Transcriber's Notes
Italic represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_.
Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS.
THE DASHWOODS
A SEQUEL TO
“ON AN AUSTRALIAN FARM”
BY
STEELE RUDD
(A.H. DAVIS)
AUTHOR OF “On Our Selection;” “Our New Selection;”
“Sandy’s Selection;” “Back at Our Selection,” &c.
_With Fifteen full-page Illustrations by Claude Marquet_
N.S.W. BOOKSTALL CO., LTD.
SYDNEY.
1920
_All Dramatic and Picture Rights Reserved._
_Copyrighted, 1911 by_ ALFRED CECIL ROWLANDSON,
_26 Cremorne Road, Cremorne, and 476 George Street, Sydney,_
_Australia_.
Wholly set up and printed in Australia by
John Sands Limited, Sydney.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. Page.
STAUNTON, JUNIOR 1
CHAPTER II.
IT WAS WILL 21
CHAPTER III.
THE FAMILY VISIT THE THEATRE 34
CHAPTER IV.
THE SHERIFF’S FAITHFUL MAN 60
CHAPTER V.
A LEADING BARRISTER 87
CHAPTER VI.
MEETING McCLURE 104
CHAPTER VII.
JAMES AND PETER ATTEND CHURCH 122
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 132
CHAPTER IX.
PETER IN THE BREAKERS 143
CHAPTER X.
HOME AGAIN 154
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page.
IN THE SALE ROOM 13
A BREACH OF FRIENDSHIP 25
AT THE THEATRE 41
MARIA’S BABY 51
DEALING WITH THE JUDGE’S ORDER 65
IN THE WRONG BOX 85
ONE IN THE MORNING 91
“BOOTS O!” 99
MCCLURE’S HAT 109
DUNCAN APPROVES 117
THE CHURCH COLLECTION 129
“NOW, THEN, SPOFFORTH!” 135
“GUESS WHO!” 141
IN THE BREAKERS 151
PETER’S LATEST 161
CHAPTER I.
Staunton, Junior.
The Dashwoods had been a full week in the great metropolis. Each day
they visited different localities, and each day fresh wonders and
glories were revealed to them.
They all enjoyed the city—all but Mrs. Dashwood and Maria. The former
tired of it after the first day, and saw nothing to enthuse about.
There was nothing real, nothing natural there, to appeal to her homely
spirit. In her heart she longed to be back at “Fairfield”—longed to
be amongst the fowls, and the ducks, and the dairy cows, and to see
again the great wheatfields, and the blue peaks of the ranges, and vast
plainlands stretching far away to the boundless west. But for the sake
of the others she endured, without complaint, the stuffy, noisy, dirty
streets of the artificial city, with its crowds of jostling humanity.
She even pretended to share the joys and excitements of her family, and
almost ran her legs off chasing trains and trams to please and humour
them. An unselfish mother was Mrs. Dashwood, who lived to make life
light and bright for those around her.
As for Maria, she liked the city “right enough,” but nobody, she
reckoned, “could see anything, or go anywhere in peace with a blessed
baby to look after.” And one day, when in extreme distress about the
infant, she threatened to leave the encumbrance at home with its father
the next time she came to town. To which resolution Tilly fervently
said “Amen,” and fired Maria’s family pride. She flew into a temper,
and proceeded to call Tilly names, and to remind her of things she
did when at school, but Mrs. Dashwood intervened in time to save the
situation and preserve the family name.
“Well, Ah baint be goin’ weth yow to-day,” old John informed the
family at the breakfast table, “mah old friend, Robert Staunton, has
herd we’re dahn, an’ writes sayin’ as he wants to see me perticler. He
called twahce a’ready, but we moost abeen aht soomewheres he thenks.”
Mrs. Dashwood wondered how the Stauntons were getting along.
“They roons a produce place soomewheres,” old John answered, “but Ah
don’t know wheres exactly yet, Eliza.”
Hailing a waiter scurrying past with two trays of “returned empties” in
his hands, old John questioned him.
“Staunton & Staunton, Solicitors?” interrogated the waiter.
“Hoh! hoh! hoh!—Noh-h,” laughed old John, “none o’ thet kidney. He be
too honest for thet; Robert’s a big man—bigger’n _me_; an’ his wahfe’s
a big woman. Theey’re both old friends o’ ahn—ever since theey coomed
to th’ coontry, and——”
The waiter was impatient and broke in on old John.
“Well, there are several gentlemen in the city bigger than you, sir,”
he answered, “but I’ll enquire at the office,” and away he glided.
“Ah-h,” muttered old John, “Ah-h!”
Tilly and Polly followed the flunkey’s flying coat-tails with their
eyes, and smiled.
“A wery erbligin’ young man thet be,” said old John, “wery erbligin’.”
“When there’s half-a-crown put into his hand, father. Ha! ha! ha,” from
Peter.
“Well, Ah dedn’t give ’n no half-crahn, lad,” replied the parent, in
defence of the waiter.
“No, but I did, yesterday,” from Peter.
James looked up quickly, and stared at his brother as at one who had
suddenly gone out of his mind. Tilly and Polly opened their eyes in
wonder, and exclaimed simultaneously:
“_You_, Peter?”
James struggled hard to suppress his merriment.
“What, _yow_ gin him half-a-crahn?” old John asked, in astonishment.
Peter nodded, but deemed it wise to offer no explanation.
“Did you give it to him in mistake for a penny, Peter?” Tilly asked,
with a nasty giggle, in which the others joined.
“No,” Peter answered; “a gentleman was leaving in a cab yesterday, and
he left it with me to give to him,” and he let off a laugh that made
even those at the most distant table look up.
Tilly and Polly and James felt ashamed of their brother, but old John
saw only the joke.
“Wery good,” he said; “yow hed ’n all thet tahme, lad, yow hed ’n raht
enoof.”
They finished breakfast.
“Well, we’re going for a trip in the _Kangaroo_ to Bung Island,” Tilly
said, rising; and speaking for the female portion of the party; “I
don’t know what James and Peter intend to do.”
“I’m off again in that train that goes to America,” Peter said, with a
cheerful chuckle. “It’s the best fun of th’ lot.”
“To Amerikee?” old John repeated curiously; “yow’ll want summat to go
theer with, lad.”
“Well, I want a couple o’ shillings, anyhow,” Peter said, glad of the
chance to apply for some more funds. “I haven’t a sixpence left,” and
he turned a pocket of his vest inside out.
Polly and Tilly accused Peter of imposing upon the good nature of
their parent, and declared he hadn’t spent a shilling of his money.
“H’m!... Ah-h,” said old John, thoughtfully, then turning to his other
son: “An’ where be yow goin’, James?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” James drawled, “I mightn’t go anywhere.”
“What’s the use of asking _him_, father?” Peter said, with a grin,
“he’ll be off to spend the day again in the Art Gallery, gaping at
those old mares with their heads and tails cocked, squealing for their
foals. ‘The Cry of the Mothers’; isn’t that what it is called, James”
(grinning at his brother). “He looked at it for two hours yesterday.”
James treated his brother with contempt.
“Oh, well,” Polly said, fumbling with her gloves, and glancing round
to see that no outsiders were listening, “when James goes home, Peter,
perhaps he’ll be able to paint a picture of a donkey with its ears
cocked, which he’ll call ‘The Bray of the Brother.’”
James treated his brother to a broad grin, while Peter forced a short
“ha! ha!” and rolled his eyes about.
“She wer’ too smart for yow thet tahme, lad,” old John said, with a
broad smile. “Too smart!” and, rolling his serviette into a heap, he
rose and led the way out. The others followed in single file.
* * * * *
The meeting of old John and Robert Staunton, the burly produce dealer,
was a strenuous and boisterous affair. They greeted each other like two
roaring lions conducting a courtship. Their handshake was an exhibition
of strength and endurance.
“Blest if I ever saw you looking so well, John,” Robert hollered,
caressing the plump hand of his country friend and looking into his
eyes. “Why, you’re got up like a Suffolk Punch.”
“Ah-h,” rejoined old John, “An’ Ah’ve sin wus Clahdesdales nor yow,
Robert. Hoh! hoh! hoh!”
Then they “hoh-hoh-hoh-ed” together, and hit each other on the back,
and rocked about, and finally adjourned to the “Lounge” room, of which
they soon became the sole occupants.
“Oh, Ah’ve been adoin’ well for a long tahme, now,” old John said, in
answer to the other’s enquiries about his welfare. “Seasons baint be
lahke ’n were in olden days, Robert. Markets are fairish, now, an’
lan’s gone oop won’erful. People on th’ lan’s doin’ pretty well, an’
they’ll do a lot better yet. There be soome as be a bit frahtent, tho’,
o’ th’ Labour Party an’ th’ Lan’ Tax, but——”
“But surely _you_ don’t believe in a Land Tax, John?” Robert broke in
in tones of surprise.
“Ah _do_, then, Robert,” was the answer, “an’ Ah thinks it’s what’ll
make th’ country all round—anyways, thet’s how it seems to me.”
“For the life of me, John, I can’t see how it’s going to do anything of
the kind. How can it, when it’s going to tax the farmer right off his
land?”
Old John laughed.
“Robert,” he said, tapping his friend on the shoulder, “thet’s what th’
noospapers tells yow, them as will have to pay for theer footin’. But
don’t yow believe ’n. They only wants th’ farmer to fight theer battles
for ’n. No, no-h, th’ Lan’ Tax won’t hurt th’ farmer what _farms_,
it’ll _help_ him. But the one as don’t farm, but sits on the land lahke
a dug in th’ manger, will have to skedaddle and make room for him as
wants it; an’ where theer be only one farm now, theer will be three
or four bahme-by, which will all mean, Robert, thet theer will be a
lot more produce for yow to sell on commission, an’ a lot more boots
an’ shoes an’ tea an’ kerosene sold by th’ storekeeper, and a lot more
drays and waggons and horses used up. Anyway, thet’s what it all seems
to me, Robert, but if yow can show as it waint be thet way, well, Ah’m
prepared to listen to yow.”
But Robert held no views other than what he had already briefly
expressed.
“Well, of course,” he said, slowly, “if they don’t touch the small
farmer, it will be all right, I suppose. And if, as you say, it will
mean more produce for me to sell, well, then, John, I’m with it all the
time,” and he laughed cheerfully.
“Yow be a hopportunist, then, Robert,” and old John laughed on his own
account.
The conversation turned to family affairs, and, according to Robert,
two of his daughters were married and living happily with their
respective husbands on allotments in the suburbs. Another, Mary Ellen,
was only “engaged,” and was employed in the “fancy” department of one
of the large establishments.
“But, Will, my eldest boy,” he went on, “I’m not sure what to make of
him. I’d like him to take to the land if he would; but I wanted to get
your advice about him first, John, before putting out money in a farm
for him. You see, I don’t want to find out that he’s not fitted for it,
or that it’s not fitted for him, when it’s too late. I want to be sure
beforehand.”
“How old be ’n?” asked old John, with the air of a medico inquiring
about the constitution of his patient.
“He’s getting on for twenty,” Robert answered, “but to look at him,
I’m blowed if you would think he was more than fifteen,” and added,
with a look of pride in his eye, “all our youngsters look a lot younger
than they are, though. You remember how young and frisky my old father
looked at seventy-five, and who would ever think that I was getting on
for fifty?”
“Fefty,” soliloquised old John; “Ah thought yow wer’ a lot more ’n
thet, Robert.”
“Get away with you,” and Robert worked back to the merits of his son
Will.
“Is ’n any size?” inquired old John.
“Well, of course you know,” the other answered, “youngsters brought up
in the town don’t grow like they do in the country.”
“H’m! Ah-h,” reflected old John; “an’ have he a lahkin’ for farmin’?”
“A liking!” and Robert laughed a grim sort of laugh. “Th’ blinded
young scamp, he hasn’t got a liking for anything except billiards, and
football, and hanging round street corners at night.”
Old John shook his head gravely.
“Well, my attitude in the matter is this,” said Robert; “I was thinking
if I could only get him on to the land with someone, someone who would
work the devil out of him, and, at the same time; take an interest in
him, you know, that it would make a man of him.”
“H’m!... Ah-h!” mused old John.
Robert stroked his chin thoughtfully and waited.
“Ah-h!” old John murmured again.
Robert saw the futility of beating about the bush, and came right to
the point.
“Would _you_ take him for a while, John?” he asked. “He’d go to _your_
place, I believe, and of course I wouldn’t expect a wage for him, or
anything like that.”
“Well,” answered old John, slowly, “Ah only took one yoongster in thet
way in mah life, Robert; an’ Ah sed to the wife at th’ tahme thet Ah
would never take anoother.”
“Just so,” from Robert, disappointedly.
“But,” old John proceeded, “seein’ as it’s to do a good turn by _yow_,
Robert, Ah might change mah mind.”
“I wouldn’t forget it if you did, John,” Robert said, with a pleased
look.
“Well, then, Ah would lahke to have a talk along wi’ him,” the other
suggested, “a talk wi’ himself, yow un’erstand, an’ without ’n knowin’
as who Ah em.”
Robert entered into the idea with enthusiasm.
“An’ Ah could tell yow then, Robert, if wert wise to spend mooney on
’n.”
“Well, if you’ll come along and jump on a tram with me, now,” Robert
suggested eagerly, “we’ll go down to my office, and you can have a chat
with him there without him knowing who the deuce you are. But, mind
you, John” (the light of parental pride filling his eyes) “he’s as cute
as you make them, is Will.”
“Ah-h,” from Old John.
Then they rose and left the hotel together.
* * * * *
“You know,” Robert said, when they were seated in the tram, “the young
devil is full of brains if he likes to use them. ‘Look here, Staunton,’
his schoolmaster said to me one day, ‘don’t you take that boy away from
me yet; you leave him at school for another couple of years, and I’ll
make something of him for you. There’s nothing he can’t do if he only
makes up his mind to it.’”
“Ah-h,” answered old John, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “then it
wer’ a pety, Robert, thet yow didn’t leave ’n at school.”
“Well, yes,” Robert mumbled, “it _was_, and I can see it now. No doubt,
no doubt!”
They alighted from the tram while it was in motion, Robert landed on
his feet, and old John on top of his head.
“God bless my soul, are you hurt?” Robert exclaimed, rushing to his
friend and standing him up.
Old John spat out large samples of the city soil, and brushed some more
from his swell suit, and tried to laugh, and said:
“Well, Ah dedn’t mean to come dahn thet way.”
“You might have been killed,” Robert said, with much concern.
“Well, Ah ain’t, Robert,” and old John laughed again, and pulled on his
hat, which had left him when he struck the street.
They proceeded along a footpath to Robert’s place of business.
“Well, now,” Robert said on nearing the entrance, “I’ll go in first,
John, and walk through to my own office, and you follow in a minute or
two. You’ll see Will at the desk in the auction room, along with young
Henry, the message boy. You can’t mistake Will, and he won’t know who
you——”
Old John motioned Robert off in a way that plainly indicated he
required no instructions.
Robert passed in.
“Was anyone looking for me when I was out, Will?” he called on reaching
the door of his office.
“Anyone looking for the boss?” Will said, in undertones to the message
boy.
The message boy shook his head in the negative.
“No one,” Will shouted, confidently, and resumed the useless occupation
of pasting “questionable” postcards into an album.
Presently old John, with an air of studied indifference, sauntered
clumsily in and began mooning round the auction room. He paused before
a rusty-looking oil-painting suspended from the wall with cob-web and
vermin, and gaped at it. The oil-painting was supposed to represent the
figure and features of a State Premier.
The message boy drew Will’s attention to the visitor.
[Illustration: IN THE SALE ROOM.]
Will looked up, and for a moment or two eyed the broad back and long
coat of old John.
“It’s lost its mother,” he said.
The message boy giggled; Will was a constant source of humour to the
message boy. But for Will the message boy’s existence would have been a
dull and uninteresting one in the office.
Old John, in admiration of the work of art, grunted: “H’m,” and “Ah-h!”
Will, on hearing the noise, looked up again, and, placing a thumb to
his nose, worked his fingers at old John.
The message boy ducked his head under the bench and gave way to mirth.
Old John fixed a pair of spectacles on his nose and proceeded to
examine the picture closely, like a woman judging fancy work at a
country show.
Will became interested. He reached to the floor, and, lifting a stray
onion that lay there, pelted it hard at old John’s head. The onion hit
the State Premier in the stomach and made a hole in him.
Old John jumped round.
“Nit yer bloomin’ larks, now!” Will said seizing the message boy by the
neck, “an’ garn outer this an’ do yer work. Chuckin’ onions about!”
The message boy snatched up a bunch of letters that required posting
and fled, leaving a train of giggles behind as he disappeared.
Old John, with a serious expression on his face, approached Will.
“Yow should’nt let ’n do thet,” he said, pointing to the punctured
Prime Minister. “Thet be a shame!”
“_Let_ him!” Will answered, in a voice of scorn, “I can’t stop him! But
if I was the boss here I would. I’d spear him without warnin’. But the
ol’ man, he’s far too easy, mister. ’Tween you and me he ain’t fit to
be over a hen coop.”
“Be yow a son o’ Mr. Staunton’s?” old John asked, tactfully.
“Well, so far as I know, I am, mister,” Will replied, “but I couldn’t
swear to it,” and he grinned.
Old John looked shocked.
Will laughed, and added:
“They say it’s a wise bloke that knows his own Pa—ain’t that so mister?”
Old John, half inclined to laugh, half inclined to administer a rebuke,
was lost for a reply.
But Will neither waited nor looked for one.
“_There’s_ a pair o’ good legs,” he said, shoving one of the postcards
into old John’s hand.
Old John glanced at the card, then burst into a loud “hoh! hoh!
hoh—hoh! hoh! hoh-h-h!” and dropped it on the floor.
“You wouldn’t guess in a year o’ Sundays where I got that from,
mister,” Will said, picking up the card.
Old John, with tears in his eyes, stared curiously at the son of his
friend Robert.
Will cast a cautious glance at his parent’s door.
“I got that one,” he whispered in confidence, “locked up in the old
man’s private drawer.”
“Hoh! hoh! hoh! hoh!—hoh-h-h!” and old John swung round and stamped
hard on the floor.
Hearing the roar of laughter, Robert stealthily opened his door and
looked out and smiled.
“Will’s amusing Dashwood, as I thought he would,” he murmured proudly
to himself, and quietly closed the door again.
But the turn the interview had taken was not what old John desired.
“What Ah’ve coome abaht, young man,” he said, approaching Will again,
“is th’ price o’ maize. How have it been sellin’ wi’ yow people?”
“_Maize?_” said Will, assuming an important business air. “_Dead_, sir;
a perfect drug. So’s wheat, and potatoes are a bally pest.... Why, are
you a farmer, mister?”
Old John saw his opportunity.
“Ah-h; Ah em, lad, an’ Ah’m proud on it.”
“You look it,” said Will, “you’re fat enough for one; but I’d have
taken you for something better than a cocky.”
“There be things a lot wus nor cockyin’, don’t you think?” replied old
John.
“Doing time would be, I suppose,” said Will, with a chuckle.
Under ordinary circumstances old John might have warmly resented the
slander. But he overlooked it.
“No, don’t you thenk, lad,” he said, “thet yow would be mooch better
orf setting behahnd a team o’ horses an’ a plough than cocked oop theer
on thet stool every day?”
“Who, _me_!” indignantly from Will. “_Dicken!_”
“Ah-h, yow lad.”
Will laughed.
“Why, that’s what the old man is always preaching,” he went on,
lighting a cigarette and blowing long thin streaks of smoke at old
John. “The old cove” (glancing again at the door) “has tried lots of
times to get me to go on the land. He wanted me to go with some old
coot up Fairfield way—old Dashwood. Do you know him at all, mister?”
Will waited for a reply.
Old John appeared to be in difficulties with himself.
“Ah-h,” he muttered at last, “Ah knows him a leetle.”
“A silly, religious old goat, ain’t he, says grace before pluggin’
into the pumpkin?” further enquired Will.
Old John’s eyes and mouth opened wide.
“He’s got a couple of jolly fine daughters, though, I believe,” Will
went on, rummaging himself for a match, “as good-looking as he’s ugly.”
Old John’s features started to work as if he was chewing something
hard, and his fists closed and opened automatically.
“It’s curious how a lot o’ these ugly old blokes,” Will went on,
growing philosophical, “have such good-looking daughters.”
Old John made an effort to speak, but couldn’t.
“How do you account for that, mister?”
A volcano seemed to be silently at work somewhere in the interior of
old John.
“I reckon,” said Will, “if I went to his place it wouldn’t be driving
teams I’d be at, I’d be driving those tarts around pretty slick. An’
I’d be huggin’ ’em an’ muggin’ ’em in the dairy. Oh, laws!” (Will
placed his hand over his heart and sighed.) “_What_ a time I’d have,
mister!”
Old John staggered back, and made a choking sound in his throat.
“I wouldn’t be there long,” laughed Will, “before old Johnny Dashwood
would be wanting to know what I meant by——”
“_Damn_ yow for a ill-bred city skunk!” old John burst out violently:
“Do you know who yow be atalkin’ to?” and he leaned over and glared
ferociously at Will.
Will, suddenly turning pale, deserted the stool and placed his back
against the wall.
“_Ah’m John Dashwood_, Ah em,” fairly shouted the other.
“Strike me curly, what am I up against!” said Will, and snatching up
his hat, darted through a side door into the street.
[Illustration: Decorative Image]