When the poet, in the pursuit of his fancy, eulogised the stately
homes of England, he must have forgotten or totally ignored a class
of dwelling dearer to my mind than all the marble halls the taste or
vanity of man ever designed. The Duke of Stilton doubtless prefers
his ancestral home, with its towers and turrets, its capacious
stables—which, by-the-bye, seem the first consideration in the
Brobdingnagian erections of the hour; he may wander with an air of
pride through the Raphael hall and the Teniers gallery or the Cuyp
drawing-room. For me, he can have his art treasures, his Carrara
marbles, his priceless Wedgwood, his Dresden. He may enjoy his
drawing-rooms—blue, red, and every colour in the universe. He may dine
in the bosom of his family on every delicacy a _cordon bleu_ can devise
to tickle the palate and stimulate the appetite, with its accompaniment
of rose-patterned silver and dainty china. Let him luxuriate in it all,
if he will.
I have in my mind’s eye a house far different from His Grace’s,
but which, nevertheless, if not rich in costly bric-à-brac, has an
appearance of harmony and refinement refreshing beyond belief. It is
the house, or, if you will, the villa of Eastwood. Against the main
road is a rugged stone wall, moss-incrusted and lichen-strewn, and
surmounted by dense laurel. Opening the old-fashioned wooden gate, a
broad path leads to the door, which is some forty yards away, at the
side of the house. It is a low, gray stone house, clustered with ivy
and clematis, and climbing roses twisting round the long double row of
windows. In front is the lawn, quite half an acre in extent, and shut
off from a garden by a brick wall, covered with apricot and nectarine.
On the right, leading towards the house, is a sloping bank, all white
and fragrant in spring with violets; and above this bank, approached
by an ancient horse-block, is the old-world garden. It is a large
garden, with broad green paths, sheltered by bowers of apple-trees,
and the borders gay with wall-flowers, mignonette, stocks, pansies,
London-pride, Tom-Thumb, and here and there great bushes of lavender
and old-man. Far down is a walk of filbert trees, where the wily
squirrel makes merry in the harvest-time, and the cherry-trees all
melodious with the song of the blackbird. There is a balmy smell here
of thyme and sage and endive, and the variety of sweet herbs which our
grandmothers were wont to cull in autumn, and suspend in muslin bags
from the kitchen rafters.
Opening the heavy hall door with the licensed freedom of the novelist,
we find ourselves in the hall, whence we reach the drawing-room. Here
we find our friends, awaiting the arrival of Miss Wakefield. They
have been talking and chatting gaily; but as the time for that lady’s
arrival draws near, conversation becomes flat, and there is an air of
expectation and suppressed excitement about them, which would at once
convince the observer that something important was on hand.
Mr Carver rose from his seat, and, for about the fiftieth time, walked
to the window and looked out. It was amusing to note his easy air
and debonair appearance, which was palpably assumed to impress the
spectators with the idea that he was by no means anxious. The only
member of the party who really could be said to be at ease was Mr
Bates. He wore his best clothes, and had an air of resigned settled
melancholy, evidently expecting the worst, and prepared to have his cup
of joy—representing in his case his partnership—dashed from his lips at
the last moment.
Felix was discussing the affair with Edgar in a low voice, and Eleanor
sat white and still, only showing her impatience ever and anon by a
gentle tap upon the floor with her heel. Mr Slimm was whistling softly
in a low key, and industriously engaged in whittling a stick in his
hand. Mr Carver returned from his post of observation and threw himself
back in his chair with an involuntary sigh. Slimm put up his knife.
‘I vote we begin,’ said Edgar at length.
‘No, no; it would not do—it really would not do,’ interposed Mr Carver,
seeing the company generally inclined to this view. ‘The lady whom we
await is capable of anything. If we found a will in her absence, she
would not be above saying we put it there.’
‘Judging from my limited experience of the lady, I calculate you are
about right, sir,’ said Mr Slimm. ‘No; after so many years’ patience,
it would certainly be unwise to do anything rash now.’
‘It is the last few moments which seem so hard,’ Eleanor said.
‘Suppose, after all, we should find nothing!’
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t think of such a thing!’ Edgar exclaimed.
‘Fancy, after all this bother and anxiety!’
The party lapsed into silence again, and once more Mr Carver strolled
towards the window. It is strange, when one is anxiously waiting for
anything, how slowly time goes. Edgar took his watch out of his pocket
every other minute, like a schoolboy who wears one for the first time.
‘I think I will walk down the road and see if she is coming,’ Slimm
observed. ‘It would look a little polite, I think.’
Edgar murmured something touching love’s young dream, and asked the
American if the fascination was so strong.
‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘I don’t deny she is fascinating; but it is not
the sort of glamour that generally thrills the young bosom. One thing
we all agree upon, I think, and that is, that we shall be all extremely
pleased to see the lady.’
‘That is a strange thing in itself,’ Edgar replied drily. ‘The damsel
is evidently coy. She is at present, doubtless, struggling with her
emotion. I fancy she does not intend to come.’
At this moment there was a sound of wheels, and a coach pulled up at
the gate. After a moment, a tall black figure was seen approaching the
house. A few seconds later, Miss Wakefield entered the room.
INVESTORS AND THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
SECOND ARTICLE.
In a former article we endeavoured to explain the _modus operandi_
of Stock Exchange transactions; and our object now is to make a few
remarks upon the rights and duties of investors and members of the
Stock Exchange respectively. As formerly explained, when any business
is transacted on the Stock Exchange, the broker always renders to his
client a contract containing the particulars of the transaction, which
is understood to be carried through in accordance with the rules and
regulations of the Stock Exchange. These rules have been compiled with
the strictest regard to the rights and duties of both parties, and are
altered from time to time as circumstances may require. They are in
complete accordance with the law of the land; and when any question
has arisen in regard to Stock Exchange affairs, the courts of law
have invariably allowed that those rules have been framed on the most
equitable principles.
When a contract has been rendered, broker and client are equally bound
to fulfil their part of it: the broker, in the case of a purchase, to
deliver to, his client an authentic certificate of the stock, and in
the case of a sale, to pay for the stock on delivery of a properly
executed transfer; the client to pay the consideration-money, &c.,
when the stock is purchased for him, and to deliver the transfer duly
executed, with the certificate, when the stock is sold. Many investors,
while looking very sharply after their rights, entirely lose sight of
their duties, and altogether forget that there must be two parties to
every contract. When a man sells stock, he is entitled to a cheque for
the proceeds the moment he hands the executed transfer to his broker,
and no sooner; and when stock is purchased, the broker is entitled to
receive the purchase-money when he delivers the transfer to his client
for signature, and no sooner. Many persons, however, imagine that if
they send their broker a cheque for stock bought a day or two after
the account-day, it will be time enough, being ignorant of the fact
that the latter is obliged by the rules to pay for the stock when it
is delivered to him, either on the account-day or any subsequent day.
Those living at a distance from London should therefore be careful to
let the money be in the hands of their broker on the morning of the
account-day at the very latest; or if they object to pay for stock
before receiving it, should instruct a banker in the City to pay for
the stock, or proportionately for any part, on delivery, so that the
broker may not be out of the money. Of course, brokers are not supposed
to have unlimited balances at their bankers, and it is frequently a
real hardship for them to be obliged to find the money as best they
can. The Stock Exchange rules admit of no delay whatever, and must be
acted up to by the members, without any regard to the negligence or
inattention of the investor.
When stock payable to bearer is not delivered to the buying-broker on
the account-day, he has the power, on the following day, of ordering
it to be purchased, or ‘bought in’ as it is called, in the market for
immediate delivery, and any loss consequent upon the buying-in must
be paid by the seller. In the case of registered stocks, however, ten
days after the account-day are allowed for delivery. This is only
reasonable, as a deed of transfer frequently requires the signature of
several sellers, or the seller may reside at a distance, and thus delay
cannot be avoided. On the expiry of the time named, the broker can ‘buy
in,’ as in the case of stock to bearer. If the buyer of stock to bearer
does not receive the stock from his broker within a day or two after
the account-day, or registered stock within about ten days after the
account-day, he has a perfect right to know the reason of the delay,
and failing any proper excuse, should give instructions to ‘buy in,’ as
explained above.
The Committee of the Stock Exchange have always done everything in
their power to insure the strict fulfilment of all bargains entered
into by the members; and if any investor feels aggrieved or thinks he
has been unfairly dealt with, a letter addressed to the Committee will
at once bring the culprit to book. Accounts are settled fortnightly,
about the middle and end of each month; and every member of the House
prepares, or ought to prepare, a balance-sheet, showing exactly how he
stands on these occasions. If a member finds that he is unable to meet
his engagements, he should at once notify the fact to the Committee,
when he will instantly be declared a defaulter. This disagreeable duty
is performed by an official of the Stock Exchange, who, after three
knocks with a hammer, which resound through the House, intimates that
‘Mr —— begs to inform the House that he is unable to comply with his
bargains.’ If, as frequently happens, the defaulter has issued cheques
on the account-day which have been returned by his banker, the formula
is: ‘Mr —— has not complied with his bargains.’ After such declaration,
the defaulting member is precluded from any further dealings with his
fellow-members, and his affairs are placed in the hands of the official
assignee, who proceeds to wind up the estate and distribute whatever
dividend it will realise. The sound of the dreaded ‘hammer’ produces
universal stillness and apprehension, and where a few seconds before
was heard the hum of many voices and the sound of hurrying feet, now
every ear is on the alert to hear the name of the proscribed member. As
soon as the name is announced, it is posted up in a conspicuous part
of the House, exposed to the gaze and subject to the derogatory remarks
of the members for the rest of the day. As may well be imagined, the
fact of having been ‘hammered,’ whatever a man’s future life may be,
casts a dark shadow which cannot be got rid of; and investors may be
quite certain that the members of the Stock Exchange will strain every
nerve to avoid the disgrace. The rules of the House are, however,
inexorable, and the fatal hammer must sound if engagements are not
strictly and promptly met. In no trade, business, or profession does
the punishment follow so quickly upon the offence, and it would be well
if all commercial and financial default were as promptly declared to
the world.
As will be seen from what we have said, the rights and duties of
investors and members are clearly defined, and both parties have a
right to expect them to be carried out with punctuality. Promptitude is
praiseworthy under all circumstances, but on the Stock Exchange it is
essential for the sake both of members and investors. No slovenliness
or easy slipshod habits of doing business should be permitted on either
side; and investors, while insisting on their rights, should bear in
mind that their contracts with their brokers ought to be carried out
with exactitude on their part, to enable the latter to fulfil their
duties towards their fellow-members.
One other point we would urge investors to bear in mind, and that is,
that stockbrokers are not prophets. Many investors, especially ladies,
think the reverse. We have frequently heard very hard words indeed used
towards brokers who have been unfortunate enough to advise a purchase
which has turned out badly; but a moment’s thought must demonstrate
the folly of such expressions of feeling. If a broker knows positively
what course the market is to take in any particular stock, he has only
to buy or sell it to the amount required for producing the profit he
desires. Many investors, however, when smarting under losses, are apt
to rush to conclusions which reflection proves to be utterly unjust.
It is true that stockbrokers ought to be better acquainted with stocks
and everything pertaining thereto than the large majority of investors;
but it is absurd to suppose that their views should never be wrong. Let
investors be satisfied with a reasonable rate of interest, never buy
stock without the advice of a stockbroker, never buy what they cannot
pay for, or sell what they are not prepared to deliver, and we are
certain there would be fewer sleepless pillows and more money in the
coffers.
Speculation, we fear, is inherent in the human constitution, and all
that we can say on the subject is not likely to put a stop to it. It
is natural to the human animal to desire to make money without working
for it, and no doubt such a state of affairs will exist to the end.
But experience teaches. We once heard an old man, who had been a large
speculator in his early days, say that if he had put his money into
consols when he first began to save, and continued doing so, instead of
running after high rates of interest, he would have been a very much
richer man in his old age. In the furious race for riches, we feel
certain that the steady investor has the best of it; and the man who is
not even able to do more than make both ends meet is infinitely happier
than he who spends restless days and sleepless nights in the pursuit
of that sudden wealth, which he, in all probability, goes down to his
grave without acquiring.
THE ‘LADY GODIVA.’
AN AUSTRALIAN STORY.
It happened that one summer, a few years ago, I found myself travelling
up the Barwon River, just where it commences to form the boundary
between Queensland and New South Wales. The weather was terribly hot,
and feed for horses scarce, so that I was only too glad to accept the
invitation of a hospitable settler, an old acquaintance in digging days
gone by, to stay and ‘spell’ for a week or two, whilst my horses put
on a little condition in his well-grassed paddocks. The country round
about at that time, even on the river frontages, was very sparsely
settled, and comparatively young people could remember when the
blacks were ‘bad.’ Dingoes, kangaroos, wild-cattle, and ‘brombees’ or
wild-horses, roamed the great scrubs in thousands; and with respect to
broken-in and branded individuals of the two latter species, the laws
of _meum_ and _tuum_ seemed to be very lightly regarded amongst the
pioneers of the border; and for a settler to put in an appearance at
his neighbour’s killing-yard whilst the operation of converting bullock
into beef was going on, was deemed the very height of bad manners,
inexcusable, indeed, unless perhaps in the newest of new-chums, at
least till the hide was off and the brand cut out.
My friend had only recently taken up ground on the river; but his next
and nearest neighbour, old Tom Dwyer, who resided about five-and-twenty
miles away, was a settler of many years’ standing; and it was from him
that, towards the end of my stay with the Brays, came an invitation to
the wedding festivities of his only daughter, who was to be married to
a young cousin, also a Dwyer, who followed the occupation of a drover.
As Bray and myself rode along in the cool of the early morning—the
womenkind and children having set out by moonlight the night before in
a spring-cart—he gave me a slight sketch of the people whose hearty
invitation we were accepting.
‘A rum lot,’ said my old friend—a fine specimen of the bushman-digger
type of Australian-born colonist, hardy, brave, and intelligent, who
had, after many years of a roving, eventful life, at last settled down
to make himself a home in the wilderness—‘a rum lot, these Dwyers.
Not bad neighbours by no means, at least not to me. I speak as I
find; but people do say that they come it rather too strong sometimes
with the squatters’ stock, and that young Jim—him as is goin’ to get
switched—and old Tom his uncle do work the oracle atween ’em. I mind,
not so long ago, young Jim he starts up north somewhere with about a
score head o’ milkers and their calves; and when he comes back again
in about six months, he fetched along with him over three hundred head
o’ cattle! “Increase,” he called ’em—ha, ha! A very smart lad is Jim
Dwyer; but the squatters are getting carefuller now; and I’m afraid, if
he don’t mind, that he’ll find himself in the logs some o’ these fine
days. He’s got a nice bit o’ a place over the river, on the New South
Wales side, has Jim, just in front o’ Fort Dwyer, as they call the old
man’s camp. You could a’most chuck a stone from one house to the other.’
So conversing, after about three hours’ steady-riding through open box
forest country, flat and monotonous, we arrived at ‘Fort Dwyer’—or
Dee-wyer, as invariably pronounced thereabouts—a long, low building,
constructed of huge, roughly squared logs of nearly fireproof red
coolabah, or swamp-gum, and situated right on the verge of the steep
clay bank, twenty feet below which glided sullenly along the sluggish
Barwon, then nearly half a ‘banker.’
A hearty welcome greeted us; and the inevitable ‘square-face’ of
spirits was at once produced, to which my companion did justice whilst
pledging the health of the company with a brief, ‘Well, here’s luck,
lads!’ For my own part, not daring to tackle the half-pannikinful of
fiery Mackay rum so pressingly offered, with the assurance that it was
‘the finest thing out after a warm ride,’ I paid my respects to an
immense cask of honey-beer which stood under a canopy of green boughs,
thus running some risk of losing caste as a bushman by appropriating
‘the women’s swankey,’ as old Dwyer contemptuously termed it, whilst
insisting on ‘tempering’ my drink with ‘just the least taste in life,
sir,’ of Port Mackay, of about 45 o. p. strength.
There must have been fully one hundred people assembled; and the
open space just in front of the house was crowded with buggies,
spring-carts, wagonettes, and even drays; but the great centre of
attraction was the stockyard, where Jim Dwyer was breaking-in to the
side-saddle a mare, bought in one of his recent trips ‘up north,’ and
intended as a present for his bride, of whom I caught a glimpse as
she sat on an empty kerosene tin, with her sleeves rolled up, busily
engaged in plucking poultry; a fair type of the bush-maiden, tall and
slender, with good, though sharply cut features, deeply browned by
the sun, laughing dark eyes, perfect teeth—a rare gift amongst young
Australians—and as much at home—so old Bray assured me—on horseback
cutting out ‘scrubbers’ or ‘brombees,’ as was her husband-elect himself.
The rails of the great stockyard were crowded with tall,
cabbage-tree-hatted, booted and spurred ‘Cornstalks’ and ‘Banana-men’
(natives of New South Wales and Queensland respectively); and loud
were their cries of admiration, as young Dwyer, on the beautiful and,
to my eyes, nearly thoroughbred black mare, cantered round and round,
whilst flourishing an old riding-skirt about her flanks.
‘She’ll do, Jim—quiet as a sheep’—‘My word! she’ll carry Annie
flying’—‘What did yer give for her, Jim?’—‘A reg’lar star, an’ no
mistake!’ greeted the young man, as, lightly jumping off, he unbuckled
the girths and put the saddle on the slip-rails.
Jim Dwyer differed little from the ordinary style of young bush
‘native’—tall, thin, brown, quick-eyed, narrow in the flanks; but with
good breadth of chest, and feet which, from their size and shape, might
have satisfied even that captious critic the Lady Hester Stanhope,
under whose instep ‘a kitten could walk,’ that the Australians of a
future nation would not be as the British, ‘a flat-soled generation, of
whom no great or noble achievement could ever be expected.’
I fancied that, as the young fellow came forward to shake hands with
Bray, he looked uneasily and rather suspiciously at me out of the
corner of one of his black eyes. My companion evidently observed it
also, for he said laughingly: ‘What’s the matter, Jim? Only a friend of
mine. Is the mare “on the cross?” And did you think he was a “trap?”’
‘None o’ your business, Jack Bray,’ was the surly reply. ‘“Cross” or
“square,” she’s mine till some one comes along who can show a better
right to her, an’ that won’t happen in a hurry.’
‘Well, well,’ replied Bray, ‘you needn’t get crusty so confounded
quick. But she’s a pretty thing, sure enough. Let’s go and have a look
at her.’
Everybody now crowded round the mare, praising and admiring her. ‘Two
year old, just,’ exclaimed one, looking in her mouth.—‘Rising three,
I say,’ replied another.—‘And a cleanskin, and unbranded!’ ejaculated
Bray, at the same time passing his hand along the mare’s wither.
‘That’s a disease can soon be cured,’ said Dwyer with a laugh. ‘I’m
agoin’ to clap the J. D. on her now.—Shove her in the botte, boys,
while I go an’ fetch the irons up.’
‘That mare’s a thoroughbred, and a race-mare to boot, and she’s “on the
cross” right enough,’ whispered Bray, as we walked back towards the
house. ‘She’s been shook; and though she ain’t fire-branded, there’s a
half-sovereign let in under the skin just below the wither; I felt it
quite plain; and I wouldn’t wonder but there’s a lot more private marks
on her as we can’t see.’
‘Do you think, then,’ I asked, ‘that young Dwyer stole her?’
‘Likely enough, likely enough,’ was the reply. ‘But if he did, strikes
me as we’ll hear more about the matter yet.’
Just at this moment, shouts of, ‘Here’s the parson!’—‘Here’s old Ben!’
drew our attention to a horseman who was coming along the narrow track
at a slow canter.
A well-known character throughout the whole of that immense district
was the Rev. Benjamin Back, ‘bush missionary;’ and not less well
known was his old bald-faced horse Jerry. The pair bore a grotesque
resemblance to each other, both being long and ungainly, both thin
and gray, both always ready to eat and drink, and yet always looking
desolate and forlorn. As the Rev. Ben disengaged his long legs from the
stirrups, the irrepressible old Dwyer appeared with the greeting-cup—a
tin pint-pot half full of rum—which swallowing with scarcely a wink, to
the great admiration of the lookers-on, the parson, commending Jerry
to the care of his host, stalked inside, and was soon busy at the
long table, working away at a couple of roast-ducks, a ham, and other
trifles, washed down with copious draughts of hot tea, simply remarking
to ‘Annie,’ that she ‘had better make haste and clean herself, so that
he could put her and Jim through, as he had to go on to Bullarora that
evening to bury a child for the Lacies.’
Having at length finished his repast, all hands crowded into the long
room, where before ‘old Ben’ stood bride and bridegroom, the former
neatly dressed in dark merino—her own especial choice, as I was told,
in preference to anything gayer—with here and there a bright-coloured
ribbon, whilst in her luxuriant black hair and in the breast of her
dress were bunches of freshly plucked orange blossoms, that many a
belle of proud Mayfair might have envied. The bridegroom in spotless
white shirt, with handkerchief of crimson silk, confined loosely around
his neck by a massive gold ring, riding-trousers of Bedford cord, kept
up by a broad belt, worked in wools of many colours by his bride, and
shining top-boots and spurs, looked the very beau-idéal of a dashing
stockman, as he bore himself elate and proudly, without a trace of
that bucolic sheepishness so often witnessed in the principal party to
similar contracts.
The old parson, with the perspiration induced by recent gastronomic
efforts rolling in beads off his bald head, and dropping from the tip
of his nose on to the church-service in his hand, had taken off his
long coat of threadbare rusty black, and stood confessed in shirt of
hue almost akin to that of the long leggings that reached above his
knees. It was meltingly hot; and the thermometer—had there been such
an article—would have registered one hundred and ten or one hundred
and fifteen degrees in the shade at the least. But it was all over at
last. Solemnly ‘old Ben’ had kissed the darkly flushing bride, and
told her to be a good girl to Jim—solemnly the old man had disposed
of another ‘parting cup;’ and then, whilst the womenkind filled his
saddle-bags with cake, chicken, and ham, together with the generous
half of a ‘square-face’—or large square-sided bottle—containing his
favourite summer beverage, old Dwyer, emerging from one of the inner
rooms, produced a piece of well-worn bluish-tinted paper, known and
appreciated in those regions as a ‘bluey,’ at sight of which the
parson’s eye glistened, for seldom was it that he had the fortune to
come across such a liberal douceur as a five-pound note; but as old
Dwyer said: ‘We don’t often have a job like this one for you Ben, old
man. We’re pretty well in just now, an’ I mean you shall remember it.
An’ look here; Jerry’s getting pretty poor now, an’ I know myself he’s
no chicken; so you’d best leave him on the grass with us for the rest
o’ his days, an’ I’ll give you as game a bit o’ horse-flesh as ever
stepped; quiet, too, an’ a good pacer. See! the boys is a-saddlin’ him
up now.’
The old preacher’s life was hard, for the most part barren, and little
moistened by kind offers like the present; and his grim and wrinkled
face puckered up and worked curiously as he gratefully accepted the
gift for Jerry’s sake, his constant companion through twelve long years
of travel incessant through the wildest parts of Queensland; and with
a parting injunction to ‘the boys’ to look after the old horse, he,
mounting his new steed, started off on his thirty-mile ride to bury
Lacy’s little child.
The long tables, at which all hands had intermittently appeased their
hunger throughout the day, on fowls, geese, turkeys, sucking-pig, fish,
&c., were now cleared and removed; a couple of concertinas struck up,
and fifteen or twenty couples were soon dancing with might and main on
the pine-boarded floor. Old men and young, old women and maidens, boys
and girls, all went at it with a will, whirling, stamping, changing and
‘chaining’ till the substantial old house shook again, and fears were
audibly expressed that the whole building would topple over into the
river.
‘Not to-night, of all nights in the year,’ said old Dwyer; ‘although I
do believe I’ll have to shift afore long. Ye’ll hardly think it—would
ye?—that when I first put up the old shanty, it stood four chain, good,
away from the bank; it was, though, all that; an’ many a sneaking,
greasy black-fellow I’ve seen go slap into the water with a rifle
bullet through his ugly carcass out of that back-winder, though it is
plumb a’most with the river now.’
So, louder and louder screamed the concertinas, faster and faster
whirled the panting couples, till nearly midnight, when ‘supper’ was
announced by the sound of a great bullock bell, and out into the calm
night-air trooped the crowd. The tables this time had been set out
on the sward in front of the house, just without the long dark line
of forest which bordered the river, through the tops of whose giant
‘belars’ the full moon shone down on the merry feasters with a subdued
glory; whilst, in a quiet pause, you could hear the rush of the strong
Barwon current, broken, every now and again, by a deep-sounding ‘plop,’
as some fragment of the ever-receding clayey bank would fall into the
water. Four or five native bears, disturbed by the noise, crawled out
on the limbs of a great coolabar, and with unwinking, beady-black
eyes, gazed on the scene below, expressing their astonishment every
now and again in hoarse mutterings, now low and almost inarticulate,
then ‘thrum, thrumming’ through the bush till it rang again. From a
neighbouring swamp came the shrill scream of the curlew; whilst far
away in the low ranges of Cooyella, could be heard the dismal howl of a
solitary dingo coo-ee-ing to his mates.
Scarcely had the guests taken their seats and commenced, amidst jokes
and laughter, to attack a fresh and substantial meal, when a furious
barking, from a pack of about fifty dogs, announced the advent of
strangers; and in a minute more, three horsemen, in the uniform of
the Queensland mounted police, rode up to the tables. One, a sergeant
apparently, dismounted, and with his bridle over his arm, strode
forward, commanding every one to keep their seats; for several at
first sight of the ‘traps’ had risen, and apparently thought of
quietly slipping away. This order, however, enforced as it was by the
production of a revolver, together with an evident intention of using
it on any absconder, brought them to their seats again.
‘What’s all this about?’ exclaimed old Dwyer. ‘We’re all honest people
here, mister, so you can put up your pistol. Tell us civilly what it
is you’re wantin’, an’ we’ll try an’ help you; but don’t come it too
rough. You ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself. Don’t ye see the faymales?’
‘Can’t help the females,’ retorted the sergeant sharply. ‘I haven’t
ridden four hundred miles to play polite to a lot of women. I want
a man named James Dwyer; and by the description, yonder’s the man
himself’—pointing at the same time across the table to where sat the
newly-made husband, who had been one of the first to make a move at
sight of the police.
‘What’s the charge, sargent?’ asked old Dwyer coolly.
‘Horse-stealing,’ was the reply; ‘and here’s the warrant, signed by the
magistrate in Tambo, for his apprehension.’
I was sitting quite close to the object of these inquiries, and at
this moment I heard young Mrs Dwyer, whilst leaning across towards her
husband, whisper something about ‘the river’ and ‘New South Wales;’
and in another moment, head over heels down the steep bank rolled the
recently created benedict, into the curious and cool nuptial couch of
swiftly flowing, reddish water, which he breasted with ease, making
nearly a straight line for the other bank, distant perhaps a couple of
hundred yards.
The troopers, drawing their revolvers, dismounted, and running forward,
were about to follow the example set by their superior, who was
taking steady aim at the swimmer, perfectly discernible in the clear
moonlight, when suddenly half-a-dozen pair of soft but muscular arms
encircled the three representatives of law and order, as the women,
screaming like a lot of curlews after a thunderstorm, clasped them in a
tight embrace.
Young Mrs Dwyer herself tackled the sergeant, crying: ‘What! would you
shoot a man just for a bit of horse-sweating! Leave him go, can’t you.
He’s over the border now in New South Wales, mare and all; and you
can’t touch him, even if you was there.’
Just then a yell of triumph from the scrub on the other shore seemed
to vouch for the fact, and was answered by a dozen sympathetic whoops
and shouts from the afore-mentioned ‘Cornstalks’ and ‘Banana-men,’ who
crowded along our side of the river.
The sergeant struggled to free himself; and his fair antagonist unwound
her arms, saying: ‘Come now, sargent, sit down peaceably and eat your
supper, can’t you! What’s the good of making such a bother over an old
scrubber of a mare!’
‘An old scrubber of a mare!’ repeated the sergeant aghast ‘D’ye think
we’d ride this far over a scrubber of a mare? Why, it’s the Lady Godiva
he took; old Stanford’s race-mare, worth five hundred guineas, if
she’s worth a penny. Bother me! if he didn’t take her clean out of the
stable in Tambo, settling-night, after she’d won the big money! But
there, you all know as much about it as I can tell you, that’s plain
to be seen, for I never mentioned a mare; it was your own self, I do
believe; and I’ll have him, if I have to follow him to Melbourne.—Just
got married, has he? Well, I can’t help that; he shouldn’t go stealing
race-mares.—Well, perhaps you didn’t know _all_ about it,’ went on the
sergeant, in reply to the asseverations of the Dwyer family as regarded
their knowledge of the way the young man had become possessed of the
mare. ‘But,’ shaking his head sententiously, ‘I’m much mistaken if most
of this crowd hadn’t a pretty good idea that there was something cross
about her. However,’ he concluded philosophically, ‘it’s no use crying
over spilt milk. I’ll have to ride over to G—— at daylight—that’s
another forty miles—and get an extradition warrant out for him. He
might just as well have come quietly at first, for we’re bound to have
the two of them some time or other.’
It was now nearly daylight; and our party set out on their return home,
leaving the troopers comfortably seated at the supper, or rather by
this time, breakfast table; while just below the house, in a bend of
the river, we could see, as we passed along, a group of men busily
engaged in swimming a mob of horses—amongst which was doubtless the
Lady Godiva herself—over to the New South Wales shore, where, on the
bank, plainly to be discerned in the early dawn, stood the tall form of
her lawless owner.
‘How do you think it will all end?’ I asked Bray.
‘Oh,’ was the reply, ‘they’ll square it, most likely. I know something
of that Stanford; he’s a bookmaker; and if he gets back the mare and
a cheque for fifty or a hundred pounds, to cover expenses, he’ll not
trouble much after Jim.’
‘Yes. But the police?’ I asked.
‘Easier squared than Stanford,’ answered Bray dogmatically.
That this ‘squaring’ process was successfully put in force seemed
tolerably certain; for very shortly afterwards I read that at the
autumn meeting of the N. Q. J. C., the Lady Godiva had carried off the
lion’s share of the money; and I also had the pleasure of meeting Mr
and Mrs Dwyer in one of Cobb & Co.’s coaches, bound for the nearest
railway terminus, about three hundred miles distant, thence to spend
a month or so in Sydney; Jim, as his wife informed me, having done
uncommonly well out of a mob of cattle and horses which he had been
travelling for sale through the colonies; so had determined to treat
himself and the ‘missis,’ for the first time in their lives, to a look
at the ‘big smoke.’
‘That was a great shine at our wedding, wasn’t it?’ she asked, as the
coachman gathered up the reins preparatory to a fresh start. ‘But’—and
here she tapped her husband on the head with her parasol—‘I look out
now that he don’t go sticking-up to any more Lady Godivas.’
‘That’s so,’ laughed Jim. ‘I find, that I have my hands pretty full
with the one I collared the night you were there. I doubt sometimes
I’d done better to have stuck to the other one; and as for temp’——
Here Jim’s head disappeared suddenly into the interior of the coach;
crack went the long whip; the horses plunged, reared, and went through
the usual performance of attempting to tie themselves up into overhand
knots, then darted off at top-speed on their sixteen-mile stage, soon
disappearing in a cloud of dust along the ‘cleared line.’
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
ARTILLERY EXPERIMENTS.
The trials lately carried on at the Bill of Portland, supplement (says
the _Times_) those of Inchkeith in certain respects. At Inchkeith it
was sought to obtain a just idea of the effect of machine-gun and
shrapnel fire on the detachment serving a gun mounted _en barbette_
in an emplacement of tolerably recent design. Dummies were placed
round the gun in exposed positions, and Her Majesty’s ship _Sultan_,
under very favourable conditions of sea and weather, carried out some
careful practice at various ranges. The results, accurately recorded,
furnish data calculated to serve as a correction to mere conjecture.
At Portland, the objects sought to be attained were two. The merits
of the Moncrieff or ‘disappearing’ principle of mounting guns for
coast-defence have been much discussed, and great advantages have been
claimed for it with every show of reason; but no opportunity had ever
been given to the system to practically demonstrate its defensive
value. It was, therefore, sufficiently desirable that a practical
experiment should be arranged in which ‘service-conditions’ should
be observed as far as possible, so that there might be a something
definite to set against prejudice either in favour of or against the
system. It was proposed, at the same time, to seek to obtain data as to
the accuracy of howitzer-fire from a floating platform.... To sum up
the case with judicial fairness, the Portland experiments fully bear
out all that the champions of the disappearing system have asserted;
while its opponents—if there are any such—must perforce admit that at
least nothing whatever is proved against it. More than this, however,
appears to be indicated by these trials. There seems to be every reason
to believe that all direct fire, whether of heavy or machine guns,
against a disappearing gun when down, is thrown away; that in the short
time during which this gun need be visible, it will require a very
smart gun-captain on board ship merely to lay on it; that the more the
smoke obscures it, the better, provided a position-finder is used;
and finally, that to engage two or three dispersed disappearing guns
would be a heart-breaking task for a ship. Probably the best chance
of disabling guns mounted on this system is snap-shooting from the
six-pounder quick-firing gun, which can be bandied almost as readily as
a rifle. But, on the one hand, it does not necessarily follow that a
hit from the six-pounder would have any effect on the disappearing gun;
and, on the other hand, the latter would be able to get through a good
deal of shooting before the six-pounder was able to come into effective
action. Again, the six-pounder on board ship would presumably be met
by the six-pounder on shore, which would shoot rather more accurately;
while, even as opposed to these wonderfully handy little weapons, the
disappearing system must stand superior to all others. In a turret or
a cupola, more than half the length of the modern long guns must be
always exposed to fire. All considerations, therefore, seem to point
to the disappearing system as the most scientific method ever devised
for protecting shore-guns, and the advantages to be obtained being so
great, it becomes worth while to use every possible effort to bring
the disappearing gun to practical perfection. The main difficulty is
to render the larger guns independently automatic, and at present no
gun larger than the eight-inch—the gun exhibited in the Inventions
Exhibition—has been thus mounted in England.
SEA-GOING FISHING LIFEBOAT VESSELS.
Mr F. Johnson, the honorary managing secretary of the National Refuge
Harbours Society, 17 Parliament Street, London, has made it the one aim
of his life to devise such means as will conduce to diminish the large
total of lives annually reported as having been lost at sea. He is now
interesting himself in bringing to a practical application an invention
of Mr John White, of Cowes, described as a Sea-going Fishing Lifeboat
vessel, a model of which is now on public view at 72 New Bond Street,
London. Broad in the beam, she has a large air-chamber divided into
two compartments at the bow; another—of a smaller size—at the stern;
and one running along on either side. Thus, however much sea she may
‘ship,’ with these air-chambers in use, it is not possible for her to
sink. Except for the roofs of the fore and aft air-chambers, the vessel
has no deck, an arrangement which of course gives her considerable
buoyancy. The roofs of the side air-chambers are curved off, so that
any water which might wash over one bulwark would pass across the
vessel and wash out over the other. As a matter of fact, however, it
is confidently believed that, even in a high sea, the vessel will
be too buoyant to ship much water. It has naturally occurred to the
inventor that in fine weather the fore air-chamber might be utilised
as a cabin; he has therefore arranged that it may be unsealed and
access obtained to it by means of a hatchway. It will be fitted up with
cooking apparatus and beds, the latter articles also filling the rôle
of life-buoys.
Those who interest themselves in this invention propose that
vessels of the kind shall be launched around our coasts, equipped
with fishing-gear, and manned with smacksmen, so that they may be
‘self-supporting;’ while their primary object will be to afford
succour during stormy weather to any craft in distress. Thus, it is
felt that the Fishing Lifeboat vessels might ride in the different
fishing fleets, the smacks of which, being frequently far away from
any harbour of refuge, are often disabled or utterly wrecked during
a storm. Then, too, the vessels might fish in the neighbourhood of
dangerous reefs and shoals, where their presence would be especially
valuable. We believe that two or three years ago a fishing-smack was
constructed very much on the lines indicated, and that, after effecting
some rescues in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands, she herself
was wrecked, owing to her having been improperly laden with stone. Mr
White has agreed to build Sea-going Fishing Lifeboat vessels of forty
tons—a size which is considered most suitable—at a cost each of five
hundred pounds. It is felt that a fair start might be made with twenty
vessels, to be placed at different points around our coasts. Thus ten
thousand pounds is required; and a public fund has been opened, and
part of the money already subscribed. Those who desire to contribute
should communicate with Mr Johnson, all cheques being crossed National
Provincial Bank.
SOME FACTS ABOUT MONTE CARLO.
The Report, says a contemporary, of the International Committee in
Nice upon the disgraceful gambling hell of Monte Carlo, which has
just been issued, is to be made the ground of a collective diplomatic
action against the protector of that institution, Prince Charles III.
of Monaco. This important pamphlet gives a documentary catalogue of
all the suicides which have taken place in Monte Carlo from 1877 to
1885. The total number of persons who have destroyed themselves in
consequence of their losses at his Princely Highness’s gambling-tables
is eighteen hundred and twenty—that is to say, there have been nearly
as many suicides as the Prince has subjects. The catalogue is very
complete, giving the name, the home, the age, and the date of death of
each suicide, and a collection of the letters in which the wretched
victims have commented upon their self-destruction. Nearly all of them
curse the hour in which their eyes first set sight upon Monte Carlo. It
is agreeable to learn from the table of nationality that the English
and Americans have supplied the smallest number of victims. A tenth
of the number are Germans and Austrians; but the largest contingent
by far has been provided by France, Italy, and Russia. The appalling
census was instituted by the Italian Consul-general in Nice, who found
ready support from patriotic citizens of other lands. The callous
brutality of the Monaco ‘government,’ if so honourable a name may be
given to this organised gambling Company, is shown in the treatment
of the suicides after their death. Scarcely one of them, except where
friends have appeared in time to claim the body, has received a decent
burial. After the poor wretch has lost all that he had, his corpse has
been hurriedly hidden in the poor quarter of the burial-ground without
funeral rites or mourners.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._