The town of Nubba was a fair specimen of Australian settlement that
gradually grows and bourgeons on a favourable spot, where highroads
pass and converge. Here there had been, primarily, a ford of the
occasionally flooded river. The teams, bound from or for the far
interior, camped upon the broad flat made by the semicircular sweep
of the river, and so established it as a stage and a resting-place.
Then a reflective mail-driver built a public-house, doubtful but
inevitable precursor in all colonial communities of civilisation,
even of the organised teaching of Christianity. Then a blacksmith’s
shop, a butcher’s, a baker’s, followed; in due course a second inn,
a pound, appeared; finally a bridge was built; and Nubba represented
an established fact, named, inhabited, and fairly started in the
competitive race with other Anglo-Saxon cities, walled and unwalled.
Still further progress. Anon it boasted a full-blown municipality, with
a mayor, aldermen, a town clerk, ratepayers, all the ordinary British
machinery for self-government. The streets were aligned, metalled, and
culverted; the approaches to the town cleared and levelled; several
stores, two flour mills, three banks, four churches, ten hotels,
and scores of intermediate edifices, including a massive gaol, all
built of stone, arose. A resident police magistrate reigned, having
jurisdiction over three hundred square miles, assisted by neighbouring
country justices. Strict, not stern, they were a terror to evildoers,
and no particular laxity of legal obligation was permitted the lieges
on account of their distance from the metropolis. Let but so much as a
Chinaman or a blackfellow be slain by chance, medley, or otherwise, or
a calf stolen, at the extreme limit of this far-stretching territory,
and all actors and participators were tried, committed, or discharged,
as the case might be. The costly and august machinery of the law was
put in motion with the same impassive exactitude as if the offenders
resided in Middlesex or Devonshire.
‘There,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, possessed of these facts, and indeed having
experienced in his own person the unrelaxing grip of the law, ‘is the
precise point of difference between the state of society in English
and other communities. In other lands, notably in America, the vast
distances and what are superficially called the rude circumstances
of early settlement, are permitted to condone infringements upon the
social rights. When these become too flagrant Judge Lynch interferes,
and rude justice, or injustice, is done. In the meantime, right has
often suffered irrevocably at the hands of might. But an Englishman, in
what far land soever under the flag of his country, suffers under no
such policy of expediency. He carries his law with him. He relies for
protection of life and property upon the Queen’s Government, to which
he has for his life long appealed in his hour of need, and never in
vain; and he generally receives justice, whether he be in the heart of
a continent or in a populous and accessible seaport.’
Southward of the future city, Mr. Neuchamp observed farms, orchards,
enclosed pasture-lands—all the signs of a thriving agricultural
district,—great stacks of grain and hay, fields of maize, pigs, and
poultry in profusion; while the steam flour mills, whose mechanical
whirr and throb ceased not, night or day, showed that the supply of
the staff of life was large and continuous. Every farm had been but
recently occupied, and yet on all sides fencing, building, girdling
trees, the manifold acts of agriculture combined with pasture, were
proceeding energetically. The land was richer, the timber more dense,
and possibly the climate more temperate and humid than the northerly
division following the downward course of the river exhibited.
In this direction the metalled road after a couple of miles abruptly
terminated, the way thenceforth continuing by a broad Indian-like
trail, which led towards the fervid north. Few trees were seen after
this immediate vicinity of the town was quitted, and the immense plain
lost itself in a soft and silvery haze which enveloped the far distance
and spread to the horizon.
‘Well,’ soliloquised Ernest, ’this is perhaps not exactly the place a
half-pay officer would come to or a reduced merchant’s family, anxious
to discover cheap living, good society, efficient teaching, musical
tuition, and an agreeable climate, in perfect combination. But even
they might do worse. The great secret of steady, inevitable prosperity
here is the wonderful cheapness of land combined with its abundance.
‘What a rush would there be in Buckinghamshire, if “persons about to
marry,” or others, could “take up,” that is merely mark out and occupy,
as much land as they pleased up to a square mile in extent, previously
paying down “five shillings the acre”—save the mark!
‘And the land is as good here, if you except the choicest meadow farms.
The climate is benign and healthful—say it is hot during the summer,
fewer clothes are wanted; the water is pure and plentiful; firewood
costs nothing. The forest is clear of underwood, and park-like; you do
not need to hew yourself an opening out of an impenetrable wood, as in
Canada. The climate and natural advantages of the land constitute an
income in themselves. When I think of the severely tasked lives, the
scanty, often dismal, outlook of our labouring classes, I am filled
with wonder that they do not emigrate in a body. “To the northward all
is” plain.’
Here therefore Mr. Neuchamp observed but faint signs of civilisation.
The pastoral age had returned. Great droves of cattle, vast flocks of
sheep, alone travelled this endless trail. The mail, of course, dusty
and of weather-beaten aspect, occasionally rattled in with sunburned
and desert-worn passengers from the inner deserts. But few stock were
visible on the plain, ’grassy and wild and bare’ within sight of the
town. Still, by all classes, Ernest heard this apparently wild and
trackless region spoken of as a rich pastoral district, equal in
profitable trade to the agricultural division, and indeed perhaps
superior in the average of returns for investment.
‘I am a great believer in the plough myself,’ he thought, ‘but I
suppose these people know something about their own affairs.’
Mr. Neuchamp was beginning to derive practical benefit from his
experiences. This was a great concession for him.
Next morning, having ascertained his line of route, and that
Garrandilla was about two hundred and fifty miles distant, Ernest
shouldered his knapsack and prepared to finish his little walk.
‘It’s a lucky thing that there are no Red Indians or wild beasts on
this particular war-path,’ thought he, as he left the town behind him
and was conscious of becoming a speck upon the vast and lonely plain.
‘I feel horribly unprotected. Even an old shepherd might rob me, if
he had a rusty gun. I might as well have carried my revolver, but
the weight was a consideration. How grand this sandy turf is to walk
upon. I feel as if I could walk all day. Not a hill in sight either,
or, apparently, a stone. I can imagine some people thinking the scene
monotonous.’
Such a thought would have occurred to many minds; but there was no
likelihood of such a feeling possessing Ernest Neuchamp. To him
the strange salsolaceous plants, so succulent and nutritive, were
of constant interest and admiration. The new flowers of the waste
were freshly springing marvels. The salt lake, strewn with snowy
crystals and with a floor like an untrodden ice-field, was a magical
transformation. The crimson flags of the mesembryanthemum cast on the
sand, the gorgeous desert flower, the strutting bustard, the tiny
scampering kangaroo, were all dramatic novelties. As he strode on,
mile after mile, at a telling elastic pace, he thought that never in
his whole life had he traversed a land so interesting and delightful.
All the day across the unending plains, sometimes intersected by
small watercourses. Towards nightfall, however, this very unrelieved
landscape became questionable. Ernest began to speculate upon the
chance of finding a night’s lodging. Not that there was any great
hardship in sleeping out in the mild autumnal season, but the not
having even a tree to sleep under was a condition of things altogether
unaccustomed, unnatural, and weird in his eyes.
Just as the sun was sinking behind the far, clear, delicately drawn
sky line, a deep fissure was visible in the plain, at the bottom of
which lay _planté la_, a rough but not uninviting hostelry. There
he succeeded in bestowing himself for the night. He was perhaps
more fatigued than at any previous time. He had been excited by the
prairie-like nature of the landscape, and had covered more ground than
on any day since he started.
The food was coarse and not well cooked, but hunger and partial fatigue
are unrivalled condiments. Bread, meat, and the wherewithal to quench
thirst are amply sufficient for the real toiler, not overborne, like
the luxurious children of civilisation, by multifarious half-digested
meals. Mr. Neuchamp, therefore, on the following morning, having slept
magnificently and eaten a truly respectable breakfast, surveyed the
endless plain from the back of the ravine with undiminished courage.
He amused himself by considering what sort of mental existence the
family who kept this wayside caravanserai could possibly lead. ‘They
must feel a good deal like Tartars,’ decided he. ‘Here they are
deposited, as if dropped from the sky upon this featureless waste. They
have no garden, not even a cabbage or a climbing rose; no cows, no
sheep; of course they have half a dozen horses. I saw no books. They
do not take a newspaper. The landlady and her two daughters occupy
themselves in doing the housework, certainly, in a very perfunctory
manner. The man of the house moves in and out of the bar, smokes
continually, and sleeps on the bench in the afternoons. When travellers
come, occupation, profit, society, and information are provided for
the whole household till the next invasion. What are their hopes—what
their social aims? Some day to sell out and live in Nubba, the landlord
informed me. How little of life suffices for the millions who possess
it in this curiously fashioned world of ours!’
Mr. Neuchamp took his departure from this uninteresting lodge in
the wilderness, and commenced another day’s travel, not altogether
dissatisfied with the idea that the end of another week would bring his
pilgrimage to a close.
Mid-day found him still tramping onward over ground so accurately
resembling that he crossed during his previous day’s journey, that if
he had been carried back he could not have detected the difference. A
feeling of great loneliness came over him, and despite the doubtful
success of his chance acquaintanceship, he began to wish for another
travelling companion, of whatever character or condition in life. He
had not shaped this desire definitely for many minutes before, as if
the attendant friend was watchful, a man debouched from a shallow
watercourse, and walked towards him.
The new-comer carried, like himself, a species of pack strapped to his
shoulders, but it was rolled up after the country fashion, in a form
commonly known as a ‘swag,’ containing apparently a pair of blankets
and a few articles of necessity.
Ernest saw in the traveller a good-looking, powerful young man,
patently of the ordinary type of bush natives of the lower rank—a
stockman, station hand, horsebreaker or what not. Then his expression
of countenance was determined, almost stern. When Ernest accosted
him, and asked him if he were travelling ‘down the river,’ like
himself, his features relaxed and his soft low voice, a very general
characteristic of Australian youth, sounded respectful and friendly in
answer.
He was therefore considerably astonished when the young man promptly
produced a revolver, and presenting it full at Mr. Neuchamp’s person,
called upon him in an altered voice, rounded off with a ruffianly oath,
to give up his watch and money.
The watch was easily seen, as part of the chain was visible, but much
marvelled Ernest Neuchamp that the robber, or any other man, should
know that he had money with him. It was indeed a chance shot. The young
marauder, having judged him to be a gentleman not long in the country,
who was fool enough to travel on foot when he had plenty of money to
buy a good hack, also decided that he must have a five-pound note or
two wherewith to negotiate in time of need.
Ernest Neuchamp was brave. The action of his heart was unaltered. His
pulse quickened not as he stood before an armed and lawless man. He
did not, of course, particularly care to lose a valuable family gold
watch, or ten pounds sterling. But far more deeply than by personal
loss or danger was he impressed by the melancholy fact that here was
a fine intelligent young fellow, physically speaking, one of the
grandest specimens of Caucasian type anywhere procurable, dooming
himself, merely by this silly act, with, perhaps, another, to long
years of lonely, degrading, maddening prison life. He did not look like
a hardened criminal. It may be that a single act of sullen despair,
derived from others’ guilt, had driven him to this course, which, once
entered upon, held no retreat.
There were few cooler men than Ernest. He became so entirely possessed
with a new idea, that circumjacent circumstances, however material to
him personally, rarely affected him.
‘My good fellow,’ he commenced, sitting down deliberately, ‘of course
you can have my watch and a tenner, that I happen to have about me. I
don’t say you are welcome to them, either. But what principally strikes
me is, that you are an awful fool to exchange your liberty, your youth,
your good name, your very life, for trifles like these. Did this ever
occur to you?’ asked Ernest with much gravity, handing out the watch
and one five-pound note, and feeling anxiously for the other, as if he
hoped he hadn’t lost it. ‘Why, hang it all, man, you put me in mind
of a savage, who sells himself for a few glass beads, a tomahawk, and
a Brummagem gun. Surely you _can’t_ have considered this view of the
subject, so deeply important to you?’
‘It’s devilish important to you too,’ said the bushranger grimly,
though he looked uneasy. ‘You’re a rum cove to go talking and preaching
to a chap with a revolver at your head.’
‘I don’t suppose that you would shoot a man in cold blood for giving
you good advice! A watch and a few pounds are no great loss to me,
but the taking of them means death and destruction to _you_—a living
death, worse a hundredfold than if you were lying there with a bullet
through your heart. That’s what I really feel at this moment. You are
taking _your own life with your own hand_! Think, do think, like a good
fellow, before it is too late!’
‘That you may go straight back to the Nubba police station as soon as I
slope,’ said the robber. ‘I could stop that, you know.’
‘I never intended it—not that your threat prevents me. But once entered
on the trade of bushranger, I am not the only man you will rob. Others,
of course, will inform, and in a week your description—age, height,
hair, scar on the forehead and all—will be at every police station in
the four colonies. You may have a month’s run, or two, and then you
are——’
‘Shot like a dog, or walled up for life, and driven about like brutes
that are called men.’
‘Perfectly right. I am glad you agree with my view,’ said Ernest
eagerly; ‘then _why_ don’t you retreat while you have time, and the
chance is open? Look at this blue sky; think of a good horse between
your legs on this broad plain, of a day’s shooting, of waking full of
life and vigour and going cheerfully to work on your own farm. Such a
deuced good-looking, upstanding fellow as you are—what devil put it
into your head to give every enemy you have in the world such a chance
to laugh at you?’
‘Perhaps the devil did. Anyhow, I have been hunted about and falsely
accused by the police, about horses and cattle that I never saw a head
of; so I turned out.’
‘Just to put them thoroughly in the right,’ said Ernest. ‘They will
thank you for that, and say they always knew it from the first. For
God’s sake, if you have a grain of sense in your composition, if you
have the least wish to live a man’s life and stand erect like a man
before your fellows, for the sake of the mother that bore you’ (here
the robber ground his teeth), ‘give up this stupid, stale trick of
highway robbery, and you will cheat Old Nick yet.’
‘Well, I begin to think I _was_ an infernal fool to turn out. It seems
a trifle now to be vexed at, but what can I do? I’ve gone too far to
turn back.’
‘Have you attempted to stop any one but me?’ asked Ernest.
‘No! I was waiting for the coach, which ought to have been here by this
time, when I met you. Ha! there it comes.’
‘Take your resolution now,’ said Ernest solemnly, springing to his feet
and standing before him. ‘Your fate for life or death is in your own
hand: the life of a hunted, half-starved wolf, with perhaps a dog’s
death, on one side; life, health, youth, liberty, perhaps a happy home,
on the other. Are you mad, that you hesitate? or does God suffer the
enemy to deceive and destroy in the dark hour a lost soul?’
As Ernest spoke, he fixed his clear blue eyes upon the face of the
robber, now working as if torn by strong emotion.
Suddenly the latter strode a pace forward, and casting the revolver
away as far as he could throw it in the dull green grass, said, ‘Damn
the —— squirt! I wish I had never seen it. Here’s your two fives,
sir, and my best thanks, for I ain’t much of a talker, but I feel it.
Good-bye.’
‘Stop!’ cried Ernest, ‘where are you going, and what do you intend to
do, and have you any money?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t a copper; it was being chaffed about that by
a girl I was fond of that made me think of this. I suppose I’ll drop
across work before long. God knows! it’s never hard to get in the bush.’
‘The deeper shame on him who takes to evil courses in such a country,’
said Ernest; ‘but I don’t intend to preach to you. You have acted like
a man, and I will stand to you as far as I can. I can perhaps get you
work on a station I am bound for. So come along with me, and we shall
be fellow-travellers after all.’
The coach passed just then, filled with passengers, who looked with
idle curiosity at the wayfarers.
‘Those chaps would have had a different look in their eyes about this
time, only for you,’ said the ex-brigand grimly. ‘A little thing makes
all the difference. I might have shed blood or got hit before this.
However, all that’s past and gone, I hope. I can work, as you’ll see,
and I’ll keep square for the future if I haven’t a shirt to my back.’
The armistice completed, the two curiously-met comrades recommenced
their march. When Mr. Neuchamp, once more in possession of his
timekeeper and cash, had sufficient leisure to return to his usual
observing habit, he could not but be struck with the fine form and
splendid proportions of Mr. ‘First robber,’ who went singing and
whistling along the road with an elastic step, as if care and he had
parted company for ever and a day. He was a brown-haired, bright-eyed,
good-natured-looking fellow of five or six and twenty. His natural
expression seemed to be that of mischievous, unrestrained fun, though
the lower part of his face in moments of gravity showed firmness and
even obstinacy of purpose. He stood nearly six feet in height, with the
build of an athletic man of five feet eight. His broad shoulders, deep
chest, and muscular arms showed to considerable advantage in contrast
with his light, pliant, and unusually active lower limbs.
‘A dangerous outlaw,’ thought Mr. Neuchamp; ’roused by resistance,
whetted with the taste of blood, and desperate from a foreknowledge of
heavy punishment, he would have ended his life on the scaffold, with
perhaps on his head the blood of better men; and it looks as if I,
Ernest Neuchamp, have this day been the instrument of turning this
man’s destiny, at the point of amendment or ruin. “So mote it be.”’
The day was spent, and Mr. Neuchamp had begun to entertain transient
thoughts of moderate roadside comforts and the like, when his companion
stopped and pointed to a cloud of dust almost at right angles to the
road.
‘Travelling sheep,’ he said, ‘and coming this way—a big lot, too.’
‘Are they?’ inquired Mr. Neuchamp. ‘What are they doing out there?’
‘Travelling for grass, most likely; or for sale. Perhaps short of feed
or water, or both; they’re “out on the wallaby” until the rain comes.’
‘What is the meaning of “out on the wallaby”?‘ asked Ernest.
‘Well, it’s bush slang, sir, for men just as you or I might be now,
looking for work or something to eat; if we can’t get work, living on
the country, till things turn round a little.’
‘Oh! that’s it—well, don’t be afraid, things are sure to turn round a
little, if we wait long enough. Who’s this, coming galloping at such a
rate?’
‘Looks like the overseer. He’s coming to see if there’s any water in
the creek. They’ll camp here most likely. He’s in a hurry.’
The individual thus criticised was a stout man, past middle age, who
bore himself with an air of great responsibility and anxiety.
‘Hallo!’ he said, pointing to the creek, ‘is there any water there?’
‘Lots,’ said the pene-felonious traveller—‘good place to camp.’
‘How do you know?’ cautiously inquired the overseer.
‘Because I’ve been this road often, and know every water-hole and
camping-place and feeding-ground from this to Wentworth.’
‘All right, you’re the very man I want; that is, I want two men for
one of the flocks. I’ve just sacked a couple of idle rascals, and run
short—will you and your mate come?’
‘He’s not used to droving work,’ pleaded the experienced one, doubtful
of Ernest’s wish for occupation of that sort.
‘Oh, never mind; any fool can drive travelling sheep; you’re sharp
enough, at any rate. I’ll give you five-and-twenty shillings a week
each. You can join when they come into camp. What do you say?’
‘Very well,’ said Ernest, ‘I will engage for a month—not longer, as I
have to go to a station called Garrandilla then.’
‘All right,’ said the overseer, ‘we pass it; it will be something to
get hands so far;’ and away the man of many troubles galloped.
‘What do you say now? Here we are provided with easy, honest, and
well-paid employment for as long as we please, with high wages,
unlimited food, and sleeping accommodation. I shall rather take them in
at Garrandilla.’
The army of sheep—about thirty thousand, in fifteen flocks—at length
reached the valley before dark, and the overseer, pointing to a flock
of two thousand more or less, said, ‘There’s your mob—if either of you
want to go, you must give me a week’s notice. If I sack either of you,
I shall pay him one week in advance.’
As the sheep approached, feeding in a leisurely manner, and gradually
converging towards the flat, the two men walked towards the leading
flock.
‘Hallo!’ said the ex-brigand to one of the shepherds, ‘are you the two
chaps that the cove has sacked, because we are to take your flock?’
‘All right—you’re welcome, mates, to my share,’ said an elderly
colonist; ‘that super’s a growlin’, ignorant beggar as runs a feller
from daylight to dark for nothing at all. If all the other men was of
my mind we’d leave him to drive his —— sheep himself.’
‘That’s the talk!’ said the highwayman cautiously, ‘but we’re hard
up, and that makes the difference; we go on till we pick up something
better. What will you take for that dog of yours? I suppose he can hunt
’em along.’
‘Best dog from here to Bourke. I’ll take two pounds for him.’
‘No you won’t. I’ll chance a note for him, and that’s about our last
shilling, isn’t it?’ added he, looking at Ernest.
‘Well, the dog’s worth a couple of notes, young feller,’ said the
shepherd reflectively, ‘but as you’re a-goin’ to take the sheep, and
down on your luck, why, you can have him.’
Ernest nodded assent as purse-bearer.
‘Will you give us chain and collar in the camp to-night? I’ll pay
you there,’ said the negotiator. ‘I suppose you won’t clear out till
to-morrow?’
‘No fear—it’s a good way to Nubba, and Bill and I are going back to the
timber country; we’ve had enough of these blasted plains, ha’n’t we,
Bill? Enough to burn a blessed man’s blessed eyes out. Five-and-twenty
bob a week don’t pay a cove for that. I mean to stick to the green
grass country for a spell now.’
At nightfall the fifteen flocks of sheep were all brought in, and
‘boxed,’ or mixed together, to Ernest’s astonishment. ‘How in the world
do they ever get them into the same flocks again?’ he asked.
‘They don’t try,’ it was explained. ‘They just cut them up into fifteen
equal lots in the morning, as near as they can, a hundred or two more
or less makes no great difference, and away they go along the road
stealing as much grass as the squatters are soft enough to let them.’
‘And will they stay quietly here all night?’
‘Safe as houses. Sheep ain’t like cattle; they don’t like skirmishing
about in the dark. So after tea a man can light his pipe, roll his
blanket round him, and make believe to watch till daylight. It’s a very
off chance if e’er a sheep stirs any more than himself.’
‘It doesn’t seem a hard life,’ said Ernest, as they sat on a log and
ate chops fried in a pan, using a large flat piece of damper partly
as plate, partly as _entrée_, while the pint of quart-pot tea tasted
better and was more refreshing than the highest priced Souchong in the
daintiest china.
‘Well, it’s a long way from hard work, but six months of it at a time,
as I’ve had now and then, makes you feel you’ve had enough for a while;
besides, it’s Sunday and workday; not an hour’s change week in, week
out.’
‘I daresay that makes a difference,’ admitted Ernest, ‘but I wonder
what a Buckinghamshire field labourer would think if he were suddenly
offered twenty-five shillings a week, with all the bread and mutton he
could eat, and a small bag of tea.’
‘And half rations for the dawg,’ put in the Australian, throwing their
new purchase about half a pound of mutton.
‘By the way,’ said Ernest, ‘what is his name? and yours too, for I
don’t know yet? I suppose he will be very useful. I’m glad you bought
him.’
‘My name’s Jack Windsor; his name’s Watch; he’s that useful that three
men with two pairs of legs each couldn’t do the work that he’ll do for
us with these crawling sheep. He’s a cheap pound’s worth, and that
you’ll find before we go far.’
When the evening meal was finished Mr. Neuchamp and his henchman went
over to one of four fires which had been lighted at opposite sides of
the woolly multitude. Jack Windsor lighted his pipe and lay down upon
his blanket, where he smoked luxuriously and dozed by turns. Ernest
reclined in the same fashion, and after a short struggle with his very
natural drowsiness fell fast asleep.
At daylight next morning Mr. Neuchamp awoke without it being necessary
for any one to call him. The bosom of great mother Hertha was harder
than any resting-place which he had hitherto tried; but youth and an
adventurous disposition being on his side, he found when dressed that
the mental thermometer registered an altitude fully above the average.
The sheep were still lying down and appeared by no means to be anxious
to crop the dewy grass, or whatever somewhat wiry and infrequent
herbage did duty for that traditional description.
‘Yonder’s the cook’s fire,’ explained Mr. Windsor, pointing to a rising
smoke; ‘we’d better get our breakfast to begin with.’
Round a blazing fire, the warmth of which, in the sharp autumn morning,
was decidedly pleasant, were grouped thirty or forty men engaged in
talking, warming themselves, and in a leisurely way partaking of
a substantial breakfast. From a pyramid of chops, replenished from
an immense frying-pan, with a handle like a marlin-spike, each man
abstracted whatever he chose. Wedges of damper (or bread baked in hot
ashes) were cut from time to time from great circular flat loaves of
that palatable and wholesome but somewhat compressed-looking bread,
while gallons of hot tea were procurable from buckets full of the
universal bush beverage.
The overseer and some of the horse drivers were absent, as the hacks
and cart-horses had wandered during the night rather farther than
usual. Ernest and his companion applied themselves to the serious
business of the hour, the former conscious that he was being subjected
to a searching inspection from his fellow-employees. His rough tweed
suit was sufficiently different from the blue serge shirts and
peajackets of the others to mark his different social position, had
not his hands, fresh complexion, and general appearance denoted him to
be a ‘new arrival,’ and more or less a swell. Swells out of luck are
unfortunately by no means rare as ordinary bush hands in Australia,
and such a phenomenon would not ordinarily have excited curiosity or
hostile criticism. Still a little rough jesting is not to be avoided
sometimes when an obviously raw comrade joins a bush brigade.
It was natural enough then that a tall, dissipated-looking fellow with
a whiskerless face and long hair, a leader and wit of the community,
should step forward and address Mr. Neuchamp.
‘Well, Johnny, and what do you think of travelling with store sheep in
this blessed country? You didn’t do none o’ that in the blessed old
country as you’ve just come from, did ye now?’
‘My name is not Johnny,’ replied Ernest, arresting mastication and
looking calmly at his interlocutor. ‘As for driving sheep, it would be
pleasant enough if people didn’t ask impudent questions.’
There was a shout of laughter from the crowd at this retort, which was
held to have rather turned the tables upon the provincial humorist.
‘Come, come, Johnny! don’t cut up rusty,’ he continued; ‘you may as
well tell us what sort of work you bolted from to turn knock-about-man;
counter-jumping, or something in the figs line, by the look of your
’ands, eh?’
Mr. Neuchamp had a reasonably good temper, but he had not as yet been
accustomed to aught but extreme civility from the lower classes. He had
not slipped on too recently the skin of a knock-about-man to realise
how it felt to be chaffed as an equal by a fellow-servant.
‘You’re an insolent scoundrel,’ said he, dashing down the remainder of
his breakfast, ‘whom I will soon teach to mind his own business. Put up
your hands.’
Ernest, though not above the middle size, was strongly knit, and had
received the ordinary fisti-culture which enables the average English
gentleman to hold his own so creditably against all comers. He was
a hard hitter when roused, and doubtless would have come out of the
encounter with honour. But his antagonist was three inches taller,
longer in the reach, a couple of stones heavier, and being in top
wind and condition after six months’ road-work, and withal a sort of
second-rate bruiser, might have inconvenienced and would certainly have
marked Mr. Neuchamp in any case.
Just as his late tormentor had lounged forward into a careless guard
and an insolent oath, Ernest felt himself quickly but firmly pushed
aside, while Jack Windsor stood like a lion in the path.
‘Take it out of me, ye cursed infernal bully; what the devil is it to
you if a gentleman likes to have his colonial experience this way?
You’re a deal too fond of showin’ off and taking the change out of
men that isn’t your match. Now you’ve dropped in for it lucky. Mind
yourself.’
The crowd closed in with great though unspoken delight at this prospect
of a real good fight. They intended to interfere directly the new chum,
as they called him, and ’Bouncing Bob’ had had the first flutter.
But here was a ‘dark horse,’ evidently good for a close heat. What a
glorious relief from the monotony of their daily dodging along the road
with stubborn and impoverished sheep!
‘Bouncing Bob,’ though a smart fellow enough with his hands, liked
a small allowance of weight, science, or pluck; he was better at a
winning than an uphill fight. He now distinctly felt that the chances
in the contest would be likely to be the other way.
Mr. John Windsor did not leave him long in doubt. Quick as lightning
his left was in, and though by a rapid counter Bob managed to score
a smack that counted for first blood, it was apparent that he was no
match for the stranger, who was at once stronger, more active, and more
scientific.
A couple of inches shorter, Jack Windsor was the heavier man. Bob’s
activity gave him the chance of escape from two falls, one of which
nearly finished the fray; but he failed to come so well away from a
right-handed feint, which occasioned his catching finally a terrific
left-hander, sending him down so decisively that he saw no particular
use in coming to time.
‘I suppose I may as well give you best,’ he said, rising with some
difficulty and showing an apparently fatally ensanguined countenance;
‘I didn’t begin except for a bit of chaff. It’s making a darned fuss
about a —— new chum.’
With this Parthian shaft he departed, to be in readiness for the flock
when cut off; while Jack Windsor amused himself whistling softly.
Before he replaced his shirt he said, ‘Now, look here, boys; we don’t
want to interfere with anybody, but this gentleman here is my master
for the time, and any one who wants to take the change out of him will
have to come to me first.’
‘All right,’ said one of the crowd; ‘it won’t do Bouncing Bob any harm
to get a floorer or two, he’s only being paid for many a dab he’s given
himself.’
Just at this moment a great clatter of bells was heard, and the
overseer rode in at a gallop on a barebacked steed, with all the camp
horses before him.
‘Now, look alive, men, and get your sheep out. Don’t be sticking in
this camp all day. Hallo! What’s the row about?’
‘Nothing much, sir,’ returned Windsor respectfully; ‘me and that long
chap they call Bob had a bit of an argument; he began it, and he’s got
a black eye or two. I don’t suppose there’ll be any more of it.’
‘Well, take care there is not, or I shall have to sack the pair of you.
Quite enough to do without fighting now. Get away with your sheep, like
good fellows. The carts can follow.’
A section of about the required number having been made at the time
by a line of men getting behind the leading sheep and driving them
forcibly forward, at the same time preventing them (if possible) from
running back to the still larger lot, Jack signed to Mr. Neuchamp, and
putting the dog Watch at their heels, who aided them vociferously, they
found themselves in possession of eighteen or nineteen hundred sheep,
which they drove for some distance at right angles to the road.
‘Now what we’ve got to do, sir,’ said Jack, ‘is to keep quietly behind
these sheep all day. We must not go more than half a mile away from the
road, or we’ll be ‘pounded. We can’t follow the flock in front very
close or let the one behind get too near us, or we shall get boxed.’
‘What do you mean by boxed?’ demanded Ernest.
‘Well, mixed up. You see, sir, sheep’s very fond of keeping all
together. It’s their nature. If they get any way close they begin to
run, the front to the back and the back to the front, and all the men
and dogs in the world wouldn’t keep ’em apart.’
‘And what harm would that be?’
‘Well, we should have four thousand sheep to manage instead of two, and
they wouldn’t drive so well or feed so well, and as these sheep are as
poor as crows already, that wouldn’t suit.’
‘I see,’ replied Ernest. ‘I think I understand the principle of the
thing.’
‘All right, sir,’ assented Jack. ‘Now, we’ve got the day before us, and
nothing to think about till dinner-time but the sheep. Did you bring
any grub with you?’
‘Not I—don’t we stop?’
‘Not a stop till sundown. You see, sir, the days are short now, and
it’s more fair and straightforward like to the sheep to let ’em go
nibbling and feeding all day, just keeping their right distance from
one another, till camping time, then they draw in together, and they
can camp till further orders.’
To keep slowly walking up and down, back and forward, behind a flock
of sheep, from 7 or 8 A.M. till 5 P.M., the rate of speed and progress
being considerably under a mile an hour, did not seem likely to turn
out a cheerful occupation for three weeks. Mr. Neuchamp’s heart sank
under the contemplation for a moment. But after all he considered
that he was doing a good deed in the conversion of a weak brother
(morally) from a criminal career to honesty and a good reputation.
This was a result which would have overpaid him for considerably more
inconvenience than he was liable to suffer now. Besides, he was picking
up colonial experience practically with greater speed and thoroughness
than he was likely to do at any station; therefore he stifled all
unworthy feelings of impatience, and trudged steadily behind his sheep,
at the opposite side from Windsor, as if he had been born and bred for
the task, like the dog Watch.
That sagacious animal excited his astonishment and respectful
admiration. The livelong day he kept trotting backward and forward
behind the flock, always keeping at a certain distance, and merely
intimidating the lingerers and weakly ones without harshness or
violence. If a sufficiently lively crawl was not pursued, he
occasionally, by a gentle make-believe bite, gave a hint as to what he
could do if necessary. His half-human instinct had plainly convinced
him that loudness of bark and general assertion were amply sufficient
in the woolly as in the human world to produce the most gratifying
submission and acknowledgment of superiority.
About noon the fresh air, the continuous though not violent exercise
and healthy appetite of youth, combined to produce a feeling of deep
regret that he had not been more provident about lunch. However, Mr.
Jack Windsor, drawing over, produced a large parcel containing corned
mutton and bread enough for an English labourer’s family for a week.
‘I thought, sir, as you’d like a snack, so I muzzled enough grub for
two; I’ve got some cold tea in the billy.’
Ernest noticed that his retainer had commenced to carry a small camp
kettle containing probably two quarts, which he nothing doubted
held water. This repast was now complete. The friends munched away
at the very substantial luncheon as they strolled along behind the
ever-nibbling sheep, and after giving Watch a very ample supply, washed
it down with nectar in the shape of cold tea.
‘Well,’ quoth Mr. Neuchamp, with a deep sigh of contentment, ’how
comparative are all things! I never remember to have enjoyed a mid-day
meal more in my life. This fresh day air must be a wonderful tonic;
or is it the early rising and Arcadian simplicity of life? I believe
that they insist upon a lot of virtuous behaviour at a cold-water
establishment such as the people would never stand in their ordinary
lives. But because it’s an “establishment” they let the doctor bully
them to bed at nine, get up at six, eat early dinners of mutton chops
and rice puddings (how I laughed at a guardsman’s face at Ben Rhydding
once when the bell rang at 1 P.M. and he was marshalled to such a
repast), and unexpectedly find themselves placed in possession of an
appetite and health again.
‘It’s something of the same sort of thing here. If I had gone a trip
with a drover from Tillyfour to London with West Highland cattle, I
daresay I should have doubled my appetite and general vitality. There,
however, it is not “the thing” to do. Here it is not the best form
apparently—but you may carry it off without any accusation of insanity.
One thing is certain, I shall never respect good cooking so much
again. The cook to cultivate is _yourself_ unquestionably. Guard your
appetite, keep it in a state of nature, and the rudest materials, if
wholesome, provide us with a daily feast, and a measure of enjoyment
of which over-civilised, latter-day men are wholly ignorant and
incapable.’