the grass, when Maggie saw him. She instantly gave the alarm, "A
snake, a snake!" for she knew he was a bad character. Sam and Puss
jumped up and began to bark; Joey said, "There is na luck aboot the
hoose." Bruin was too stupid to say anything. The snake said, "Here
is a terrible row all at once, I must make for a hole." He had a
keen eye for a hole, and he soon saw one. It was a small one, in
Philip's mattress, almost hidden by the seam, and had been made most
likely by a splinter or a nail. The snake put his head in it,
saying, "Any port in a storm," then drew in his whole length, and
settled himself comfortably among the straw.
Beasts and birds have instincts, and a certain amount of will and
understanding, but no memory worth mentioning. For that reason the
domestics never told Philip about the snake in his mattress, they had
forgotten all about it. If Sam had buried a bone, he would have
remembered it a week afterwards, if he was hungry; but as for snakes,
it was, "out of sight, out of mind."
Philip took in his mattress and blanket before sundown and made his
bed. The snake was still in the straw; he had been badly scared, and
thought it would be best to keep quiet until he saw a chance to creep
out, and continue his journey down the garden. But it was awfully
dark inside the mattress, and although he went round and round
amongst the straw he could not find any way out of it, so at last he
said: "I must wait till morning," and went to sleep.
When Philip went to bed the snake was disturbed, and woke up. There
was so heavy a weight on him that he could scarcely move, and he was
almost suffocated. He said: "This is dreadful; I have been in many
a tight place in my time, but never in one so tight as this.
Whatever am I to do? I shall be squeezed to death if I don't get away
from this horrid monster on top of me."
Philip fell asleep as usual, and by-and-by the snake began to flatten
his ribs, and draw himself from under the load, until at last he was
clear of it; then, heaving a deep sigh of relief he lay quiet for
awhile to recover his breath. He knew there was a hole somewhere if
he could only find it and he kept poking his nose here and there
against the mattress.
After sleeping an hour or two, Philip turned on his other side, and
the snake had to move out of the way in a hurry for fear of being
squeezed to death. There was a noise as of something rustling in the
straw, and after listening awhile, Philip said: "I suppose it's a
mouse," and soon fell fast asleep again, because he was not afraid of
mice even when they ran across his nose.
In the morning he took his blankets out again, and hung them on the
fence, shook up his mattress and pillow, and then spread the sheets
over them, tucking them in all round, and then he got ready his
breakfast.
The whole of that day was spent by the snake in trying to find a way
out. The sheets being tucked in he was still in the dark, and he
kept going round and round, feeling for the hole with his nose until
he went completely out of his mind, just as a man does when he is
lost in the bush. So the day wore on, night and bedtime came again,
and Philip lay down to rest once more right over the imprisoned
snake. Then that snake went raving mad, lost all control of himself,
and rolled about recklessly. Philip sat up in bed, and a cold sweat
began to trickle down his face, and his hair stood on end. He
whispered to himself as if afraid the snake might hear him. "The
Lord preserve us, that's no mouse; it's a snake right under me. What
shall I do?"
The first thing to do was to strike a light; the matches and candle
were on a box at his bedside, and he slowly put out his hand to reach
them, expecting every moment to feel the fangs in his wrist. But he
found the match-box, struck a light, carefully examined the floor as
far as he could see it, jumped out of bed at one bound, and took
refuge in the other room. There he looked in every corner, and along
every rafter for the other snake, for he knew that at this season
snakes are often found in pairs, but he could not see the mate of the
one he had left in bed.
There was no sleep for Philip that night, and, by the light of the
candle, he sat waiting for the coming day, and planning dire
vengeance. At sunrise he examined closely every hole, and crevice,
and corner, and crack in both rooms, floor and floor, slabs,
rafters, and shingles. He said, at last: "I think there is only
one snake, and he is in the bed."
Then he went outside, and cut a stick about five feet long, one end
of which he pointed with his knife. Returning to the bedroom, he
lifted up with the point of his stick the sheets, blankets, and
pillows, took them outside, and hung them on the fence. Next he
turned over the mattress slowly, but there was nothing to be seen
under it. He poked the mattress with the blunt end of his stick here
and there, and he soon saw that something was moving inside. "Ah!"
he said, "there you are, my friend." The thought of having slept two
nights on a live snake made him shudder a little, but he was bent on
vengeance. He took hold of one end of the mattress with one hand,
and holding the stick in the other, he carried it outside and laid it
on the grass. Looking carefully at every side of the mattress he
discovered the hole through which the snake had entered. It was so
small that he could scarcely believe that a snake had gone through
it, but no other hole was anywhere visible. Philip said, "If the
beast comes out it shall be through fire," so he picked up a few
pieces of bark which he placed over the hole, and set on fire. The
straw inside was soon in a blaze, and the snake was lively. His
situation was desperate, and his movements could be traced by the
rising and falling of the ticking. Philip said, "My friend, you are
looking for a hole, but when you find it it will be a hot one." The
snake at last made a dash for life through the fire, and actually
came out into the open air. But he was dazed and blinded, and his
skin was wet and shining with oil, or perspiration, or something.
Philip gave him a finishing stroke with his stick, and tossed him
back into the fire. Of course a new mattress was necessary, and a
keen eye for snakes ever afterwards.
The teaching in the school went on with regularity and success.
There was, however, an occasional interruption. Once a furious
squall came over the lake, and shook the frail building so much that
Philip threw open the door and sent out all the children, the little
ones and girls first, and then the boys, remaining himself to the
last like the captain of a sinking ship; but he was not so much of a
fool to stay inside and brave destruction; he went out to a safe
distance until the squall was over.
Sometimes a visitor interfered with the work of the school, and
Philip for that reason hated visitors; but it was his duty to be
civil and patient. Two inspectors called on two different occasions
to examine the scholars. One of them was scarcely sober, and he
behaved in a manner so eccentric that the master had a strong
temptation to kick him out. However, he at last succeeded in seeing
the inspector outside the door peaceably, and soon afterwards the
department dispensed with that gentleman's services.
He had obtained his office by favour of a minister at home for
services rendered at an election. His salary was 900 pounds per
annum. The next inspector received the same salary. He was brother
or brother-in-law to a bishop, and had many ancestors and relatives
of high degree. Philip foolishly showed him a few nuggets which he
had picked up in Picaninny Gully, and the inspector showed Philip the
letter by which he had obtained his appointment and 900 pounds a
year. It was only a couple of lines written and signed by a certain
lord in London, but it was equivalent to an order for a billet on the
government of Victoria. Then the inspector said he would feel
extremely obliged to Philip if he would give him one of his little
nuggets that he might send it to my lord as a present, and Philip at
once handed over his biggest nugget. Little amenities of this kind
make life so pleasant. My lord would be pleased to receive the
nugget, the inspector was pleased to send it, and Philip said "it
cannot be bribery and corruption, but this inspector being a
gentleman will be friendly. When he mentions me and my school in his
report he cannot possibly forget the nugget."
Barney, the boozer, one day visited the school. He opened the door
and stood on the threshold. His eyes seemed close together, and
there was a long red scar on his bare neck, where he had on a former
occasion cut his throat. All the scholars were afraid of Barney, and
the girls climbed up on the benches and began to scream.
Philip went up to the Boozer and said:
"Well, my friend, what do you want here?"
"The devil knows," replied Barney.
"Very likely, but he is not here, he has gone down the road."
Then taking Barney by the arm he turned him round and guided him to
the road. Barney went about twenty yards until he came to a pool of
water. He stepped on to the fence and sat on the top rail gazing
into the pool. At last he threw his hat into it, then his boots,
coat, shirt, and trousers. When he was quite naked, he stamped on
his clothes until they were thoroughly soaked and buried in mud.
Barney then resumed his search for the devil, swinging his arms to
and fro in a free and defiant manner.
The school was also visited by a bishop, a priest, a squatter, and a
judge. The dress and demeanour of the judge were very impressive at
so great a distance from any centre of civilization, for he wore a
tall beaver hat, a suit of black broadcloth, and a white necktie.
Philip received him with reverence, thinking he could not be anything
less than a lord spiritual, such is the power of broadcloth and fine
linen. Nosey, the shepherd, was then living at Nyalong, having
murdered the other shepherd, Baldy, about six months before, and this
judge sent Nosey to the gallows seventeen years afterwards; but
neither Nosey nor the judge knew what was to happen after seventeen
years. This is the story of Nosey and Baldy.
THE TWO SHEPHERDS.
By the men on the run they were known as Nosey and Baldy, but in a
former stage of their existence, in the days of the Emperor Augustus
Cæsar, they were known as Naso and Balbus. They were then rivals in
love and song, and accused each other of doing things that were mean.
And now, after undergoing for their sins various transmigrations into
the forms of inferior animals, during two thousand years, as soon as
shepherds are required in Australia Felix, they appear once more
following their flocks and herds. But they are entirely forgetful of
all Greek and Roman civilization; their morals have not improved, and
their quarrels are more bitter than ever. In the old times they
tootled on the tuneful reed, and sang in purest Latin the sweetest
ditties ever heard, in praise of Galatea and Amyntas, Delia and
Iolla. But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they
speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians. In their
pagan days they stained their rustic altars with the blood of a kid,
a sacrifice to Jupiter, and poured out libations of generous wine;
but they offer up neither prayer nor sacrifice now, and they pour
libations of gin down their throats.
The Italian rustic is yet musical, and the Roman citizen has not lost
the genius of his race. He is still unrivalled in sculpture and
architecture, in painting, in poetry, and philosophy; and in every
handicraft his fingers are as deft as ever. But empire has slipped
from his grasp, and empire once lost, like time, never returns. Who
can rebuild Ninevah or Babylon, put new life into the mummies of the
Pharoahs, and recrown them; raise armies from the dust of the
warriors of Sesostris, and send them forth once more to victory and
slaughter? Julian the Apostate tried to rebuild the Holy City and
Temple of Israel, to make prophecy void--apparently a small
enterprise for a Roman Emperor--but all his labours were vain.
Modern Julians have been trying to resuscitate old Rome, and to found
for her a new empire, and have only made Italy another Ireland, with
a starving people and a bankrupt government. 'Nos patriæ fines, nos
dulcia linquimus arva'. The Italians are emigrating year after year
to avoid starvation in the Garden of Europe. In every city of the
great empire on which the sun never sets they wander through the
streets, clad in faded garments of olive green--the toga long since
discarded and forgotten--making sweet music from the harp and
violin, their melancholy eyes wandering after the passing crowd,
hoping for the pitiful penny that is so seldom given.
The two shepherds were employed on a station north of Lake Nyalong.
It is a country full of dead volcanoes, whose craters have been
turned into salt lakes, and their rolling floods of lava have been
stiffened into barriers of black rocks; where the ashes belched forth
in fiery blasts from the deep furnaces of a burning world have
covered the hills and plains with perennial fertility.
Baldy had been entrusted with a fattening flock, and Nosey had in his
care a lambing flock. From time to time the sheep were counted, and
it was found that the fattening flock was decreasing in numbers. The
squatter wanted to know what had become of his missing sheep, but
Baldy could give no account of them. His suspicions, however, soon
fell on Nosey. The latter was his nearest neighbour, and although he
had only the same wages--viz., thirty pounds a year and rations--
he seemed to be unaccountably prosperous, and was the owner of a wife
and two horses. He had been transported for larceny when he was only
fifteen years of age, and at twenty-eight he was suspected of being
still a thief. Girls of the same age were sent from Great Britain to
Botany Bay and Van Diemen's Land for stealing one bit of finery,
worth a shilling, and became the consorts of criminals of the deepest
dye. You may read their names in the Indents to this day, together
with their height, age, complexion, birthplace, and other important
particulars.
Baldy went over to Nosey's hut one evening when the blue smoke was
curling over the chimney, and the long shadows of the Wombat Hills
were creeping over the Stoney Rises. Julia was boiling the billy for
tea, and her husband was chopping firewood outside.
"Good evening, Julia," said Baldy; "fine evening."
"Same to you, Baldy. Any news to-day?" asked Julia.
"Well, there is," said Baldy, "and it's bad news for me; there's ten
more of my fatteners missing" (Nosey stopped chopping and listened)
"and the master says I'll have to hump my swag if I can't find out
what has become of them. I say, Nosey, you don't happen to have seen
any dingoes or blacks about here lately?"
"I ain't seen e'er a one, neither dingo nor blackfellow. But, you
know, if they were after mischief they'd take care not to make a
show. There might be stacks of them about and we never to see one of
them."
Nosey was proud of his cunning.
"Well," said Baldy, "I can hear of nobody having seen any strangers
about the Rises, nor dingoes, nor black fellows. And the dingoes,
anyhow, would have left some of the carcases behind; but the thieves,
whoever they are, have not left me as much as a lock of the wool of
my sheep. I have been talking about 'em with old Sharp; he is the
longest here of any shepherd in the country, and knows all the
blacks, and he says it's his opinion the man who took the sheep is
not far away from the flock now. What do you think about it, Nosey?"
"What the----should I know about your sheep?" said Nosey. "Do you
mean to insinivate that I took 'em? I'll tell you what it is, Baldy;
it'll be just as well for you to keep your blasted tongue quiet about
your sheep, for if I hear any more about 'em, I'll see you for it; do
you hear?"
"Oh, yes, I hear. All right, Nosey, we'll see about it," said Baldy.
There would have been a fight perhaps, but Baldy was a smaller man
than the other and was growing old, while Nosey was in the prime of
life.
Baldy went to Nyalong next day. His rations did not include gin, and
he wanted some badly, the more so because he was in trouble about his
lost sheep. Gin, known then as "Old Tom," was his favourite remedy
for all ailments, both of mind and body. If he could not find out
what had become of his sheep, his master might dismiss him without a
character. There was not much good character running to waste on the
stations, but still no squatter would like to entrust a flock to a
shepherd who was suspected of having stolen and sold his last
master's sheep.
Baldy walked to Nyalong along the banks of the lake. The country was
then all open, unfenced, except the paddocks at the home stations.
The boundary between two of the runs was merely marked by a ploughed
furrow, not very straight, which started near the lake, and went
eastward along the plains. In the Rises no plough could make a line
through the rocks, and the boundaries there were imaginary. Stray
cattle were roaming over the country, eating the grass, and the main
resource of the squatters was the Pounds Act. Hay was then sold at
80 pounds per ton at Bendigo; a draft of fat bullocks was worth a
mine of gold at Ballarat, and, therefore, grass was everywhere
precious. No wonder if the hardy bullock-driver became a cattle
lifter after his team had been impounded by the station stockman when
found only four hundred yards from the bush track. Money, in the
shape of fat stock, was running loose, as it were, on every run, and
why should not the sagacious Nosey do a little business when Baldy's
fat sheep were tempting him, and a market for mutton could be found
no farther away than the Nyalong butcher's shop.
Baldy left the township happier than usual, carrying under his arm
two bottles of Old Tom. He was seen by a man who knew him entering
the Rises, and going away in the direction of Nosey's hut, and then
for fifteen years he was a lost shepherd. In course of time it was
ascertained that he had called at Nosey's hut on his way home. He
had the lost sheep on his mind, and he could not resist the impulse
to have another word or two with Nosey about them. He put down the
two bottles of gin outside the door of the hut, near an axe whose
handle leaned against the wall. Nosey and his wife, Julia, were
inside, and he bade them good evening. Then he took a piece of
tobacco out of his pocket, and began cutting it with his knife. He
always carried his knife tied to his belt by a string which went
through a hole bored in the handle. It was a generally useful knife,
and with it he foot-rotted sheep, stirred the tea in his billy, and
cut beef and damper, sticks, and tobacco.
"I have been to Nyalong," he said, "and I heern something about my
sheep; they went to the township all right, strayed away, you know,
followed one another's tails, and never came back, the O. K. bullocks
go just the same way. Curious, isn't it?"
Nosey listened with keen interest. "Well, Baldy," he said, "and what
did you hear? Did you find out who took 'em?"
"Oh, yes," said Baldy; "I know pretty well all about 'em now, both
sheep and bullocks. Old Sharp was right about the sheep, anyway.
The thief is not far from the flock, and it's not me." Baldy was
brewing mischief for himself, but he did not know how much.
"Did you tell the police about 'em?" asked Nosey.
"Oh, no, not to-day!" answered Baldy. "Time enough yet. I ain't in
no hurry to be an informer."
Nosey eyed him with unusual savagery, and said:
"Now didn't I tell you to say no more about your blasted sheep, or
I'd see you for it? and here you are again, and you can't leave 'em
alone. You are no better than a fool."
"Maybe I am a fool, Nosey. Just wait till I get a light, and I'll
leave your hut and trouble you no more."
He was standing in the middle of the floor cutting his tobacco, and
rubbing it between the palms of his hands, shaking his head, and
eyeing the floor with a look of great sagacity.
Nosey went outside, and began walking to and fro, thinking and
whispering to himself. It was a habit he had acquired while slowly
sauntering after his sheep. He seemed to have another self, an
invisible companion with whom he discussed whatever was uppermost in
his mind. If he had then consulted his other self, Julia, he might
have saved himself a world of trouble; but he did not think of her.
He said to himself: "Now, Nosey, if you don't mind, you are going to
be in a hole. That old fool inside has found out something or other
about the sheep, and the peelers will have you, if you don't look
out, and they'll give you another seven years and maybe ten. You've
done your time once, Nosey, and how would you like to do it again?
Why couldn't you leave the cursed sheep alone and keep out of
mischief just when you were settling down in life comfortable, and
might have a chance to do better. Baldy will be telling the peelers
to-morrow all he knows about the sheep you stole, and then they'll
fetch you, sure. There's only one thing to stop the old fool's jaw,
and you are not game to do it, Nosey; you never done a man yet, and
you are not game to do it now, and you'll be damned if you do it, and
the devil will have you, and you'll be hanged first maybe. And if
you don't do him you'll be lagged again for the sheep, and in my
opinion, Nosey, you are not game. Yes, by the powers, you are,
Nosey, damned if you ain't. Who's afeered? And you'll do it quick
--do it quick. Now or never's your time."
While talking thus to himself, Nosey was pacing to and fro, and he
glanced at the axe every time he passed the door. The weapon was
ready to his hand, and seemed to be inviting him to use it.
"Baldy is going to light his pipe, and while he is stooping to get a
firestick, I'll do him with the axe."
When Baldy turned towards the fire, Nosey grasped the axe and held it
behind him. He waited a moment, and then entered the hut; but Baldy
either heard his step, or had some suspicion of danger, for he looked
around before takingup a firestick. At that instant the blow,
intended for the back of the head, struck him on the jaw, and he fell
forward among the embers. For one brief moment of horror he must
have realised that he was being murdered, and then another blow
behind the head left him senseless.
Nosey dragged the body out of the fireplace into the middle of the
floor, intending, while he was doing a man, to do him well. He
raised the axe to finish his work with a third blow, but Julia gave a
scream so piercing that his attention was diverted to her.
"Oh, Nosey," she said, "what are you doing to poor Baldy? You are
murdering him."
Nosey turned to his wife with upraised axe.
"Hold your jaw, woman, and keep quiet, or I'll do as much for you."
She said no more. She was tall and stout, had small, sharp, roving
eyes; and Nosey was a thick-set man, with a thin, prominent nose,
sunken eyes, and overhanging brows. He never had a prepossessing
appearance, and now his look and attitude were so ugly and fierce
that the big woman was completely cowed. The pair stood still for
some time, watching the last convulsive movements of the murdered
Baldy.
Nosey could now pride himself on having been "game to do his man,"
but he could not feel much glory in his work just yet. He had done
it without sufficient forethought, and his mind was soon full of
trouble.
Murder was worse than sheep stealing, and the consequences of his new
venture in crime began to crowd on his mind with frightful rapidity.
He had not even thought of any plan for hiding away the corpse. He
had no grave ready, and could not dig one anywhere in the
neighbourhood. The whole of the country round his hut was rocky--
little hills of bare bluestone boulders, and grassy hollows covered
with only a few inches of soil--rocks everywhere, above ground and
below. He could burn the body, but it would take a long time to do
it well; somebody might come while he was at the work, and even the
ashes might betray his secret. There were shallow lakes and swamps,
but he could not put the corpse into any of them with safety: search
would be made wherever there was water, on the supposition that Baldy
had been drowned after drinking too freely of the gin he had brought
from Nyalong, and if the body was found, the appearance of the skull
would show that death had been caused, not by drowning, but by the
blows of that cursed axe. Nosey began to lay all the blame on the
axe, and said, "If it had not stood up so handy near the door, I
wouldn't have killed the man."
It was the axe that tempted him. Excuses of that sort are of a very
ancient date.