'Not amongst the police, Sergeant Wallis. It is a miserable living a
washerwoman would make out of them. I hear they beat their shirts with a
stick once a month, as we dusted the carpets in the old Country.'
'We can find nothing, sergeant,' said one of the police.
'Remember how Imeson tricked you all at Bendigo, Wallis, with a hollow
tent-pole that held ten gallons of brandy.'
'I do, Mrs. Kyley. You were Mrs. Imeson then.'
'And if you have the luck I may be Mrs. Wallis one of these days.'
'Heaven forbid, ma'am!'
'Don't waste your prayers on me, sergeant. Maybe I deserve even that, my
sins being many and various.'
'And sly grog-selling is one of them. But I'll have you there yet, my
good woman.' Wallis turned his thumb down.
'Remember I am only a poor weak woman when that happens, sergeant. Will
you have a drink before going? There's a nip left in Quigley's bottle.'
'No, ma'am, I don't drink,' answered Wallis from the door.
'Then, sergeant, commit your nose for perjury. It's bearing false witness
against you all over the field.'
There was a yell of laughter, interspersed with the usual cries of 'Jo!'
as Wallis passed out after his men, and the diggers bombarded Mrs. Kyley
with the bundles of washing that had been hastily distributed amongst
them. Ben Kyley followed the police out, and presently returned and
nodded to Mary, who seized her jug and dived through the canvas
partition. She was back again in a minute with a jug full of spirits.
'My shout, lads!' she cried. 'Roll up, and drink the health and long life
of Mary Kyley!'
The device that enabled the washerwoman to deceive the police was known
to a few of the diggers, but they kept the secret well. Her tent was
pitched close to a big hollow gum-tree. High up in the butt nestled a
barrel of rum, the bottom coated with cinders, like the interior of the
burnt tree. From this barrel a pipe came down under the bark to a neatly
disguised little trap-door where the canvas lay against the butt. A
hidden slit in the tent corresponded with the trap-door. It was Ben's
office to replenish the barrel at night, with kegs brought from their
safe hiding-place in an abandoned claim, over which was pitched the tent
of his mate, Sandy Harris. Mary had adopted this plan on three rushes,
and her savings, regularly banked in Melbourne, already assumed the
proportions of a modest fortune.
When the police were gone Jim looked about him in search of Ryder, but
his acquaintance had disappeared. As his friendship with Aurora Griffiths
ripened, Done shook off thoughts of Lucy Woodrow, since they never came
without an underlying sense of accusation. He was enjoying his present
life to the full. In his heart was a great kindness towards the people
with whom he mingled. He was naturally sociable, a lover of his kind, and
recognised now that half the torment of his life since coming to manhood
had arisen from his isolation, from the lack of opportunities of
gratifying this affection. He admired Aurora, comparing her with his
youthful ideal, the strong animal, self-reliant, careless of custom.
True, she lacked the intellectual superiority with which he had endowed
his defiant Dulcinea, but he had even forgotten to take delight in his
own mental excellence of late, so that did matter. He only concerned
himself with living now. He was quite at his ease in Aurora's society,
and the atmosphere on the Kyley establishment pleased him. The place was
full of interest, but his warmest interest was in the full-blooded pagan
who officiated as Hebe to the assembled diggers.
He had quite respectable qualms at times, seeing her the object of so
much rough gallantry--qualms he stifled instantly as being in flat
rebellion to his fine philosophy of individualism as applied to
behaviour. His rights of man must be rights of women too. But, for all
that, there was much comfort in the belief that Aurora showed no
preference elsewhere. Quigley's prominence as a suitor was not due to any
partiality on the part of the girl, but rather to Quigley's own
aggressive character, and his imperturbability under her eloquent banter.
To be sure, she persisted in treating Jim as an interesting boy, a line
of conduct he found somewhat absurd, but which was partly the vein of her
humour, and partly due to his inexperience in the role of Don Juan.
So the merry months passed, and the mates worked claim after claim on
Diamond Gully, doing much prospecting work and sinking sundry duffers,
but unearthing sufficient gold to make Done's riches a good deal of a
nuisance to him, although translated into the biggest bank-notes
available. During all this time Quigley's dislike for Jim was only kept
within bounds by the vein of flippancy that ran through Aurora's
demonstrations of preference for the younger man. The quarrel was
inevitable, however, and it was precipitated by a half-drunken
demonstration of affection towards Aurora on Quigley's part, which the
girl resented with a savageness that betrayed an unexpected trait.
One Saturday night Done and Burton were partners in a four-handed game of
euchre going on at one of the tables, when a sudden disturbance arose at
the counter. Mrs. Ben Kyley's familiar rum-jug crashed and flew to pieces
on the table amongst the men. The players were on their feet in an
instant. At the other end of the compartment Aurora was struggling in the
hands of Pete Quigley. Pete held her wrists firmly, and Aurora's fingers
clutched the neck of a bottle. Her face was distorted with passion, no
trace of its habitual humour remained; the fury of a mountain cat blazed
in her eyes, her lips were drawn back from her large white teeth, which
were clenched with a biting vindictiveness. The other men reseated
themselves, watching the struggle without much concern. Mrs. Kyley
shouted an uncomplimentary summary of Quigley's character from behind the
counter. Jim alone advanced to interfere.
'Drop it, Quigley,' he said quietly, but his warmer feelings stirred.
'Blast it, man, let the girl be!'
'An' have my brains knocked out with a bottle? I'll see you flaming
first!'
Done pressed Aurora's fingers apart, and threw the bottle behind the
counter.
'Now release her!' he said in a tone conveying a threat.
'Mind your own infernal business!' answered Pete. 'I'll deal with you in
half a minute.'
'Release her!' Done was at Quigley's throat with a grip that started
Pete's eyes from their sockets, and the elder digger abandoned his hold
on Aurora to fight for his own breath. There was a brief struggle, and
Jim sent Pete sprawling over a stool.
Quigley picked himself up. He did not rush at Done: he was apparently
composed. He undid the wrist and collar buttons of his jumper, drew the
garment over his head, and threw it on the floor at Jim's feet.
'I suppose you'll take it fighting!' he said. 'If you won't I'll thump
the soul out of you, anyhow.'
Aurora rushed between them, and endeavoured to grapple with Pete again.
'You shall not fight!' she cried. 'You coward! You brute!'
At this juncture Kyley, who had been away replenishing the rum-barrel,
entered the tent. He took in the situation at a glance.
'Look after Aurora, Ben!' ordered Mrs. Kyley, and Kyley calmly took the
struggling girl in his arms, and handed her bodily over the counter into
the washer-woman's gentle care.
Mike was promptly at his mate's back. 'Stave him off, Jim,' he said. 'Use
your straight left, and if he gets in throw him. He's a dirty
in-fighter.' Mike had boxed a good deal with Done lately, and did not
tremble for his friend.
Kyley came forward again. It was no part of his duty to prevent an
honourable settlement of a quarrel between man and man, and very far from
his inclination.
'If yer meanin' fight,' he said, it's got to be fair, square, an' in
order. First man that fouls 'll hear from me. Are you ready?'
The men had formed themselves into ranks along the sides and the end of
the tent, leaving a clear space about eighteen feet square. Jim threw
aside his shirt, and stood erect and composed. The flannel he wore was
sleeveless, and his uncommon length of arm excited the attention of the
cognoscenti, and if there was a miner on Diamond Gully who did not know
the points of a fighter, he was ashamed to admit it. Done had done most
of the windlass work since coming to the field, and his forearm was
corrugated with muscle, while the flexors responded to movements like
balls of iron starting under the brown skin. His shoulders were broad and
set well back, his poise buoyant, and his air of absolute confidence gave
a dubious tone to the words of the quidnuncs who were allowing Quigley
three minutes to whip him out of all recognition. Done looked slight and
small before his big opponent, but Pete's bigness was due largely to
surplus material, and Pete had been anything but a temperate man of late.
Jim recollected this in calculating his chances and determining his
methods.
'Time!' cried Kyley.
Done took his ground easily, with his left arm well up, and his right in
for defence, a style so unusual at that date as to provide a little
derision amongst the onlookers. Mike, standing with his arms outspread
and his shoulders to the crowd, keeping the ring, smiled complacently.
Pete, confident in his height, weight, and strength, was determined to
make a short, hot fight of it, and went straight at Jim, both hands up,
and launched his right for the young man's face with terrific force. This
must have been a decisive blow had Jim's face remained there to receive
it, but Done ducked neatly, and the next moment his left was shot into
Quigley's cheek, sending the big man staggering, and raising a purple
wheal under the eye almost instantly. Pete's composure forsook him at the
first set back, and uttering a furious oath he rushed in again, swinging
both fists; but that shooting left hand met him full in the mouth, and
balked him again, his own sledge-hammer blows falling short of his
opponent. He pushed in recklessly, punching right and left, but Jim
dodged smartly, slipped under his arm, and jumped to the other end of the
ring. Quigley swung round and dashed at him, and once more Done's hard
left shot into his face, while the heavy blow of the giant was neatly
parried, and again Jim bewildered his man by ducking and slipping from
him.
'Why don't you stand up and fight him like a Briton?' cried one of the
supporters of the big digger.
'He's fightin' fair, an' as long as he fights fair he'll fight as he dom
well pleases!' said Ben Kyley, who had constituted himself referee.
Already Quigley was bleeding freely and panting from his exertions, while
Done, who betrayed no excitement and conserved his energies with miserly
care, was no more disturbed than if he had been taking a hand at cards.
He faced his foe as before, presenting as little as possible of his body
for a target, and met Pete's rush this time with an adroit side movement
and a heavy lifting blow in the body that made Quigley gasp, and robbed
him of the little bit of sense that had remained. He went blundering at
Jim, lashing out with left and right. There was a rapid exchange, and
using his guard arm in offence for the first time, Jim sent in a swinging
blow that crashed on Pete's chin; and Pete dropped as if his legs had
suddenly broken under him, and lay in a grotesque attitude, his cheek
pressed to the earthen floor, while the assembled miners sent up yells of
excitement that presently settled into a babel of criticism.
Quigley made an effort to rise, but collapsed, and was lifted into his
corner, and freely sprayed and towelled by his seconds. Jim sat unmoved,
while Mike and an aristocratic digger, known as the Prodigal, fanned him
with the towels Mrs. Kyley had thoughtfully provided.
Quigley came up again at the call. He was still blinking and a little
dazed, but far from being beaten, and the first round had taught him a
lesson. He advanced more warily, displaying some little respect for his
enemy's darting left, but Jim's tactics puzzled and disgusted him. The
young man was as nimble as a cat, and no matter how Pete pushed him, he
always broke ground and slipped away when it seemed that his towering
opponent had him at his mercy.
'Why don't you fight, blast yer!' stuttered Pete, swinging on the runaway
for the third time in two minutes.
'Yes, stand up to it. This ain't a dancing lesson!' his second growled.
Jim's answer was a quick feint and a hard drive on the nose with the
left, following up quickly with the right on Quigley's ear. Both blows
sank in deeply, and Jim eluded Pete's rush, jumped out of his reach, and,
coming at him from the side, punched him heavily in the neck, whereat
Mike and his friends clamoured joyously. Quigley rushed at Jim, spitting
oaths, but he was a better fighter than he appeared to be, and was
prepared for the other's swift, cutting left hand by this, and, ducking,
he landed both fists on Jim's body. Jim countered on the ear and neck,
there was a fierce rally that set the crowd jumping and shouting madly,
and Jim slid out and skipped away, then got back at Pete before he had
quite realized what had happened with a powerful blow over the kidneys.
Pete's blood was up; he set his teeth, and went at Done with hungry
passion. The young man's style of fighting was new to most of the
onlookers, and few of them appreciated it. What they liked was to see
combatants stand up to each other, giving punch for punch, a system in
which the strong brute had all the advantage. Adroitness in avoiding
punishment was not regarded with favour; but, in spite of the derisive
cries of Quigley's backers, Jim kept strictly to his methods.
'Shut up, you!' cried Kyley. 'The lad's fightin' his own battle, an'
fightin' it well. He could wipe the floor with a bunch of you.'
Breathing heavily, and looking extremely ugly under his blood and
bruises, Pete followed Jim round, watching for an opportunity to rush in
and grip him. He felt that it was only necessary for him to get the
smaller man in his arms to settle the contest once and for all; but Jim
fought him warily, sparring, ducking, and dodging, cutting Pete again and
again with left-hand punches, or clipping him neatly with a swinging
right when an opening offered. Taking advantage of an instant when Done
was driven against the line of men, Quigley bore in, shaking his head
from a blow that might have felled a bullock, and, clasping Jim round the
waist, deliberately carried him into the centre of the ring, making
nothing of the short-arm punches that cut like a hammer. Three times he
tried to dash Done to the ground, but the latter was lithe as a serpent,
and his limbs writhed themselves about Quigley and clung tenaciously. The
crowd was shouting the two men's names, and exchanging cries of triumph
and abuse. Suddenly an arm shot across Pete's breast, an elbow was driven
into his throat, the two men wheeled, and the big one was sprung from his
feet and sent down, with a stunning shock. The yelling ceased suddenly,
every eye was upon Quigley.
'My God! he's killed!' said one awed voice.
They dragged Pete to his corner, and Jim submitted himself to the
attentions of his seconds. All the passion had gone out of his heart
before the first round was finished: there remained no emotion but the
lust of conquest. Aurora, who had watched the fight lying across the
counter under the washer-woman's restraining arm, her dark eyes shining,
her face ablaze, beat the boards with her knuckles, and cried out
incessantly, a prey to a fever of excitement that quivered in all her
flesh.
'Time!' cried Ben Kyley, and the men came to the scratch for the third
round, Pete badly shaken, but game and still eager.
'Stand in an' fight me, an' I'll belt the hide off you!' he said
savagely.
Jim laughed mockingly, and pushed his face forward, inviting the other to
lead, and when Pete lunged at it he ducked, and got right and left on to
his enemy's ribs, slipping, away under Pete's arm when he endeavoured to
return the blows. For a time Jim simply led the big man a dance round the
ring, landing a stinging blow now and then, to add to Pete's
discomfiture; but the latter got him cornered at last, and the thud,
thud, thud of the blows stirred the crowd to enthusiasm once more. Pete
got after Jim smartly when the latter broke ground, and landed his best
blow, a heavy right swing on the temple that sent Done down, and left him
confused for a few seconds. Quigley's friends shouted themselves hoarse
as Mike helped his mate to the chair.
'How goes it, Jim?' asked Burton anxiously.
'He's beaten, but my hat won't fit me for a day or two,' answered Done,
smiling through the water.
Quigley showed his bad condition very markedly when he came up, and Jim,
excepting for a cut chin and a big lump over his temple, appeared none
the worse. Pete maintained his wild policy, rushing the young man about
the ring, wasting energy in terrible blows that were rarely within a foot
of their object, while Done, who scarcely seemed to be fighting at all,
slipped in every now and again and battered Pete's body, chary of hitting
his cut and swollen face. This was maintained for two rounds more, and
three times Quigley went down. When time was called for the seventh round
Jim said decisively:
'I'll fight the man no more! He's beaten!'
There was a yell from Quigley's corner, and Pete rushed Jim, forcing him
back among the men. Again they clinched, but Jim broke away, and Quigley
followed, almost blind, and scarcely able to stagger. Done put him off
with the left, and drove in a right-hand blow that took Pete on the point
of the chin, sending him to earth, helpless and hopelessly beaten.
'Jimmy Done's the winner,' said Kyley authoritatively, when a measure of
quiet was restored, 'an' I don't mind sayin' I ain't seen a prettier bit
o' fightin' this five year. You've got a lot o' Tom Sayers's dainty
tricks, my lad!' he added, shaking Done by the hand.