“There is a tide in the affairs of man
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”—_Shakespeare._
The “travellers’ hut” is an institution peculiar to divers of the
outlying and interior districts of Australia. It is the outcome of
experience and cogitation, the final compromise between the claims of
labour and capital, as to the measure of hospitality to be extended to
workmen errant. Given the fact that a certain number of labourers will
appear at the majority of stations, almost every day of the year,
demanding one night’s food and lodging, how to entertain them? Were they
suffered to eat and drink at discretion of the food supplied the
permanent _employés_, abuses would arise. Said _employés_ would be
always requiring fresh supplies, having “just been eaten out” by the
wayfarers. Also disputes as to the labour of cooking. It might happen
that the more provident and unscrupulous guests would occasionally carry
away with them food sufficient to place them “beyond the reach of want”
on the following day, or, so wayward is ungrateful man, might levy upon
the garments and personal property of the station servants after they
had gone forth to their work. Such examples were not wholly wanting
before the establishment of that _juste milieu_, the “travellers’ hut.”
There, an iron pot, a kettle, a bucket, and firewood are generally
provided. Each traveller receives at the station store a pint of flour
and a pound of meat. These simple but sufficing materials he may prepare
for himself at the travellers’ hut in any fashion that commends itself
to his palate. On the following day, if not employed, it is incumbent
upon him to move on to the next establishment.
Jack smoked his pipe over the fire in the caravanserai aforesaid, after
a meal of fried meat and cakes browned, or rather blacked, in the
frying-pan which had previously prepared the meat. Old Jock performed
this duty cheerfully, and not without a certain rude skill. He produced
from his kit a small bag containing a modicum of tea and sugar, which
just sufficed for a pint each of the universal and precious bush
beverage, causing them to be looked upon with envy by their less
fortunate companions. Tired out by the day’s journey, Jack had scarcely
energy to consume his share of the food, and but for the pannikin of
tea, indifferent enough, but still a wonderful restorative in all “open
air” life and labour, could not have essayed even so much exertion. At
another time he would have been amused by the rude mirth and reckless
jests of his associates. But this night he sat silent and gloomy, hardly
able to realize his existence amid conditions so astonishingly altered.
“You’re rather down on your luck, young man,” observed a stout but not
athletic individual, smoking an exceedingly black pipe, full of the
worst possible tobacco; “you’ve made too long a stage, that’s about it.
I’m blowed if I’d knock myself up, at this time of year, for all the
squatters in the blessed country.”
“No fear of you doin’ that, Towney,” said a wiry-looking young fellow
with light hair and a brickdust complexion, which defied the climate to
change its colour by a single shade, “at this time of year, or any
other, _I_ should say. How fur have you come?”
“A good five mile,” quoth the unabashed Towney, “and quite enough too. I
walked a bit, and smoked a bit, you see. Blest if I didn’t think I
should finish my baccy before the blessed old sun went down.”
“Well, I’m full up of looking for work,” said the younger man. “There’s
no improvements goin’ on in this slow place, or I could soon get in
hut-buildin’, or dam-makin’, or diggin’ post holes. I ain’t like you,
Towney, able to coast about without a job of work from shearin’ to
shearin’. If the coves knowed you as well as I do they’d let you starve
a bit, and try how you like that.”
An ugly look came into the eyes of the man as he said slowly, “There
might be a shed burnt, accidental-like, if they tried that game. You
remember Gondaree, Bill, and the flash super? I wonder how he and his
boss looked that Sunday mornin’.”
Bill, an elderly, clean-shaved individual, the yellowness of whose
physiognomy favoured the hypothesis of prison discipline having been
applied (ineffectually) for his reformation, gave a chuckle of
satisfaction as he replied—
“Well, it happened most unfortunate. I ’ope it didn’t ill-convenience
’em that shearin’. I hear as M‘Nab (he’s boss now, and they’ve bought
the next run) has got the best travellers’ hut on the river. Anybody
heard who they’ve shopped for those hawkers at Bandra?” continued Bill,
who seemed to have got into a cheerful line of anecdote, running
parallel with the _Police Gazette_.
“Why, what happened them?” asked the fiery-faced young man.
“Oh, not much,” affably returned Bill; “there wasn’t much of ’em found,
only a heap of bones, about the size of shillings. Some chaps had rubbed
’em out and burned ’em.”
“What for?” inquired the sun-scorched proprietor of the prize freckles.
“Well, they was supposed to be good for a hundred or so. However, they
put it away so artful that no one but the police was able to collar it;
and the fellows got nothin’ but a trifle of slops and a fiver.”
“It’s my belief,” asserted the young man with the high colour,
concluding the conversation, “that you and Towney are a pair of
scoundrels as would cut the throat of your own father for a note. And
for two pins I’d hammer the pair of ye, and kick yer out of the hut to
sleep under a gum-tree. It’s dogs like you, too, as give working-men a
bad name, and makes the squatters harder upon the lot of us than they
would be. I’m goin’ to turn in.”
The men thus discourteously entreated looked sullenly and viciously at
the speaker, but a low sound of approval from the half-dozen other men
showed that the house was with him. Besides which, the wiry, athletic
bushman was evidently in good training, and had the great advantage of
youth and unbroken health on his side. So when he stepped forward with
his head up and a slight gesture of the left hand, as of one not wholly
devoid of scientific attainment, the pair of ruffians turned off the
affair with a forced laugh; after which the whole of the company sought
their sleeping compartments or bunks, with but little of the delay
resulting from an elaborate _toilette de nuit_.
The next day found Jack and his companion in possession of the Dog-trap
out-station hut, and of two flocks of sheep, duly counted over to them
by the overseer. Two brush-yards constructed on the side of a rocky
hill, and half full of dry sheep manure, a guano-like accumulation of
years, completed the improvements.
A month’s ration for the two men (64lbs. of flour, 16lbs. sugar, and
2lbs. tea) was deposited upon the earthen floor by the ration-carrier,
who arrived in a spring-cart about the same time as themselves.
“Now, my men,” said the overseer, after counting the sheep and entering
them in his pocket-book, “you’re all right for a month. You can kill a
sheep every other week, and salt down what you can’t keep fresh. Smith,
you’ll have to stir them long legs of yours after your wethers; they’re
only four-tooth sheep, and devils to walk, I believe. Keep your
sheep-skins and send ’em in by the cart, or I’ll charge you half-a-crown
apiece for ’em. You can settle among yourselves which way you’ll run
your flocks; though I suppose you’ll quarrel, and not speak to each
other, like all the rest of the shepherds, before half your time is out.
If you lose any sheep, one of you come in and report. Good-morning.”
With which exhortation Mr. Hazeham rode off, either by nature not “a man
of much blandishment,” or not caring, on principle, to waste courtesy on
shepherds.
“So here we maun sojourn for sax months,” remarked old Jock, as they sat
at their evening meal, after having yarded their flocks, killed a sheep,
swept and garnished their hut, and made such approximation to comfort as
their means permitted. “I dinna ken but what we may gang along ducely
and comfortably. Ye were wise to write and order the weekly paper. It
will give us the haill news that’s going and many an hour’s guid
wholesome occupation, while the sheep are in camp or at the water. We’ll
maybe get a book or two from the station library.”
“I expect you’ll have most of the reading for a while,” answered ‘Mr.
Smith.’ “What’s the use of knowing that every one is better off than
one’s self? One comfort is that this flock keeps me going, and I shall
sleep at night in consequence.”
“Ye’ll no find them rin sae muckle after a week or twa’s guid
shepherding. There’s a braw ‘turn out’ here—both sides frae the hut;
once ye get to ken the ways o’ your flock, ye’ll be like the guid
shepherd in the Holy Book, and they’ll be mair like to follow ye, man,
than to keep rin-rinning awa’ after every bit of green feed.”
In spite of Jack’s gloomy air, and refusal to take comfort, or
acknowledge interest in life, matters slowly improved. The hut was not
so bad, clean-swept and daily tended by the neat handed Harlaw, who had
constituted himself cook, steward, and butler to the establishment. The
country was open, thus minimizing the labour of looking after the
flocks, which, left a good deal to themselves, as is the fashion of
experienced shepherds, mended and fattened apace. The atmosphere of the
interior, cool and fresh, “a nipping and an eager air,” soon commenced
to work improvement in the general health of the two Arcadians.
John Redgrave had considerately written and ordered one of the
excellently conducted weekly papers of the colony, which duly arrived,
directed to “Mr. John Smith, Jimburah, _viâ_ Walthamstowe,” such being
the imposing name of their post town. The weekly journals of Australia,
arranged something after the pattern of _The Field_, are, we may
confidently assert, in certain respects the most creditable specimens of
newspaper literature known to the English-speaking world. Comprising, as
they do, fairly-written leading articles, tales and sketches, essays
political, pastoral and agricultural information, travel, biography,
records and descriptions of all the nobler sports and athletic feats of
communities hereditarily addicted to such recreations, plus the ordinary
news of the day, they are hailed as a boon by all who have sufficient
intellectual development to feel the want of at least occasional mental
pabulum. Alike to the country gentleman and farmer, the lonely stockman,
the plodding drover, or the solitary shepherd, they are at once a
necessity and a benefit, occasionally a priceless luxury.
So it came to pass that after a few weeks had glided on, unmarked but by
no means slowly, and the fate-guided comrades had settled down to a
placid endurance bordering upon enjoyment of their damper, mutton,
quart-pot tea, and negro-head, Jack began to look forward to his paper,
and to digest the contents of it, from the stock advertisements to the
list of new books, unattainable, alas! with a relish which surprised
himself. The regular exercise, the healthful, pure atmosphere, the
absence of anxiety, the sound sleep, and natural appetite had produced
their ordinary effects, had thoroughly recruited his bodily and mental
powers. In despite of himself, so to speak, and of the persistence with
which he would declare that he was irrevocably ruined, his mental
thermometer rose perceptibly. He experienced once more a sensation (and
there is no more complete test of high bodily health) which he had
rarely enjoyed since the blessed days of Marshmead. He felt the
childlike lightness of spirit, on awakening with the dawn, which more
than all things denotes an uninjured and perfect physique, a nervous
system in normal and flawless condition. Wonderful is the self-attuning
power of the “harp of a thousand strings,” the divinely-fashioned
instrument upon which, alas! angelic melodies alternate with demon
wailings; and the fiend-chorus from the lowest inferno is mysteriously
permitted to drown the seraphic tones which would fain uplift the
aspirations of man to his celestial home.
* * * * *
With braced sinews, freshly-toned nerves, and veins refilled with pure
and unfevered blood, John Redgrave appeared so manifestly an altered man
that his humble mentor could not refrain from approving comment.
“Eh, ma certie, but ye’re just improvin’ and gainin’ strength, like the
vara sheep, the puir dumb craters, just uncommon. There’s a glint o’
your e’e, and a lift o’ your heed, and a swing o’ your walk that tell me
ye’re castin’ awa’ the black shadow—the Lord be praised for it, and for
a’ His mercies. I’ll live to see you ance mair in your rightful place
amang men, and ye’ll give old Jock a corner in your kitchen, or a lodge
gate to keep, when he’s too auld and failed to work, and hasna strength
left for as much as to drink.”
“You have a right to a share of whatever I may have in time to come,”
said Jack, with comparative cheerfulness. “But I have lost the habit of
hoping. I do feel wonderfully better; and if I _could_ look forward to
anything but to some fresh strange trick of destiny I should feel again
like the man I once was, who had the heart to dare and the hand to back
a bold adventure. But I doubt my luck, as I have had good reason to do;
and I believe old Blockham was not far wrong when he said that there
were some men (and he took me to be one of them) who, with whatever
apparent prospects, never did any good.”
“He’s an auld sneck-drawer. I kenned him weel when he hadna sae muckle
as a guid pair o’ boots. I wadna gie a foot-rot parin’ for the opinion
o’ a hunner like him.”
“He is a stupid old fellow enough,” said Jack; “but those sort of people
have an awkward knack of being right, especially where the making of
money is concerned. A man can’t be too thick-headed to be a successful
money-grubber.”
“It gars one doot o’ the wisdom and maircy of an over-ruling Providence
whiles,” assented the old man; “but I’ll no deny that siccan thoughts
hae passed through my ain brain when I hae seen the senseless, narrow,
meeserable ceephers that were permitted to gather up a’ the guid things
o’ this life. But that’s no to say that a man wi’ understanding and
pairts suldna learn caution frae adversity, and pass all these creeping
tortoise-bodies in the race of life, like the hare, puir beastie, if the
auld story-book had given him anither heat.”
“But the hare never gets a chance of a second heat, my old friend,” said
Jack, ruefully; “that’s the worst of it; he jumps into a gravel-pit, or
a stray greyhound chops him. I think I see my sheep drawing off.”
So the colloquy ended for the time. But Jack doubtless revolved the
question suggested by his humble friend, and asked himself whether the
returning hope of which he was conscious was the herald of a gleam of
fickle Fortune’s favour, or whether it was an _ignis fatuus_, destined
to lure him on to yet more dire misfortune.
“That can hardly be,” he concluded, in soliloquy. “I can’t well be
lower, and he that is down need fear no fall, as the old song says.”
But Jack’s hope this time was no _ignis fatuus_. He had seen the lowest
depths of his adversity, and though his spirit had been crushed for a
while his moral nature had not suffered. And now that his health was
restored he was ready to face his fate as a man should, and struggle
once more to get himself a place among other men as soon as he got the
chance; and the chance came soon, and in a form which he had not dared
to hope.
As he sat one day under a tree watching the sheep which were feeding on
a wide spread of country before him, he took a newspaper out of his
pocket which had arrived at the hut just as he was starting, and on
looking down the column of “local news” his eye met a paragraph which
caused the blood to leap in his veins, and filled his mind with a new
and sudden hope. It was this—
“We regret to hear that Mr. F. Forestall and his companion, a stockman,
name unknown, have been killed by the blacks when they were on their way
to take possession of some new land which Mr. Forestall had purchased.
The land is again in the market.”
Jack bounded from his seat in a state of feverish excitement. “By Jove!
there’s a chance for me yet, but I have not a minute to lose.”
He was impatient to be off at once, but there were the sheep to be
driven in and a horse to be got. While he stood thinking what was the
best to be done he saw Mr. Hazeham riding up, and suddenly resolved to
tell him of his predicament and appeal to him for help.
“Well, what do you want?” said the overseer, “and what do you mean by
sitting there reading the lies in that confounded paper and letting your
sheep go all over the country?”
“The sheep _have_ rather a spread,” said Jack, quietly, “but you’ll find
them all right. They are feeding towards the yard, and have a good way
to go yet, but if you have a few minutes to spare I want to speak to
you, if you please, and ask your help.”
Mr. Hazeham looked in surprise at “John Smith,” and his astonishment was
considerably increased when he heard all Jack had to say. He was
good-natured in the main, and not unwilling to help a man who had been a
large landed proprietor, and might be again; besides, he was not a
little pleased at his own sagacity, for he remembered that he had
described Jack to Mr. Delmayne, the proprietor, as looking “like a swell
out of luck,” so he promptly replied, “Certainly I will help you, Mr.
——”
“Redgrave,” said Jack, reddening.
“Mr. Redgrave, I see there’s no time to lose. You shall have old
Scamper, he’s the best horse we’ve got, and never mind about the sheep;
a fellow applied this morning, and he’s still at the huts. I shall be at
my place in an hour, or less; you come up, and you shall have the horse
and your wages, John Smith,” he added with a laugh.
Jack laughed too, and started off as fast as he could go to find the old
shepherd.
On his way his thoughts went back to Forestall whom he had never
forgiven for his treachery; but death does away with offences, and he
only felt pity towards the man who had supplanted him, and who had not
even entered into possession of his ill-gotten lands.
“Puir fellow,” said old Jock, when he heard the story, “I expect it was
the same black varmints that gave Meester Waldron his death. There’s
naething in the way of fichting so deevilish as thae wee pisoned arrows,
but I wadna hae ye too much set up. The land may be sold, ye ken.”
“True, but there _is_ a chance, and luck may be in my favour this time.”
“Dinna talk o’ luck, laddie; the Lord has seen fit to chastise your
pride, for weel ye wot ye were high-minded ance, and sin’ ye’ve taken
your punishment doucely I’m fain to believe that He may see fit to
reward you; and,” continued the old man, solemnly lifting his hands,
“wherever ye gang, and whatever happens, may the Lord bless ye, and hae
ye in His holy keepin’.”
“Good-bye, old fellow,” said Jack, wringing his hand, while his eyes
glistened with unwonted dew. “If I succeed you shall hear of me, and you
must come to me, and bring the dogs with you.”
Mounted on Scamper, which Jack had bought of Mr. Hazeham, he made the
best of his way to the town. His first proceeding was to call at the
office of the Minister for Lands: it was possible they might be able to
direct him to the agents of Mr. Forestall. Jack was fortunate enough to
see the minister himself, who remembered him directly, for he had felt
much sympathy with Jack, and had been indignant at the way he had been
treated.
“I suppose you are come about that land, Mr. Redgrave?”
“Yes, I am,” said Jack, with a beating heart, and a desperate attempt to
speak calmly. “I hope I am not too late. Will you tell me, sir, whether
the transfer was quite completed?”
“I am happy to tell you it was not, Mr. Redgrave. The papers were drawn
up, but there has been some delay in the office. Poor Forestall was
eager to see his possessions, and thought he would conclude the
arrangements when he came back. So I suppose we have but to transfer the
names, eh?”
“Thank God,” said Jack, fervently, and the sudden revulsion from fear
and uncertainty to assurance sent a sudden choke into his throat which
prevented his saying any more.
The minister saw his agitation, and talked on in a kindly way, giving
him time to recover.
From the minister’s office Jack went to the cattle agents he had seen
before, and made the same arrangements as formerly. He had not touched
poor Guy’s £300, and that would be enough to get stores, pay wages, and
so on.
There was no delay anywhere. Every one in the office knew how Jack had
been cheated, and was ready to oblige him; so the papers were ready for
him in a very short time, and once more he set out on his travels.