It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith into his
confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs.
“You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to,
Smith--when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief.
You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are
that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time--that's the main
reason why I don't mind talking to you. You ought to consider yourself
honoured; it ain't every man I take into my confidence, even that far.”
Smith rubbed his head.
“I'd sooner talk to you--or a stump--any day than to one of those
silent, suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen to
everything you say--sense and rubbish alike--as if you were trying to
get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man who listens to me all
the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe. He isn't to be
trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours, and there's
too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind, and no
stone--though I'd manage it once, anyhow.”
“How'd you do it?” asked Smith.
“There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance, and find
a grindstone--or make one of the other man's axe. But the last way is
too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work--besides, it doesn't
pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride, but I've got none. I had
once, when I was younger, but it--well, it nearly killed me, so I
dropped it.
“You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do; he'll
make a safe mate--or a good grindstone.”
Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire, with
the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question or the
trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand and watched Smith
thoughtfully.
“I--I say, Steely,” exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up and scratching
his head and blinking harder than ever--“wha--what am I?”
“How do you mean?”
“Am I the axe or the grindstone?”
“Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith. Well,
you turn the grindstone and I grind.” Smith settled. “If you could
grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind, I'd never go
against the interests of the firm--that's fair enough, isn't it?”
“Ye-es,” admitted Smith; “I suppose so.”
“So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years, off
and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing,
for instance--and so might you.”
Smith began to look alarmed.
“Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us--such things have
happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death might
mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep, and
cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble,
and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle; or
I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me
out--though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and
cut you, or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out
after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a
mug, and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know.
You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded) and
then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me)
for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become a respected and
worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came within ten miles of me
or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up for vagrancy, or
soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail. I'd have to fix
you--so I give you fair warning. Or we might get into some desperate
fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either) when I'd be obliged to
sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort, and convenience.
Hundreds of things might happen.
“Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years, and I've
found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part--as we
will sooner or later--and you survive, I'll give you some advice from my
own experience.
“In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again--and it
wouldn't do you much harm--get born with the strength of a bullock and
the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains--at least
no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin like
tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart.
“Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it, clear out
on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can. I hung
on.
“If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time when
you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you
might take it into his head to do)--don't do it. They'll get a down on
you if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's
no dislike like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude
nor civility in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character.
(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.)
There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of, the
mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started by his
own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account.
Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends.
“If you ever go to work--and miracles have happened before--no matter
what your wages are, or how you are treated, you can take it for granted
that you're sweated; act on that to the best of your ability, or you'll
never rise in the world. If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be
found a comfortable seat in a good place; but if you pay the chances
are the ticket clerk will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for
standing room. The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world;
anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays. If you try to
be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later; if you try to be too
honest the chances are that the bailiff will get into your house--if you
have one--and make a holy show of you before the neighbours. The honest
softy is more often mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one,
than the out-and-out scamp; and the man that tells the truth too much
is set down as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low
and roost high, for it's a funny world, and you never know what might
happen.
“And if you get married (and there's no accounting for a woman's taste)
be as bad as you like, and then moderately good, and your wife will
love you. If you're bad all the time she can't stand it for ever, and if
you're good all the time she'll naturally treat you with contempt. Never
explain what you're going to do, and don't explain afterwards, if you
can help it. If you find yourself between two stools, strike hard for
your own self, Smith--strike hard, and you'll be respected more than if
you fought for all the world. Generosity isn't understood nowadays, and
what the people don't understand is either 'mad' or 'cronk'. Failure has
no case, and you can't build one for it.... I started out in life very
young--and very soft.”
. . . . .
“I thought you were going to tell me your story, Steely,” remarked
Smith.
Steelman smiled sadly.
[End of original text.]
About the author:
Henry Lawson was born near Grenfell, New South Wales, Australia on
17 June 1867. Although he has since become Australia's most acclaimed
writer, in his own lifetime his writing was often “on the side”--his
“real” work being whatever he could find. His writing was frequently
taken from memories of his childhood, especially at Pipeclay/Eurunderee.
In his autobiography, he states that many of his characters were
taken from the better class of diggers and bushmen he knew there.
His experiences at this time deeply influenced his work, for it is
interesting to note a number of descriptions and phrases that are
identical in his autobiography and in his stories and poems. He died at
Sydney, 2 September 1922. He is most famous for his short stories.
“On the Track” and “Over the Sliprails” were both published at Sydney
in 1900, the prefaces being dated March and June respectively--and so,
though printed separately, a combined edition was printed the same
year (the two separate, complete works were simply put together in one
binding); hence they are sometimes referred to as “On the Track and Over
the Sliprails”.
. . . . .
An incomplete Glossary of Australian terms and concepts which may prove
helpful to understanding this book:
Anniversary Day: Alluded to in the text, is now known as Australia
Day. It commemorates the establishment of the first English
settlement in Australia, at Port Jackson (Sydney Harbour), on 26
January 1788.
Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for
tea.
Cabbage-tree/Cabbage-tree hat: A wide-brimmed hat made with the
leaves of the cabbage tree palm (Livistona australis). It was a
common hat in early colonial days, and later became associated with
patriotism.
Gin: An aboriginal woman; use of the term is analogous to “squaw”
in N. America. May be considered derogatory in modern usage.
Graft: Work; hard work.
Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush,
especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah,
wurley, or mia-mia.
Jackeroo/Jackaroo: At the time Lawson wrote, a Jackeroo was a “new
chum” or newcomer to Australia, who sought work on a station to
gain experience. The term now applies to any young man working as a
station hand. A female station hand is a Jillaroo.
Jumbuck: A sheep.
Larrikin: A hoodlum.
Lollies: Candy, sweets.
'Possum/Possum: In Australia, a class of marsupials that were
originally mistaken for the American animal of the same name. They
are not especially related to the possums of North and South
America, other than being marsupials.
Public/Pub.: The traditional pub. in Australia was a hotel with a
“public” bar--hence the name. The modern pub has often (not always)
dispensed with the lodging, and concentrated on the bar.
Push: A group of people sharing something in common; Lawson uses the
word in an older and more particular sense, as a gang of violent
city hoodlums.
Ratty: Shabby, dilapidated; somewhat eccentric, perhaps even
slightly mad.
Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land
by lease or license from the government.
Shout: To buy a round of drinks.
Sliprails/slip-rails: movable rails, forming a section of fence,
which can be taken down in lieu of a gate.
Sly grog shop or shanty: An unlicensed bar or liquor-store,
especially one selling cheap or poor-quality liquor.
Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government
permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to
raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner.
Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep.
Stoush: Violence; to do violence to.
Tea: In addition to the regular meaning, Tea can also mean a light
snack or a meal (i.e., where Tea is served). In particular, Morning
Tea (about 10 AM) and Afternoon Tea (about 3 PM) are nothing more
than a snack, but Evening Tea (about 6 PM) is a meal. When just
“Tea” is used, it usually means the evening meal. Variant: Tea-
time.
Tucker: Food.
Also: a hint with the seasons--remember that the seasons are
reversed from those in the northern hemisphere, hence June may be
hot, but December is even hotter. Australia is at a lower latitude
than the United States, so the winters are not harsh by US
standards, and are not even mild in the north. In fact, large parts
of Australia are governed more by “dry” versus “wet” than by Spring-
Summer-Fall-Winter.
(Alan Light, Monroe, North Carolina, March 1998.)