I START AS A LANDHOLDER.
I went straight to the Land Commissioner in Cairns, and entered his
office waving a map. "Look here, sir," says I, "I want 48. How do I get
it?"
He laughed. Having got over the shock of my unceremonious entrance, he
seemed inclined to enjoy me, setting to work to draw me out, not a hard
task in those enthusiastic days. Toil, and long, close acquaintance with
Cow, have soured me these times. He asked me what I intended doing with
the land, and I at once plunged into a stream of talk which kept his
eyes twinkling, and sent his hand to his mouth now and then.
"All right, Mr. Senex," he said at last. "There's nobody in for that
block, so you won't have to ballot. I'll wire to Brisbane to-day. Come
in again first thing to-morrow."
I paid my L5 deposit, thanked him, and withdrew. Next morning, bright
and early, I was back, and shortly afterwards the return wire arrived
from Brisbane that 48 was allotted to me. With a mind at ease, I spent
the day wandering round town, got a skiff and pulled up the Inlet, and
otherwise enjoyed myself in my own way. A night spent in slapping myself
and swearing at the mosquitoes, then breakfast, the Atherton train
again, and so back to what I was beginning to regard as home.
I stopped overnight at the pub and made arrangements for my
multitudinous baggage to go out by six-horse buckboard next day. What a
load of useless gear I had, to be sure! It cost me about L8 first and
last to bring the stuff up from Newcastle, and not half of it was any
good. Next day it took us half an hour to load it all up, including a
dozen ten-foot sheets of iron for a house sometime by and bye.
I enjoyed the trip in the forest country, but when we hit the scrub--oh,
Lord! The panting prads dragged us up innumerable hills, and slid on
their haunches down the succeeding pinch, with the buckboard skidding
from side to side of the road after them. On the infrequent levels we
went at a slow walk, half-way to the axles in sticky mud, numberless
roots and half-submerged stumps, jarring and bumping, occasionally
tilting our vehicle at an uncomfortable angle. Heavy going, all right!
We reached Braun's just before dark--it seemed to be at the end of the
world after our journey--and found O'Gorman and a mate there, who were
to commence falling scrub on the former's place next day. The stranger
was introduced to me as Len Vincent, a fine young fellow about twenty
years of age, tall, slimly built, active; all wire and whipcord; curly
black hair, thoughtful, dark brown eyes, and a full direct glance. An
attractive young fellow and an excellent specimen of young Australia.
The two of them had cleaned out the old shack, and, with a roaring fire
going, billies boiling, whips of tucker, and a fine bright young moon
silvering the clearing outside, the place looked cheerful--even
comfortable; and I felt the old romantic feeling return in full force as
we sat yarning and smoking round the comfortable blaze after tea. The
night was just chilly enough to make the fire acceptable. The dense
walls of heavy timber close at hand, the light breeze rustling through
the treetops; the sound of the brawling creek, with its legions of
croaking frogs; the call of a pair of mopokes, which sounded anything
but dismal to me, and the wailing note of some other unknown night-bird
in the depths of the scrub--all combined to make up a picture very
strange and enchanting to me, who had been used to nothing but sea and
sky for thirteen years. I had actually had only about four months
ashore, in spells of a few days at a time, in all that period.
We were just thinking of turning in, when I nearly jumped out of my skin
at a sudden grating, ear-splitting screech right overhead--to be
repeated a moment later at the end of the clearing.
"What the devil's that?" I asked.
"Oh," said Len, "it's only an ol' fig-'awk. Bird, you know."
Which reassured me. But it sounded like a mad woman being tortured. I
lay some time looking at the flickering firelight, and finally drifted
off to sleep. About five minutes later I was roused by a clattering of
plates, and, looking drowsily round, saw the fire blazing up, my two
friends dressed and busy cooking. The buckboard driver was still snoring
over in his corner.
"Hullo, chaps," said I, with some hazy idea that supper was on. "Aren't
you turning-in to-night?"
"Turn in!" laughed Terry. "Why, it's 5.30. Time to turn out."
I jumped up. "Cripes! I thought I'd only been asleep five minutes."
Breakfast of cold salt beef, pickles, bacon, "puftaloons" (a species of
fried scone), and unlimited tea was despatched with gusto, and the
chorus of birds then warning us of impending daylight, off we set.
Those birds! I wonder now if there is any other country on earth with
such a truly cheerful lot. First is the chowchilla--thousands of him in
the scrub--with a rich musical note something like water dropping
rapidly down a deep well--"Plop! ... plop! ... perloplop." He starts in
the dark. Pewee is next; then the jackass heartily laughs the sleep out
of his eyes, closely followed by the sweet-toned magpie. Presently
another bird says "Gitterwoork!" in a tone of good-humoured reproach;
don't know what his proper name is. We always call him the get-to-work
bird. Finally the big pigeons, with their deep cooing notes, join in,
and for an hour or more this choir keeps its chorus going, to greet the
sun as he slowly rises. There isn't a note in it that isn't cheerful,
but as the district opens up, and the idiot with the gun gets his fine
work in, I suppose most of them will depart. I have actually seen fools
shooting ibises, on suspicion of their eating fruit and corn and
distributing weeds, no less! not having the sense to see that the bird's
long thin curved beak is incapable of negotiating anything but
caterpillars, slugs and such-like. The old Egyptians knew how many beans
made five when they declared this bird sacred, with the death penalty
for killing one. Pity we didn't have some such law now to check the ass
with the yard of gas-pipe.
We three, leaving the buckboard bloke putting his horses in, went across
the clearing and through my scrub to Terry's place, getting soaked to
the waist en route in the dew-laden grass. It was broad daylight by this
time, and Terry was soon swinging "Douglas" (pet name for axe), and, on
Len's introducing me to a brush-hook, we got to work on the undergrowth.
I don't know what malign imp presides over the brushing department, but
no matter where or how you hit anything it invariably falls on top of
you, and every damn thing has spikes on it. Well, the hooks were sharp,
work went with a swing, a fresh breeze fanned our heated faces, and when
Terry had the billy boiling at noon, his cheery shout of "She's off,
boys!" ringing out through the trees, I ate the salt beef and damper,
and jam and damper, with an appetite I hadn't enjoyed for years.
A short spell, then work again, and by the time the setting sun said
"knock-off," Len and I had chewed through a couple of acres, and Terry's
splintery array of stumps showed that he hadn't been idle. Back to the
barn, we rebuilt the fire, shook out our blankets to see no snakes were
camped in them, had tea, yarned and smoked a bit, and, my heavy eyelids
being quite incapable of being kept up longer, we tumbled into our
"naps," and by nine o'clock were enjoying the untroubled sleep of
healthily tired manhood.