“We young fellows,” said “Sympathy Joe” to Mitchell, after tea, in
their first camp west the river--“and you and I ARE young fellows,
comparatively--think we know the world. There are plenty of young chaps
knocking round in this country who reckon they've been through it
all before they're thirty. I've met cynics and men-o'-the-world, aged
twenty-one or thereabouts, who've never been further than a trip to
Sydney. They talk about 'this world' as if they'd knocked around in
half-a-dozen other worlds before they came across here--and they are
just as off-hand about it as older Australians are when they talk about
this colony as compared with the others. They say: 'My oath!--same
here.' 'I've been there.' 'My oath!--you're right.' 'Take it from me!'
and all that sort of thing. They understand women, and have a contempt
for 'em; and chaps that don't talk as they talk, or do as they do, or
see as they see, are either soft or ratty. A good many reckon that 'life
ain't blanky well worth livin''; sometimes they feel so blanky somehow
that they wouldn't give a blank whether they chucked it or not; but
that sort never chuck it. It's mostly the quiet men that do that, and
if they've got any complaints to make against the world they make 'em at
the head station. Why, I've known healthy, single, young fellows
under twenty-five who drank to drown their troubles--some because
they reckoned the world didn't understand nor appreciate 'em--as if it
COULD!”
“If the world don't understand or appreciate you,” said Mitchell
solemnly, as he reached for a burning stick to light his pipe--“MAKE
it!”
“To drown THEIR troubles!” continued Joe, in a tone of impatient
contempt. “The Oracle must be well on towards the sixties; he can take
his glass with any man, but you never saw him drunk.”
“What's the Oracle to do with it?”
“Did you ever hear his history?”
“No. Do you know it?”
“Yes, though I don't think he has any idea that I do. Now, we were
talking about the Oracle a little while ago. We know he's an old ass;
a good many outsiders consider that he's a bit soft or ratty, and,
as we're likely to be mates together for some time on that fencing
contract, if we get it, you might as well know what sort of a man he is
and was, so's you won't get uneasy about him if he gets deaf for a while
when you're talking, or does funny things with his pipe or pint-pot, or
walks up and down by himself for an hour or so after tea, or sits on a
log with his head in his hands, or leans on the fence in the gloaming
and keeps looking in a blank sort of way, straight ahead, across the
clearing. For he's gazing at something a thousand miles across country,
south-east, and about twenty years back into the past, and no doubt he
sees himself (as a young man), and a Gippsland girl, spooning under the
stars along between the hop-gardens and the Mitchell River. And, if you
get holt of a fiddle or a concertina, don't rasp or swank too much
on old tunes, when he's round, for the Oracle can't stand it. Play
something lively. He'll be down there at that surveyor's camp yarning
till all hours, so we'll have plenty of time for the story--but don't
you ever give him a hint that you know.
“My people knew him well; I got most of the story from them--mostly from
Uncle Bob, who knew him better than any. The rest leaked out through the
women--you know how things leak out amongst women?”
Mitchell dropped his head and scratched the back of it. HE knew.
“It was on the Cudgegong River. My Uncle Bob was mates with him on one
of those 'rushes' along there--the 'Pipeclay', I think it was, or the
'Log Paddock'. The Oracle was a young man then, of course, and so was
Uncle Bob (he was a match for most men). You see the Oracle now, and you
can imagine what he was when he was a young man. Over six feet, and as
straight as a sapling, Uncle Bob said, clean-limbed, and as fresh as
they made men in those days; carried his hands behind him, as he does
now, when he hasn't got the swag--but his shoulders were back in
those days. Of course he wasn't the Oracle then; he was young Tom
Marshall--but that doesn't matter. Everybody liked him--especially women
and children. He was a bit happy-go-lucky and careless, but he didn't
know anything about 'this world', and didn't bother about it; he hadn't
'been there'. 'And his heart was as good as gold,' my aunt used to
say. He didn't understand women as we young fellows do nowadays, and
therefore he hadn't any contempt for 'em. Perhaps he understood, and
understands, them better than any of us, without knowing it. Anyway, you
know, he's always gentle and kind where a woman or child is concerned,
and doesn't like to hear us talk about women as we do sometimes.
“There was a girl on the goldfields--a fine lump of a blonde, and pretty
gay. She came from Sydney, I think, with her people, who kept shanties
on the fields. She had a splendid voice, and used to sing 'Madeline'.
There might have been one or two bad women before that, in the Oracle's
world, but no cold-blooded, designing ones. He calls the bad ones
'unfortunate'.
“Perhaps it was Tom's looks, or his freshness, or his innocence, or
softness--or all together--that attracted her. Anyway, he got mixed up
with her before the goldfield petered out.
“No doubt it took a long while for the facts to work into Tom's head
that a girl might sing like she did and yet be thoroughly unprincipled.
The Oracle was always slow at coming to a decision, but when he does
it's generally the right one. Anyway, you can take that for granted, for
you won't move him.
“I don't know whether he found out that she wasn't all that she
pretented to be to him, or whether they quarrelled, or whether she
chucked him over for a lucky digger. Tom never had any luck on the
goldfields. Anyway, he left and went over to the Victorian side, where
his people were, and went up Gippsland way. It was there for the first
time in his life that he got what you would call 'properly gone on a
girl'; he got hard hit--he met his fate.
“Her name was Bertha Bredt, I remember. Aunt Bob saw her afterwards.
Aunt Bob used to say that she was 'a girl as God made her'--a good,
true, womanly girl--one of those sort of girls that only love once. Tom
got on with her father, who was packing horses through the ranges to the
new goldfields--it was rough country and there were no roads; they had
to pack everything there in those days, and there was money in it. The
girl's father took to Tom--as almost everybody else did--and, as far as
the girl was concerned, I think it was a case of love at first sight.
They only knew each other for about six months, and were only 'courting'
(as they called it then) for three or four months altogether, but she
was that sort of girl that can love a man for six weeks and lose him for
ever, and yet go on loving him to the end of her life--and die with his
name on her lips.
“Well, things were brightening up every way for Tom, and he and his
sweetheart were beginning to talk about their own little home in future,
when there came a letter from the 'Madeline' girl in New South Wales.
“She was in terrible trouble. Her baby was to be born in a month. Her
people had kicked her out, and she was in danger of starving. She begged
and prayed of him to come back and marry her, if only for his child's
sake. He could go then, and be free; she would never trouble him any
more--only come and marry her for the child's sake.
“The Oracle doesn't know where he lost that letter, but I do. It was
burnt afterwards by a woman, who was more than a mother to him in his
trouble--Aunt Bob. She thought he might carry it round with the rest of
his papers, in his swag, for years, and come across it unexpectedly when
he was camped by himself in the bush and feeling dull. It wouldn't have
done him any good then.
“He must have fought the hardest fight in his life when he got that
letter. No doubt he walked to and fro, to and fro, all night, with his
hands behind him, and his eyes on the ground, as he does now sometimes.
Walking up and down helps you to fight a thing out.
“No doubt he thought of things pretty well as he thinks now: the poor
girl's shame on every tongue, and belled round the district by every hag
in the township; and she looked upon by women as being as bad as any
man who ever went to Bathurst in the old days, handcuffed between two
troopers. There is sympathy, a pipe and tobacco, a cheering word, and,
maybe, a whisky now and then, for the criminal on his journey; but
there is no mercy, at least as far as women are concerned, for the
poor foolish girl, who has to sneak out the back way and round by back
streets and lanes after dark, with a cloak on to hide her figure.
“Tom sent what money he thought he could spare, and next day he went to
the girl he loved and who loved him, and told her the truth, and showed
her the letter. She was only a girl--but the sort of girl you COULD go
to in a crisis like that. He had made up his mind to do the right thing,
and she loved him all the more for it. And so they parted.
“When Tom reached 'Pipeclay', the girl's relations, that she was
stopping with, had a parson readied up, and they were married the same
day.”
“And what happened after that?” asked Mitchell.
“Nothing happened for three or four months; then the child was born. It
wasn't his!”
Mitchell stood up with an oath.
“The girl was thoroughly bad. She'd been carrying on with God knows how
many men, both before and after she trapped Tom.”
“And what did he do then?”
“Well, you know how the Oracle argues over things, and I suppose he was
as big an old fool then as he is now. He thinks that, as most men would
deceive women if they could, when one man gets caught, he's got no call
to squeal about it; he's bound, because of the sins of men in general
against women, to make the best of it. What is one man's wrong counted
against the wrongs of hundreds of unfortunate girls.
“It's an uncommon way of arguing--like most of the Oracle's ideas--but
it seems to look all right at first sight.
“Perhaps he thought she'd go straight; perhaps she convinced him that he
was the cause of her first fall; anyway he stuck to her for more than
a year, and intended to take her away from that place as soon as he'd
scraped enough money together. It might have gone on up till now, if
the father of the child--a big black Irishman named Redmond--hadn't come
sneaking back at the end of a year. He--well, he came hanging round Mrs.
Marshall while Tom was away at work--and she encouraged him. And Tom was
forced to see it.
“Tom wanted to fight out his own battle without interference, but the
chaps wouldn't let him--they reckoned that he'd stand very little show
against Redmond, who was a very rough customer and a fighting man. My
uncle Bob, who was there still, fixed it up this way: The Oracle was
to fight Redmond, and if the Oracle got licked Uncle Bob was to take
Redmond on. If Redmond whipped Uncle Bob, that was to settle it; but if
Uncle Bob thrashed Redmond, then he was also to fight Redmond's
mate, another big, rough Paddy named Duigan. Then the affair would be
finished--no matter which way the last bout went. You see, Uncle Bob was
reckoned more of a match for Redmond than the Oracle was, so the thing
looked fair enough--at first sight.
“Redmond had his mate, Duigan, and one or two others of the rough gang
that used to terrorise the fields round there in the roaring days of
Gulgong. The Oracle had Uncle Bob, of course, and long Dave Regan, the
drover--a good-hearted, sawny kind of chap that'd break the devil's
own buck-jumper, or smash him, or get smashed himself--and little Jimmy
Nowlett, the bullocky, and one or two of the old, better-class diggers
that were left on the field.
“There's a clear space among the saplings in Specimen Gully, where they
used to pitch circuses; and here, in the cool of a summer evening, the
two men stood face to face. Redmond was a rough, roaring, foul-mouthed
man; he stripped to his shirt, and roared like a bull, and swore, and
sneered, and wanted to take the whole of Tom's crowd while he was at it,
and make one clean job of 'em. Couldn't waste time fighting them all one
after the other, because he wanted to get away to the new rush at Cattle
Creek next day. The fool had been drinking shanty-whisky.
“Tom stood up in his clean, white moles and white flannel shirt--one of
those sort with no sleeves, that give the arms play. He had a sort
of set expression and a look in his eyes that Uncle Bob--nor none of
them--had ever seen there before. 'Give us plenty of----room!' roared
Redmond; 'one of us is going to hell, now! This is going to be a fight
to a----finish, and a----short one!' And it was!” Joe paused.
“Go on,” said Mitchell--“go on!”
Joe drew a long breath.
“The Oracle never got a mark! He was top-dog right from the start.
Perhaps it was his strength that Redmond had underrated, or his want
of science that puzzled him, or the awful silence of the man that
frightened him (it made even Uncle Bob uneasy). Or, perhaps, it was
Providence (it was a glorious chance for Providence), but, anyway, as
I say, the Oracle never got a mark, except on his knuckles. After a few
rounds Redmond funked and wanted to give in, but the chaps wouldn't let
him--not even his own mates--except Duigan. They made him take it as
long as he could stand on his feet. He even shammed to be knocked out,
and roared out something about having broken his----ankle--but it was
no use. And the Oracle! The chaps that knew thought that he'd refuse to
fight, and never hit a man that had given in. But he did. He just stood
there with that quiet look in his eyes and waited, and, when he did hit,
there wasn't any necessity for Redmond to PRETEND to be knocked down.
You'll see a glint of that old light in the Oracle's eyes even now, once
in a while; and when you do it's a sign that you or someone are going
too far, and had better pull up, for it's a red light on the line, old
as he is.
“Now, Jimmy Nowlett was a nuggety little fellow, hard as cast iron,
good-hearted, but very excitable; and when the bashed Redmond was
being carted off (poor Uncle Bob was always pretty high-strung, and was
sitting on a log sobbing like a great child from the reaction), Duigan
made some sneering remark that only Jimmy Nowlett caught, and in an
instant he was up and at Duigan.
“Perhaps Duigan was demoralised by his mate's defeat, or by the
suddenness of the attack; but, at all events, he got a hiding, too.
Uncle Bob used to say that it was the funniest thing he ever saw in his
life. Jimmy kept yelling: 'Let me get at him! By the Lord, let me get at
him!' And nobody was attempting to stop him, he WAS getting at him all
the time--and properly, too; and, when he'd knocked Duigan down, he'd
dance round him and call on him to get up; and every time he jumped or
bounced, he'd squeak like an india-rubber ball, Uncle Bob said, and he
would nearly burst his boiler trying to lug the big man on to his feet
so's he could knock him down again. It took two of Jimmy's mates all
their time to lam him down into a comparatively reasonable state of mind
after the fight was over.
“The Oracle left for Sydney next day, and Uncle Bob went with him. He
stayed at Uncle Bob's place for some time. He got very quiet, they said,
and gentle; he used to play with the children, and they got mighty fond
of him. The old folks thought his heart was broken, but it went through
a deeper sorrow still after that and it ain't broken yet. It takes a lot
to break the heart of a man.”
“And his wife,” asked Mitchell--“what became of her?”
“I don't think he ever saw her again. She dropped down pretty low after
he left her--I've heard she's living somewhere quietly. The Oracle's
been sending someone money ever since I knew him, and I know it's a
woman. I suppose it's she. He isn't the sort of a man to see a woman
starve--especially a woman he had ever had anything to do with.”
“And the Gippsland girl?” asked Mitchell.
“That's the worst part of it all, I think. The Oracle went up North
somewhere. In the course of a year or two his affair got over Gippsland
way through a mate of his who lived over there, and at last the story
got to the ears of this girl, Bertha Bredt. She must have written a
dozen letters to him, Aunt Bob said. She knew what was in 'em, but, of
course, she'd never tell us. The Oracle only wrote one in reply. Then,
what must the girl do but clear out from home and make her way over to
Sydney--to Aunt Bob's place, looking for Tom. She never got any further.
She took ill--brain-fever, or broken heart, or something of that sort.
All the time she was down her cry was--'I want to see him! I want to
find Tom! I only want to see Tom!'
“When they saw she was dying, Aunt Bob wired to the Oracle to come--and
he came. When the girl saw it was Tom sitting by the bed, she just gave
one long look in his face, put her arms round his neck, and laid her
head on his shoulder--and died.... Here comes the Oracle now.”
Mitchell lifted the tea-billy on to the coals.
[End of original text.]
From the original advertisements (March, 1900), books by the same
author: