! you’re to take the right centre, with
Joe Bowyer and Miss Fotheringay on one side, Laura and Mr. Blount on the
other. Jack Fotheringay fronts you, with any young people he can get. I
daresay he’ll arrange that. You must forage for yourselves. Now I can’t
pretend to do anything more for you. I daresay you’ll shake down.”
So they did. There was much joking and pleasant innuendo as the
necessary shufflings were made, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives
having to be displaced and provided with neighbours not so closely
related. Nothing was lacking as far as the material part of the dinner
was concerned—a famous saddle of mutton, home-grown from a flock of
Southdowns kept in the park, descended from an early English
importation; a grand roast turkey, upon which the all-accomplished Mr.
Dereker operated with practised hand, as did the host upon the
Southdown, expatiating at intervals upon the superiority of the breed
for mutton purposes only. The red currant jelly was a product of the
estate, superintended in manufacture by one of the daughters of the
house; trout from the river, black duck from the lake, equal to his
canvas-back relative of the Southern States; a haunch, too, of red deer
venison, Tasmanian born and bred. For the rest, everything was well
cooked, well served, and excellent of its kind. Worthy of such viands
was the appetite of the guests, sharpened by the exercise and a day
spent chiefly in the open air, the keen, fresh, island atmosphere.
The host’s cellar, famous for age and quality in more than one colony,
aided the general cheerfulness. So that if any of the fortunate guests
at that memorable dinner had aught but praise for the food, the wines,
the company, or the conversation, they must have been exceptionally hard
to please. So thought Mr. Blount, who by and by joined the ladies,
feeling much satisfied with himself and all the surroundings. Not that
he had done more than justice to the host’s claret, madeira, and
super-excellent port. He was on all occasions a temperate person. But
there is no doubt that a few glasses of undeniably good wine, under
favourable conditions, such as the close of an admirable dinner, with a
dance of more than common interest to follow, may be considered to be an
aid to digestion, as well as an incentive to a cheerful outlook upon
life, which tends, physicians tell us, to longevity, with health of body
and mind.
It happened, fortunately, to be a moonlight night. The day had been one
of those of the early spring, which warm, even hot, in the afternoon,
presage, in the opinion of the weather-wise, an early summer, which
prediction is chiefly falsified. But while this short glimpse of
Paradise is granted to the sons of men, no phrase can more truly
describe it. Cloudless days, warmth, without oppressive heat, tempered
by the whispering ocean breeze, beseeching the permission of the wood
nymphs to invade their secret haunts, all flower, and leaf, and herb
life responsive to the thrilling charm—the witchery of the sea voices.
Such had been the day. That the drives and rides through the green
woodland, the hill parks, the meadow fields, had been absolutely perfect
all admitted. Now the evening air seemed to have gained an added
freshness. When the French windows of the ballroom were thrown open it
was predicted that many a couple would find the broad verandahs, or even
the dry and shaded garden paths, irresistibly enticing after the first
few dances.
Such, indeed, was the case. What with accidental and invited guests, the
number had been increased to nearly twenty couples, all young,
enthusiastic, fairly musical, and devoted to the dance.
The music, indeed, had been an anxiety to the hostess. The piano was a
fine instrument, luckily in perfect tune. Half the girls present could
play dance music effectively. But another instrument or two would be
_such_ an aid in support.
Then inquiry was made; Chester of Oaklands was a musical amateur, the
violin was his favourite instrument, he was so good-natured that he
could be counted upon. Then there was young Grant of Bendearg, who
played the cornet. So, messengers with polite notes were despatched on
horseback, and both gentlemen, being luckily found at home, were
secured. The band was complete. Mr. Blount, with proper precaution, had
secured the hand of Miss Laura Claremont at dinner, for two waltzes, a
polka, and the after-supper galop; among her sisters and the late
arrivals he had filled his card. These had been written out by volunteer
damsels during the after-dinner wait.
He had, therefore, no anxiety about his entertainment for the evening.
No time was lost after the conclusion of the dinner. The young ladies
from Cranstoun and Deepdene had, of course, brought the necessary
evening wear with them. Mr. Blount’s English war-paint had been stored
in Melbourne while he was learning something about gold-fields and
cattle-lifting, this last involuntarily. He was “accoutred proper,” and
as such, not troubled with anxiety about his personal appearance. The
Bowyers, of course, were resplendent in “the very latest” fashion; as to
canonicals, the other men were fairly up to the standard of British
evening toggery, and for the few who were not, allowances were made, as
is always the case in Australia. People can’t be expected to carry
portmanteaux about with them, especially on horseback, and as they were
among friends they got on quite as well in the matter of partners as the
others.
It certainly was a good dance. The music kept going nobly. The young
lady at the piano was replaced from time to time, but the male musicians
held on till supper time without a break. When that popular distraction
was announced half-an-hour’s interval for refreshments was declared,
after which a good-natured damsel stole in, and indulged the insatiable
juniors with a dreamy, interminable waltz. Then the two men recommenced
with the leading lady amateur, and a polka of irresistible swing and
abandonment soon filled the room.
Certainly a dance in the country in any part of Australia is an object
lesson as to the vigour and vitality of the race. All Australian girls
dance well—it would seem to be a natural gift. Chiefly slender, lissom,
yet vigorous in health, and sound in constitution, they dance on,
fleet-footed and tireless, as the fabled Nymphs and Oreads of ancient
Hellas. Hour after hour passed, still unwearied, unsated, were the
dancers, until the arrival of the soup suggested that the closure was
about to be applied. But the dawnlight was stealing over the summit of
the mountain range when the last galop had come to an end, and a few
couples were by way of cooling themselves in the verandah or the garden
paths. Here, and at this hour, Mr. Blount found himself alone with Laura
Claremont, who had indeed, in spite of faltering maiden remonstrance,
completed her fifth dance with him. He was not an unstable,
indiscriminate admirer, least of all a professional trifler with the
hearts of women, but he had been strongly attracted (perhaps interested
would be the more accurate word) by her quiet dignity, conjoined with
refinement and high intelligence.
She had read largely, and formed opinions on important questions with
greater thoroughness than is the habit of girls generally. Without being
a recognised beauty, she had a striking and distinguished appearance.
Her dark hair and eyes, the latter large and expressive, the delicate
complexion for which the women of Tasmania are noted, in combination
with a noble figure and graceful shape, would have given her a foremost
position by looks alone in any society. The expression of her features
was serious rather than gay, but when the humorous element was invoked a
ripple of genuine mirth spread over her countenance, the display of
which added to her modest, yet alluring array of charms.
Such was the woman with whom Blount had been thrown temporarily into
contact for the last few days, and this night had shown him more of her
inward thoughts and feelings, unveiled as they were by the accidents of
the dance and the driving party, than he had ever dreamed of. Returning
to the ballroom, the final adieus were made, and as he pressed her
yielding hand he felt (or was it fancy?) an answering clasp.
On the following day he had arranged to leave for Hobart, as he expected
to deal with propositions lately submitted for the amalgamation of the
original prospecting claim with those adjoining, thus to include a
larger area upon which to float a company to be placed upon the London
market, with an increased number of shares.
This had been done at the suggestion of Mr. Tregonwell, whose energetic
temperament was constantly urging him to cast about for improved
conditions of management, and a more profitable handling of the great
property which kind fortune had thrown into their hands.
“What is the sense,” he had asked in his last letter from the mine, “of
going on in the slow, old-fashioned way, just turning out a few thousand
ounces of silver monthly, and earning nothing more than a decent income,
this fabulously rich ore body lying idle, so to speak, for want of
organisation and enterprise? The specimens already sent home have
prepared the British investors for the flotation of a company, of which
a large proportion of the shares will be offered to the public. I
propose to call a meeting of the shareholders in Number One and Two,
North, and South, and submit a plan for their consideration at once.
“With our property thrown in we can increase the shares to five hundred
thousand one pound shares, resuming a hundred thousand paid up original
shares from the prospectors. You and I, Herbert and Clarke, pool the lot
and put them before the public, allotting so many to all applicants
before a certain day—after which the share allotment list will be
closed. With the increased capital, we can then carry out and complete
such improvements as are absolutely necessary for the working of the
mine on the most productive scale, ensuring a return of almost
incredible profits within a comparatively short period. In a series of
years, the price of silver may fall—the money market, in the event of
European wars, become restricted, and in fact the future, that unknown
friend or enemy to all mundane affairs, may blight the hopes and
expectations which now appear so promising.
“Everything is favourable _now_, the mine, the output, the market—money
easy, machinery available on fair terms. But we don’t know how soon a
cloud _may_ gather, a storm—financial or political—may burst upon us.
The directors in the great Comstock Mine in America looked at things in
that light—doubled their capital, quadrupled their plant, built a
railway, and within five years banked dollars enough to enable the four
original prospectors (I knew Flood and Mackay well—worked with them in
fact—when we were all poor men) to become and _remain_ millionaires to
the end of their lives. Meanwhile giving entertainments, and building
palaces, which astonished all Europe, and America as well—a more
difficult matter by far.
“Now, what do we want, you will ask, for all this development, this
Arabian Night’s treasure house? I say—and I am talking strict
business—that we must have, presuming that the ‘Great Tasmanian
Proprietary Comstock and Associated Silver Mines Company, Limited,’
comes off, and the shares will be over-applied for twice over—what do we
want, I repeat? A battery with the newest inventions and improvements—a
hundred stamps to begin with. It may be, of course, increased; we shall
provide for such a contingency.
“Secondly, we must have a railway—from the mine to the port—to carry our
men—materials, supplies generally. We can’t go back to this Peruvian
mode of transit-carrying—on men’s backs, at a frightful waste of time
and money. We can’t afford the _time_—it’s not a question so much of
money as of _time_, which is wasting money at compound interest. We want
a wharf at Strahan and a steamer of our own to take the ore to Callao.
She’ll pay for herself within the year. Is that all? I hear you asking
with your cynical drawl, which you affect, I know you, when you’re most
interested.
“No, _sir_! as we all learnt to say in the States—the best comes last.
We want a first-class American mining manager—a real boss—chock full of
scientific training from Freiberg, practical knowledge gathered from
joining the first crowd at Sutter’s Mill—and more important than all,
the knack of keeping a couple of thousand miners, of different creeds,
countries and colours, all pulling one way, and him keeping a cool head
in strikes and other devilries that’s bound to happen in every big mine
in the world, specially when she’s doin’ a heap better than common—see!
His price is £5,000 a year, not a cent less—if you want the finished
article!” Here, Mr. Tregonwell’s fiery eloquence, albeit confined to
cold pen and ink, led him into the mining American dialect, so easy to
acquire, so difficult to dislodge—which he had picked up in his early
experiences. In the class with which he had chiefly associated in
earlier years, and to which he belonged in right of birth, he could be
as punctiliously accurate in manner and speech, as if he had never
quitted it. With a certain reluctance, as of one committing himself to a
voyage upon an unknown sea, his more prudent, but less practical partner
gave a guarded consent to these daring propositions, premising, however,
that the company must be complete in legal formation and the shares duly
allotted, before a cheque was signed by Frampton Tregonwell and Company,
in aid of operations of such colossal magnificence.
Mr. Blount excused himself from accepting a pressing invitation to
remain another week at this very pleasant reproduction of English
country house life, on the plea of urgent private affairs, but he
acceded to Mr. Dereker’s suggestion that he should stay a night with him
at Holmby, on the way to Hobart, where he would undertake to land him an
hour or two before the coach could arrive. This was a happy conjunction
of business and pleasure, against which there was no valid argument. So,
with many regrets by guest and entertainers, and promises on the part of
the former to return at the earliest possible opportunity, he after
breakfast started in Mr. Dereker’s dog-cart from the hospitable
precincts of Hollywood Hall.
Holmby, the well-known headquarters of the sporting magnates of the
island, was reached just “within the light,” though, as the road was
exceptionally good—metalled, bridged, and accurately graded all
through—the hour of arrival was not of great consequence.
Mr. Dereker was a bachelor, and had mentioned something about bachelor’s
fare and pot luck generally, to which Mr. Blount, feeling equal to
either fortune, had made suitable reply. Rather to his surprise,
however, as his host had driven round to the stables they saw grooms and
helpers busy in taking out the team of a four-in-hand drag.
The equipage and appointments arrested his attention, and caused him to
utter an exclamation. They constituted indeed an uncommon turn-out. An
English-built coach—such as the Four-in-hand and the coaching clubs
produce on the first day of the season, for the annual procession, so
anxiously awaited, so enthusiastically watched,—complete with every
London adjunct, from hamper to horn, etc. The horses had just been
detached, and were, at Mr. Dereker’s order, detained for inspection.
Four flea-bitten greys, wonderfully matched, and sufficiently large and
powerful to warrant their easy action in front of so heavy a drag, as
the one in which they had been driven over. Their blood-like heads, and
striking forehands, not less than their rounded back ribs, and powerful
quarters, denoted the fortunate admixture of the two noblest equine
families—the Arab and the English thoroughbred: of size and strength
they had sufficient for all or any harness work, while their beauty and
faultless matching would have graced any show-ground in England.
“This team was bred by a relative of mine, who is a great amateur in the
coaching line, and is thought to be the best team in Australasia! His
place, Queenhoo Hall, is only fifteen miles off. He is a connection by
marriage: therefore we don’t stand on ceremony. I suspect he is giving
his team an airing before driving them to the Elwick Races next month,
where he always turns out in great style. You will not have a dull
evening, for his wife and a niece or two are sure to have accompanied
him.”
In passing through the outer hall, such an amount of mirthful
conversation reached the ear, as led to the belief in Mr. Blount’s mind,
that either the number of the Squire’s nieces had been under-stated, or
that, according to the custom of the country, the coach had been
reinforced on the way. So it proved to be—the hall was apparently half
full of men and maidens, unto whom had been added a few married people,
as well as a couple of subalterns from a regiment then quartered in
Hobart. The chaperons were not noticeably older than their unmarried
charges, so that the expectation of a dance was fully justified.
Mr. Blount was introduced to the “Squire,” as he was universally called,
as also to his nieces, two attractive-looking girls; and of course, to
all the other people, civil and military. He felt as he once did in the
west of Ireland, where he accepted so many invitations to spend a month,
that the number of months would have had to be increased if he had not
more than a year in which to keep holiday. He complimented the Squire,
with obvious sincerity, on his wonderful team, and promised, strictly
reserving compliance until after the flotation of the great mining
company, to visit him at Queenhoo Hall in the summer time now
approaching. The dinner and the dance were replicas of those he had
enjoyed at Hollywood. Here he had another opportunity of admiring the
lovely complexions, graceful figures, and perfect grace and fleetness of
the daughters of the land in the waltz or galop, and when he started for
Hobart soon after sunrise, the drive through the fresh morning air
dispelled all feelings of weariness, which, under the circumstances, he
might have felt, after hearing the cock crow two mornings running before
going to bed.
“Heaven knows how long this sort of thing might have lasted, if that
letter of Tregonwell’s had not turned up last night,” he told himself.
“There is a time for all things—and if I do not mistake, it is high time
now, as our pastors and masters used to say, to make a stern division
between work and play—‘poculatum est, condemnatum est,’ so ‘nunc est
agendum’ in good earnest.”
Hobart, reached two hours before the coach could have drawn up before
the post-office, reassured him as to Mr. Dereker’s guarantee holding
good. A cab from the nearest stand bore him and his luggage to the
Tasmanian Club, where, freed from the distractions of country houses, he
was able to collect his thoughts before attacking the great array of
letters and papers, which met his eye when he entered his room.
A copy of the morning paper reposing on the dressing-table disclosed the
fact in an aggressive headline that the Proprietary Tasmanian Comstock
and Associated Silver Mines Company (Limited) was already launched upon
the Australian mining world, and indeed upon that of Europe, and the
Universe generally.
“The Directors of this magnificent silver property, which includes the
original Comstock Claim—amalgamated with the Associated Silver Mines
Company we understand”—wrote the fluent pen of the Editor of the
_Tasmanian Times_—“have at length succumbed to outside pressure, and in
the interest of the British and Colonial Public, consented to form these
mines of unparalleled richness into a company. The Directors are Messrs.
Valentine Blount, Frampton Tregonwell, and Charles Herbert and John
Westerfield Clarke, names which will assure the shareholders of
honourable and straightforward dealing at the hands of those to whom
their pecuniary interests are committed. These names are well and
favourably known in England, in Mexico, in the United States of America,
and the Dominion of Canada. Comment is superfluous—they speak for
themselves.
“Wherever gold or silver mining is carried on the names of Clarke and
Tregonwell are familiar as ‘household words’ and always associated with
skilled treatment and successful operations. That this enterprise will
have a beneficial effect not only upon the mining, but on the
commercial, and all other industries of Tasmania, lifting her, with her
fertile soil, her equable climate, her adaptability for all agricultural
and pastoral products to her proper place in the front rank of
Australian colonies no sane man can henceforth doubt. A line of steamers
from Strahan to Hobart, a short though expensive railway, and a metalled
coach road, are among the indispensable enterprises which Mr. Tregonwell
assured our representative would be commenced without delay. Advance,
Tasmania!”
Looking hastily through the pile of unopened letters, but keeping
private-and-confidential-appearing correspondence strictly apart, and
relegating those in Mr. Tregonwell’s bold, rapid handwriting, to a more
convenient season, he started, and trembled, as his eye fell upon a
letter in Mrs. Bruce’s handwriting which bore the Marondah postmark. His
heart almost stopped beating, when an enclosed note fell out, still more
likely to affect his inmost soul. Yes! it was in the handwriting, so
closely scanned, so dearly treasured in the past, of Imogen Carrisforth.
For the moment, a spasm of regret, even remorse affected him painfully.
He stood self-convicted by his conscience of having lingered in
frivolous, social enjoyment, while uncertain of the welfare and feelings
of one who had aroused the deepest emotions of his being, nor had he
(with shame he reflected) taken all possible means to discover to what
circumstance it was that his letters had been apparently treated with
indifference or contempt.
Mrs. Bruce’s letter gave an explanation which, though not fully
comprehensive, cleared up a part of the mystery, as far as Imogen was
concerned. It ran as follows:—
“DEAR MR. BLOUNT,—I am afraid you must have thought us a very
ill-mannered set of people, as it seems by your letter of — that you
have not received _any answer_ to your letters written the night before
you left Bunjil for Melbourne. Yet, it was scarcely our fault. That poor
lad who was drowned in the flood, which rose on the _very day_ you left,
carried answers from me and Imogen; these, I think, you would have
considered friendly, and even in a sense apologetic for my husband’s
attitude in condemning you unheard. We both scolded him soundly for
deciding your case so hastily, in disregard of the laws of evidence.
_He_ particularly, who is looked upon as the best magistrate on the
Marondah bench. We got him to hear reason at last, and to write
expressing regret that he had made no allowance for your ignorance of
our bush population, and their ways with stock. This letter was in the
bags of the mail coach to Waroonga, and _it also_ was lost when two
horses were drowned at Garlung: the bridge being six feet under water.
None of the passengers were injured, but the coach was swept down the
stream with the mail bags, which have not been recovered. It certainly
was a most unlucky occurrence, for all concerned.
“When your letter from Melbourne arrived, poor Imogen was laid up with a
bad attack of influenza, from the effects of which she was confined to
bed for several weeks, her lungs having been attacked and pneumonia
supervening; so that what with nursing her, and Mr. Bruce having left on
a three months’ trip to Queensland, all correspondence was suspended for
a while. She was very nearly _dying_, and in fact was given up by two
out of three of the doctors who attended her!
“Her good constitution pulled her through, and she has regained her
former health, though not her spirits, poor girl!
“Then, after she was up, all these accounts of your wonderful success in
Tasmania, and large fortune derived from the Tasmanian Silver Mine (I
can’t recollect its name) were circulated in the district. On account of
this she did not write, as I wanted her to do, fearing (very foolishly,
as I told her) lest you might think her influenced by your altered
fortunes. She is not that sort of girl, I can safely assert. The man who
touched her heart would remain there installed, for richer, for poorer,
till death’s parting hour.
“Whether you have said more to her than she has told me—she is very
reserved about herself—I cannot say. I have written fully, perhaps too
much so, as to which I trust to your honour, but my sole intention has
been to clear up all doubts on your part, as to the feeling which
actuates us as a _family_, about the past misunderstanding. I enclose a
scrap which she gave me reluctantly.
“Yours sincerely,
“HILDEGARDE BRUCE.”
Mr. Blount picked up the half sheet of notepaper, which having kissed
reverently, and indeed twice repeated the action, he read as follows.
Very faint and irregular were the characters:—
“What a chapter of accidents since you left! Poor Johnny Doyle drowned!
my letter and Hilda’s lost. Your reply also never came.
“My illness, in which I was ‘like to die’ following closely.
“We thought you had left without troubling to answer our letters—at
least, _they_ did. My sister has written you _sheets_, so I need not
enlarge upon matters. Edward is still in Queensland. The weather is
lovely now, after the cold winter. If you can tear yourself away from
Hobart, you might see what Marondah looks like in early summer.
“Yours truly,
“IMOGEN.”
Mr. Blount’s reply, _by telegram_, was sent with no unnecessary loss of
time:—
“Leaving for Melbourne and Marondah by to-morrow’s steamer.”
Other letters, papers, circulars, requests, invitations in shoals lay
ready for inspection. All the tentative appeals, complimentary and
otherwise, which track the successful individual in war or peace, law,
letters, or commerce. A large proportion of these were transmitted to
the waste-paper basket—a piece of furniture now rendered necessary by
the volume of Mr. Blount’s correspondence.
He felt inclined to burn the whole lot, excepting those relative to the
development of the Tasmanian Comstock and Associated Silver Mines
Company (Limited), now stamped on a score of large and portentous
envelopes.
Making a final search, a letter was detached from a superincumbent mass,
the superscription of which had the Tumut and Bunjil postmarks. This was
sufficient to arrest his attention. The handwriting, too, was that of
Sheila Maguire, whose interest in his welfare did not seem to have
declined.
“DEAR MR. BLOUNT,—I little thought, when I used to get up at all hours
to make you comfortable in our back block shanty, that this humble
individual was ministering (that’s a good word, isn’t it? I’ve been
reading up at odd times) to the wants of a Director of the Great
Comstock Silver Mines Company. What a lark it seems, doesn’t it? And
you, that didn’t know the difference between quartz and alluvial then!
“Shows what a fine country Australia is, when a gentleman may be nearly
run in for ‘duffing’ one month, and the next have all the world bowing
and scraping to him as a millionaire! That’s not my line, though, is it?
The money, if you had ten times as much, wouldn’t make Sheila Maguire
more your friend—your _real friend_—than she is now. The other way on,
if anything. And there’s a young lady down the river—not that I even
myself with _her_, only she’s a ‘cornstalk’—one of the same brand, as
the saying is. _She_ don’t mind the dirty money—any fool can come by
that, or any man that’s contented to live like a black-fellow, and save
farthings till they mount up. He can’t help it. But who’d take him, with
his muck-rake?
“Great book, _Pilgrim’s Progress_, isn’t it? Just fell across it.
“‘What the devil’s the girl driving at?’ I hear you say. That’s not much
of a swear for Bunjil, is it? Well, you’ll see about it in the
postscript, by and by.
“First and foremost, I want a hundred shares in the Great Comstock
Associated. On the ground floor. _Original_, like the Broken Hill
Proprietary.
“An uncle of mine, old Barney Maguire, of Black Dog Creek, died a month
ago, and left us boys and girls five thousand apiece. _He_ couldn’t read
and write, but he had ten thousand acres of good freehold land, river
flats, too, and a tidy herd of cattle—every one knows the ‘B. M.’ brand.
Some good horses, too. Comes of saving and screwing. He lived by the
creek bank in an old bark hut with two rooms, never married, and never
gave one of us boys and girls the value of a neck-ribbon or a
saddle-strap while he was alive. I’m sending a cheque for the scrip, so
make your secretary post them at once. As you’re a director, you’ll have
to sign your _real_ name, so I’ll know what it is. I never was sure of
the other. You’re born lucky, and I’m going to back you right out.
Perhaps I am, too, and might rise in life; who knows? I’m going to work
up my education on the chance. What I learned at She-oak Flat’ll stick
to me. So we’ll see. And now for the postscript. I looked it out—derived
from _post scriptum_ (_written after_). Never thought what ‘P.S.’ meant
before. Easy enough when you know, isn’t it?
“Well, ‘let me see!’ says the blind man—oh! I forgot; that’s vulgar—no
more of that for Miss Sheila Maguire—one of the Maguires of Tumut. ‘Fine
gal, aw. Hear she’s got money, don’t yer know?’ Ha! ha! they won’t catch
me that way. ‘I’ve travelled,’ though it’s only on a bush track. False
start; come back to the post, all of you! The straight tip is this—‘a
dead cert.’ I had it from my cousin, Joe Macintyre, her that was maid to
Mrs. Bruce. Miss Imogen _hadn’t influenza_—only a bit of a cold; but she
was real bad and low, all the same, after a certain gentleman went away.
No word, and _no letters came back_. She’d sit and cry for hours. No
interest in anything; not a smile out of her for days. Then she got ill,
and no mistake; lower and lower—close up died. Doctors gave her up. Had
to go to Sydney for change. I saw her in the train at Wagga. My word! I
hardly knew her. She was that dog-poor and miserable, pale as a ghost, I
nearly cried. Now she’s home again, and looks better, Joe says.
“But if _some one_ doesn’t turn up before the summer’s well on, I shall
know what to think him who _was_ a man and a gentleman, but that no one
about here will call either the one or the other again, least of all,
“His friend and well-wisher,
“SHEILA MAGUIRE.
“P.S. No. 2.—Strikes me this isn’t very different to the Church Service,
which begins with ‘Dearly beloved,’ and ends with ‘amazement.’ What do
you think?”
Mr. Blount couldn’t help smiling at certain sentences in this frank and
characteristic epistle. But he looked grave enough at the concluding
one. This was the light then in which his conduct would appear to the
rural inhabitants of the township and district of Bunjil.
Simple and chiefly unlettered they might be, but shrewd and accurate to
a wonderful degree in their discernment of character.
It was evident that the false cavalier who “loved, and who rode away,”
would have small consideration shown him on the day when he might fall
in with half a dozen Upper Sturt men at annual show or race meeting.
There was a veiled threat in Sheila’s closing sentence, and though, in
his or any other defaulter’s case, retributive justice might be stayed
or wholly miscarry, yet it was not a pleasant thought that any act of
his should bear the interpretation of bad faith; or that sentence of
excommunication would, so to speak, be pronounced against him from one
end of the river and the great Upper Sturt district to the other. By
gentle and simple alike there would be unanimous agreement on that
score. From the “mountain men” of the Bogongs and Talbingo, to the
sun-burned plain-riders of the Darling, the vigorous English of the
Waste would be searched for epithets of scorn and execration.
In the old Saxon days of the first Christian King, the epithet of
“niddering” (worthless), which men committed suicide rather than endure,
would have been decreed. Even the rude miners of the West would feel
injured. From club to hotel, from the cool green, sunless forests of the
Alpine chain, where the snow-fed rills tinkled and gurgled the long,
bright summer through, to the burning, gold-strewn deserts of West
Australia, he would be a marked man, pointed at as the coward who won a
girl’s heart and “cleared out,” because he happened to “strike it rich”
in another colony.
Luckily for his state of mind and the condition of his business
prospects, Mr. Tregonwell happened to turn up a day earlier than he was
expected, so that by sitting far into the night in council with that
experienced though fervid operator, things were put into train; so that
he and the resident directors would, with the help of a power of
attorney, arrange all the advertising and scrip printing without further
aid from Valentine Blount.
There was not much need for pushing ahead the concerns of the Great
Tasmanian Comstock, by which name it was chiefly known and designated.
The whole island seemed to be in a ferment. The public and the share
market only needed restraining. It was, of course, only in the hurry and
crush of applications for scrip, in resemblance to the South Sea—well,
we’ll say, Excitement of old historic days. The blocks of silver ore,
“native silver,” malachite, and other specimens exhibited behind a huge
plate glass window in Davey Street, had driven the city wild. Crowds
collected around it, and a couple of stalwart policemen were specially
stationed there by the inspector to prevent unseemly crushing and riot.
In addition well-armed night watchmen were provided at the expense of
the Comstock Company for the nocturnal safety of the precious deposits.
The _Pateena_ was to leave for her customary conflict with the rough
waves of Bass’s Straits at 12 a.m. So, after a hard night’s work, the
“popular director” took a parting smoke and retired for what sleep was
likely to visit him by 8 a.m., when the two partners were to breakfast
together. Mr. Blount had not a tranquil experience of “tired nature’s
sweet restorer.” “Little-River-Jack,” the Sergeant, and Sheila Maguire
pursued one another through the Bunjil forest, accompanied by the doomed
mail-boy and Mr. Bruce. Sergeant Dayrell had apparently come to life
again, and was standing pistol in hand with the same devilish sneer on
his lips, face to face with Kate Lawless and Ned. Then the melancholy
_cortège_ moved across the scene, with the police riding slowly, as they
led the spare horses upon which was tied the dead inspector and the
wounded trooper. All things seemed sad, funereal, and out of keeping
with the enforced gaiety and cordial hospitality which he had lately
enjoyed. It was a relief on awakening to find, all unrefreshed as he
was, that he had ample time in which to recruit, by means of the shower
bath and matutinal coffee, his hardly-taxed mental and physical
energies. However, all was ready to respond to the breakfast bell,
specially ordered and arranged for, and when Mr. Tregonwell, looking as
if he had gone to bed early and was only anxious about the _Hobart
Courier_, entered the breakfast room, all tokens of despondency vanished
from Mr. Blount’s countenance.
Then only he realised that a creditably early start was feasible—was
actually in process of operation.
“Look here!” exclaimed that notoriously early bird, producing two copies
of the _Courier_, of which he handed his friend one, “Read this as a
preliminary, and keep the paper in your pocket for board-ship
literature.”
It was, indeed, something to look at, as the supplement displayed under
gigantic headlines this portentous announcement—
“THE TASMANIAN COMSTOCK AND ASSOCIATED
SILVER MINES COMPANY, LIMITED.
“Acting under legal advice, the Directors have decided to close the
share list of this unparalleled mine, of which the ore bodies at greater
depths are daily disclosing a state of _phenomenal richness_. All
applications for shares not sent in by the fifteenth day of the present
month will be returned. If over-applied for—of which information will be
furnished by the incoming English mail—applicants will have shares
allotted to them in the order of their priority.”
This was to Mr. Blount sufficient information for the present. The
future of the mine was assured, and he was merely nervously anxious that
no malignant interference with the normal course of events should
prevent his arriving in Melbourne on the following day, in time to take
his berth in the Sydney Express that afternoon—which indeed he had
telegraphed for the day before. The partners had arrived on board the
_Pateena_, now puffing angrily, with full steam up, a full half hour
before the advertised time, owing to Mr. Blount’s anxiety not to be
late, and were walking up and down the deck, Tregonwell in vain
attempting to get his fellow director to listen to details, and Blount
inwardly fuming at the delay and cursing the Tasmanian lack of
punctuality and general slackness, when two shabbily-dressed men stepped
on board, one of whom walked up to the friends, tapped Mr. Blount on the
shoulder, and producing a much crumpled piece of paper, said shortly, “I
arrest you in the Queen’s name, by virtue of this Warrant!”
To describe Mr. Blount’s state of mind at this moment is beyond the
resources of the English language—perhaps beyond those of any language.
Rage, mortification, surprise, despair almost, struggled together in his
mind, until his heart seemed bursting.
For a moment it seemed, as he threw off his captor with violence, and
faced the pair of myrmidons with murder in his eye, as if he intended
resistance in spite of law, order, and all the forces of civilisation.
But his companion, cooler in situations of absolute peril as he was more
impetuous in those of lighter responsibility, restrained him forcibly.
“Nonsense! keep calm, for God’s sake, and don’t make a scene. Just allow
me to look at the warrant,” he said to the apprehending constable. “I
wish to see if it is in order. I am a magistrate of the territory. I can
answer for my friend, who, though naturally disgusted, is not likely to
resist the law.”
The men were placated by this reasonable treatment of the position.
“The warrant seems in order,” said Tregonwell. “The strange part of it
is that it should not have been cancelled all this time, as we know that
no proceedings were taken by the police at Bunjil in consequence of the
non-appearance of the prosecution for the Crown. How this warrant got
here and has been forwarded for execution is the astonishing part of the
affair. Do you know,” he said, addressing the peace officer, “how this
warrant came into the hands of the Department here?”
“Forwarded for execution here, sir,” said the man civilly, “with a batch
of New South Wales warrants, chiefly for absconders, false pretences
men, and others who have a way of crossing the Straits. It oughtn’t to
have been allowed to run, as the case wasn’t gone on with. The acting
clerk of the bench there is a senior constable, not quite up in his
work; he has made a mistake, and got it mixed up with others. Most
likely it’s a mistake, but all the same, the gentleman must come with us
for the present.”
“All right, constable, we’ll go with you, and make no attempt to escape.
Bail will be forthcoming—in thousands, if necessary.”
The steamer’s bell began to sound, and after a few minutes, and a
hurried colloquy with the captain, who promised to see his unlucky
passenger’s luggage delivered at the Imperial Club, the friends
descended into the boat, and Tregonwell read out the warrant in his
hands. It was apparently in order:—
“To Senior Constable Evans and to all Police Officers and Constables in
the Colony of Victoria.—You are hereby commanded to arrest Valentine
Blount—known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ at present supposed to be working in the
‘Lady Julia’ claim, forty miles from Bunjil, on the Wild Horse Creek, in
company with Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, also George Dixon (known as
Lanky), and to bring him before me or any other Police Magistrate of
Victoria. This warrant is issued on the sworn information of Edward
Hamilton Bruce, J.P. of Marondah, on the Upper Sturt, and for such
action this shall be your warrant.
“(_Signed_) H. BAYLEY, P.M.”
The sorely-tried lover felt much more inclined to fling himself into the
waters of the Derwent, and there remain, than to occupy for one moment
longer this ignominious position at the hands of the myrmidons of the
law. However, the next step, of course, was to interview the police
magistrate of Hobart at his Court House, and after having explained the
circumstances, to apply for bail, so that the period of detention might
be shortened as much as possible. This process of alleviation was
effected without unnecessary delay, the magistrate being a reasonable,
experienced person, and as such inclined to sympathise with the victim
of malign fate, obviously not of the class with which he had been for
years judicially occupied.
The officer briefly stated the case, produced the warrant, and delivered
up his prisoner, who was permitted to take a chair. Mr. Parker, P.M.,
scanned the warrant with keen and careful eye before committing himself
to an opinion. After which he bestowed a searching glance upon Mr.
Blount, and thus delivered himself:
“It appears,” he said, “that this warrant was issued, with several
others, upon the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P., of
Marondah, Upper Sturt, who had reason to believe that the person
named—viz., Valentine Blount—generally known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ was
concerned with Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (otherwise
Lanky), and John Carter, known as ‘Little-River-Jack,’ in stealing and
disposing of certain fat cattle branded E.H.B., the property of the said
Edward Hamilton Bruce. It is now the 20th of November,” said the worthy
P.M., “and I note that this warrant was signed on the 10th of September
last. By a curious coincidence I have this morning received a
communication from the Department of Justice in Victoria informing me
that separate warrants were issued for the persons named in the
information, but that, owing to deficiency of proof and difficulty of
identification of the stock suspected to have been killed or otherwise
disposed of, the Crown Solicitor has ordered a _Nolle Prosequi_ to be
entered. ‘In accordance with which decision, notices of such action were
signed by the bench of magistrates at Bunjil, Victoria, and the
warrants, in the names of Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon
(_alias_ Lanky), and John Carter (_alias_ Little-River-Jack), were
cancelled. But through inadvertence, the warrant in the name of
Valentine Blount (otherwise Jack Blunt) had been mislaid, and, with
other documents, forwarded to James Parker, Esq., P.M., Hobart. He is
requested to return the said warrant to the Department of Justice, and
if the said warrant has been by misadventure executed, to release at
once the said Valentine Blount, known as “Jack Blunt.”
“‘I remain, sir,
“‘Your obedient servant,
“‘GEORGE B. HARRISON,
“‘_Under Secretary of Justice_.’
“That being the case, I have the pleasure to congratulate you, sir, on
your escape from a very unpleasant position, and to apologise on behalf
of the Department with which I am connected, for the unfortunate
mistake, as well as for all consequences to which it may have led in
your case. Sergeant, let the accused be discharged.”
Thus, after undergoing tortures, as to which the same time spent on a
rack of the period—say in the time of His Most Christian Majesty, Philip
of Spain—would have been a trifling inconvenience, was our unlucky
_détenu_ restored to liberty.
After bowing to the genial P.M., who had seen so many discomfitures,
disasters, and disorders, that nothing was likely to cause him surprise
or disturb his serenity, the friends returned to their club to lunch, as
well as to make such arrangements for the morrow as might suffice for
clearing out to Melbourne with the least possible delay and public
disturbance. Fortunately, another steamer on a different line, just
arrived from Callao and the Islands, was due for an early start in the
morning. Mr. Blount resolved, after dining at the club, to spend the
night on board of her so as to have no bother about getting ready before
daylight, at which time the skipper promised departure. Frampton
Tregonwell, the friend in need, would bear him company and help to keep
up his spirits so rudely dashed until the time arrived for the partial
oblivion of bed, which, indeed, it was long before he found.
* * * * *
Next morning, however, the excitement of a gale took him out of his
self-consciousness for a few hours, and the unfamiliar companionship of
the passengers aided the cure. He was only partially recovered from a
state of shock and annoyance, but could not help being attracted by the
men and women; they were of rare and striking types, such as were around
him, in all directions.
They were certainly cosmopolitan—grizzled island traders, sea-captains,
and mates out of employment at present. Adventurers of every kind, sort,
and degree, with their wives and families of all shades of colour and
complexion. Speaking all languages indifferently ill, Spanish and
Portuguese, French, German and Italian, and, of course, English more or
less undefiled. The men were fine specimens physically, bold, frank,
hardy-looking, such as might be expected to reply with knife and
revolver to adverse argument. Handsome dark women and girls, with
flashing eyes and unrivalled teeth, who seemed perfectly at home, and
regarded the wildest weather with curiosity rather than with
apprehension. Sydney seemed familiar to many as their port of arrival
and departure, which, having reached, they were more free to find
passage to the ends of the earth.
Such a happy-go-lucky unconventional crowd of passengers, it had rarely
been Mr. Blount’s lot to encounter, far-travelled though he was. The
captain, mates and ship’s crew were, in their way, equally removed from
ordinary personages. One could imagine the captain—a spare, saturnine
American—a pirate, suddenly converted by a missionary bishop—bearing his
captives of the lower hold, previously doomed to torture and spoliation,
to a free port, there to be released, unharmed, with all their goods and
chattels scrupulously returned. Here was an opportunity altogether
unparalleled, presented to “an observer of human nature.”
But it was like many other gifts of the gods, presented to the dealer in
the souls and bodies of his fellow creatures (intellectually regarded),
at the precise time and place, when, from circumstances, he could make
no use of the situation. A banquet of the gods, and not the ghost of an
appetite wherewith to savour it!
In his present mood, had Helen of Troy, accompanied by Paris and
Achilles, with Briseis as “lady help,” been one of the strangely
assorted crowd (there _were_ half a dozen modern Greeks on board, miners
returning from an inspection of an alleged “mountain of tin”)—even then
he would not have listened with interest to their respectful
cross-examination of the “goddess moulded” as to her adventures since
the fall of Troy, or her well-grounded apprehension of her probable fate
under adverse feminine rule.
All romance, sympathy, curiosity even were dead within him for the
present. Fate had counter-checked him too often. He expected nothing,
hoped nothing, but feared everything—until his arrival at the homestead
on the Upper Sturt, when he could see Imogen, pale, perhaps, and more
fragile than when last she turned her impatient horse’s head
homeward—but infinitely lovely and dearer than all, as having proved her
loyalty to him, from their first meeting by the waters of the Great
River, in despite of doubt, calumny, and unjust accusation.
All these were gone and disposed of; now was the season of faith and
fruition—the reward of her love, and truth—of his constancy. Here his
complacent feeling of perhaps scarcely justified self-laudation faltered
somewhat. Yes! he _had_ been true—he _had_ been faithful—any other
feeling was merely involuntary deflection from his ideal, and he was now
going to claim his prize!
The wind stilled. The sea went down. The stars came out. The soft air of
the Great South Land, hidden away from the restless sea-rover for
centuries untold, until the keel of the great English captain floated
into the peerless haven, enveloped the wave-worn bark, as with a mantle
of peace and forgiveness; their voyage was practically, virtually, at an
end. Mr. Blount remained on deck smoking with the more hardened of the
foreign passengers, who apparently needed not sleep at all, until the
midnight hour; then wearily sought his cabin. Cabin indeed, he had none,
for, determined to get away at all hazards, he had expressed his total
indifference to such a luxury, and his willingness to sleep under the
cabin table, if necessary, only provided that he got a passage. The
captain said if that were so he could come, taking his chance of a bed
or sofa. However, he had been to sea before. A judicious _douceur_ to
the head steward procured him, after a certain hour, one of the saloon
lounges, and the privilege of dressing in that important functionary’s
cabin. Awake with the dawn, he found himself just in time to witness the
safe passage of the _Donna Inez_ through the tumultuous harbour entrance
of the “Rip,” and after a decent interval, to arrive, undisturbed by
anxiety about luggage, at the ever open door of the Imperial Club.
Here, with his property around him—apparently safe and uninjured—he
began to find himself an independent traveller of means and position
again. He had been relieved of the horrible uncertainty of delay—the
doubt and fear connected with a trial for a criminal offence, and all
the other disagreeables, if not dangers, of a discreditable position.
His railway ticket had already been taken for Waronga, whence the coach
on the ensuing morning, after a daylight breakfast, would take him on to
Marondah.
All went well. He saw again the rippling river, the friendly face of
Mrs. Bruce—he had always delighted in that dear woman—so refined, so
ladylike, and yet practical and steadfast. The ideal wife and
mother—remote from the metropolis, and the frivolous slaves of
fashion—yet how infinitely superior to them all. He saw the fair Imogen
coming to meet him, shyly repressing her joy and gratitude for the turn
which their fortunes had taken, but only refraining on account of the
spectators from throwing herself into his arms. This she confessed
afterwards, after a decent interval of explanation, and full confessions
on both sides. Neither of them would own to have been the most overjoyed
at the meeting, delayed as it had been by an apparent conspiracy of all
the powers of darkness.
Mr. Bruce had not as yet returned from the “Ultima Thule” of Western
Queensland, where he had a share in an immense cattle station. His stay
had been protracted and unsatisfactory. A dry season had set in—had
followed several rainless years, in fact—nothing could exceed the
frightful position of the squatters in that district.
The destruction of stock was awful, unparalleled. Never since the first
white man’s foot had touched Australia’s shore, had there been such
loss, and probable ruin (he wrote to his wife).
He should be glad to get back to Marondah, to see some decent grass
again, and hear the river rippling through the calm still night, and the
river-oaks murmuring to the stars. _That_ was something like a country.
He would take the first chance to sell out of Mount Trelawney, and never
go out of Victoria for an investment again.
So Edward Bruce had written in a peaceable mood. He supposed a general
amnesty must be declared, and all be forgiven and forgotten. By the way,
he met Jack Carter (Little-River-Jack) at a place not a hundred miles
from Roma (he wrote). “He was in a position to do me a service at a
critical juncture, and did it heartily and effectively. So all scores
are cleared between him and me. You mustn’t suppose, however, that I am
in danger of my life, or that bushranging, cattle-stealing, and an
occasional interchange of revolver shots, is part of the order of the
day. What I mention is exceptional, and I don’t wish it to go further
for several reasons.
“The Manager, Mackenzie, and I were riding along rather late one
evening, and a good twelve or fifteen miles from home. The weather (of
course) was fine, but the hour was late, and the sun, which had been
glaring at us all day, only just about to set.
“‘By George! that’s a big mob of horses,’ said Mac., ‘going fast too.
Coming from the back of Goornong and heading for Burnt Creek. Six men
and a black boy. Depend upon it, there’s something “cronk.” They might
see us yet. Yes, they do! They’ve halted. Left two men and the boy with
the mob, and the rest, four men, are coming across the plains to us.’
“‘Do you know who they are?’
“‘I can pretty well guess,’ he said. ‘They’re a part of that crowd that
we broke up last year, a very dangerous lot! The big man with the beard
is Joe Bradfield, the best bushman in all Queensland, and perhaps
Australia, to boot. The chap alongside him is “Jerry the Nut.” _He’s_ a
double-dyed scoundrel, if you like, twice tried for murder, and ought to
have been hanged years ago, if he’d got his rights. Supposed to have
shot “Jack the Cook,” who quarrelled with him, and started in for
Springsure to give the lot away, but never got there. Found dead in the
Oakey Creek with two bullets in him. Jerry was proved to have overtaken
him on the road; was the last man seen with him alive. Put on his
trial—a strong case against him, but not sufficient evidence. Here they
come. We’ve seen them in possession of stolen horses. I expect they’ve
duffed them from that Bank station, that was taken over last week. They
may think it safer to “rub us out.” They’re villains enough for
anything. You’re armed, and my “navy, No. 1” is pretty sure at close
quarters. Cut off by —! we may have to ride for it too—’ As he spoke,
three men emerged from a clump of brigalow at an angle from the line at
which the ‘horse thieves’ were riding. They also made towards us, and
riding at speed, seemed as if they desired to reach us at about the same
time as the others. Such, it appeared, would be the case.
“The four men that had left the mob of horses, rode at the station
overseer and me as if they would ride over us. Then pulled up with the
stock-horses’ sudden halt, not brought up on their haunches, like those
of the gaucho of Chile or the cowboy of the Western States, by the
merciless wrenching curb, but with the half pull of the plain snaffle,
the only bit the bushman knows, when with loose rein, and lowered head,
the Australian camp horse drives his fore-feet into the ground, and
stops dead as if nailed to the earth.
“‘What the h—l are you two doing here?’ shouted the tall man, a Hercules
in height and breadth of shoulder, yet sitting his horse with the ease
and closeness of early boyhood, though his beard and coal-black hair
were already streaked with grey. Tracking us down? My God! it’s the
worst lay you was ever on. Isn’t a man to ride across a plain in the
blasted squatters’ country without he has a pass from a magistrate?
That’s what it’s coming to. Well, you’re on the wrong lay this trip.
Come along back with us, or we’ll make yer.
“‘And look dashed quick about it, or ye’ll not come back at all. Bring
up the darbies, Joe! We’ll see how the bloomin’ swells like ’em.’
“As the last speaker uttered this threat, he and the other men raised
their revolvers.
“‘I’ll see you d—d first,’ I replied (excuse bad language). ‘We’re from
Trelawney this morning, and on our lawful business.’ Here I drew my
revolver.
“The encounter looked doubtful, when the three new arrivals rode up,
and, like the other bushmen, stopped dead, with their horses side by
side.
“‘No, yer don’t!’ said one of the new arrivals, a man as tall and
massive as the first ‘robber’ (for such he seemed). ‘I’m not goen’ to
stand by and see Mr. Bruce, of Marondah, double-banked by you Queensland
duffers while I’m round. There’s been trouble between him and our crowd;
but he’s a man and a gentleman, and I’m here to stand by him to the
bitter end. It’s five go four now, so fire away, and be d—d to you!’
“‘Who the devil are you?’
“‘I’m Phelim O’Hara, and this is Little-River-Jack, and my brother Pat.
We’ve come up, like the Proosians at Waterloo, rather late in the day;
but “better late than never.” You’re Joe Bradfield, that we’ve heard of,
and Jerry the Nut that murdered his mate, I suppose. So you’d better go
back to the French, and let the allies go their own way. No one’s goen’
to give you away, if your own foolishness doesn’t. We’re on our own
ground, so hear reason and clear out. I heard a big lot of police, and
Superintendent Gray, of Albany, was on yer track.’
“‘When did you hear that?’
“‘No later than yesterday. And you’re ridin’ straight into their
bloomin’ arms, if yer don’t get back the way yer kem’ in. Take a fool’s
advice, and get into the ranges again. This country’s too open for your
crowd, and you’ll have to do the gully-raker’s racket for a month or
two, till the “derry’s” toned down a bit.’
“This apparently reasonable advice seemed to have weight with the troop
of highly irregular horse, as, after a short colloquy, they rode back to
their companions in charge of the horses, and heading them towards the
distant ranges, disappeared shortly from sight.
“‘O’Hara!’ said I, ‘whatever you and your mates may have done in the
past—at any rate, as far as I am concerned—is now past and gone. I
freely forgive anything that there may have been to forgive, in
consequence of your manly conduct to-day. If you will come back with me
to the head station, I dare say Mr. Mackenzie can find you something to
do in this bad season. Unfortunately, we have only too many vacancies
for bushmen like yourselves and Jack Carter.’
“‘We’ll take your word for it, Mr. Bruce,’ said Little-River-Jack; ‘and,
if we come to terms, there’ll be no station on the Upper Sturt that’ll
lose fewer stock—barrin’ from the season—while we’re to the fore.’
“‘All right,’ said Mackenzie, ‘you’re just the chaps we want this awful
season; and, now you’re going straight, each of you will be worth half a
dozen ordinary men.’”
The day was still warm, not much change from the 110° in the shade which
the sunset-hour had registered, but a gradual coolness commenced to
o’erspread the heated landscape. “The stars rush out, at one strike
comes the dark,” making an appearance of coolness, to which the abnormal
dryness of the air in mid-Australia lends a perceptible relief.
Confident of a welcome, and the hospitable reception of a
head-station—always superior in comfort to the more casual arrangements
of the out-stations—the five horsemen rode steadily forward in peace and
amity; Mr. Mackenzie, as knowing every foot of the run, taking the lead
with the two O’Haras, while Mr. Bruce and Little-River-Jack followed
quietly in the rear.