When Joe Was In Charge.
Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time--time that Dad considered
should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes--in
ear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them
go without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide.
The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY
belonged to Joe.
Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and
brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good
one he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or
Dad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish.
One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a
four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and
lithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close
to his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe
understood the ways of a reptile.
There was no cage--Dad had burnt the last one--so Joe walked round the
room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom
and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She
did n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She
spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe
giggled and wondered how long the cat would live.
The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called in
for a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health.
"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson the
reptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-get
y' one." But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back
and fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey
grabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for
his horse--followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"--then turned
inside.
Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup
of tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing
with the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again,
but the snake caught HIM--by the finger.
"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal
bolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard.
Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in.
He examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm
when Dad rushed in.
"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d--d whelp! You wretch of a boy! MY
God!"
"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber.
But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost
barneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for
Sweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation
for curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head
for Sweeney's. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n't
go further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down
and ran back.
"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again.
"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger."
Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed
the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a
blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.
"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man
kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held
his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and
brought the hammer down. It did n't sever the finger--it only scraped
the nail off--but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and
got away.
Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run
like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots
off, Joe had disappeared in the corn.
"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted
through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night
came. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing
answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow,
sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the
grass-paddock.
At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened,
and looked distracted.
While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped
in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if
he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's
bed; Dave slept on the sofa.
"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said,
"there won't be room for us all."
And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the
back-door, and crawled quietly into bed.
At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said:
"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again.
"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply.
Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up--he was at the
back--and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and
chuckled and said:
"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?"
He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his
trousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into
them when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot
of the bed. He stared at them and the black face again--then plunged
for the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of
the bed at him.
"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more.
Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore,
and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying:
"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK)
run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK).
But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle
Hut would not have been the same place at all without Joe.
It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was
most appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man
in the house--even if it was only Joe.
Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection,
minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old Mother
Murphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door
the same as Dad used to do--for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place,
and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas.
It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. A
starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye,
talkative, ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a
hump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him
before. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not
exactly a "traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair
of boots much too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"--he
took off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were
sitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying
at Mother's feet, rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways of
people well brought up.
The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother's
heart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have some
dinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And he
went to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe;
but it did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stare
about, and did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called
him to dinner he could n't hear--he was too busy. Joe had to go and
bring him away.
Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through
which the sun was shining.
"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked.
Mother said it was.
"Quite a bush house."
"Oh, yes," Mother said--"we're right in the bush here."
He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and
crops and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle.
Casey was a versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the
sofa and asked Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and
said, "Twelve." He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and, said that
HIS mother, when he left home, had twenty-one--all girls but him. That
was forty years ago, and he did n't know how many she had since.
Mother and Sal smiled. They began to like old Casey.
Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or
"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about the
yard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for five
years. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. He
was mending it all the evening.
Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence,
hurried to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if she
wanted more. Then he returned to the fence.
"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' to
eat the corn."
Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wire
on his way back.
At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper he
brought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly.
Mother and Sal talked about him.
"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invite
him in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. He
stayed to throw some pumpkin to the pigs.
Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night,
too. He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayed
with us altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. The
house, he said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where it
ought to have been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting a
hedge and ornamental trees in front and fruit trees at the back, and
making a nice place of it. Little things like that pleased Mother.
"Anyway," she would sometimes say to Sal, "he's a useful old man, and
knows how to look after things about the place." Casey did. Whenever
any watermelons were ripe, he looked after THEM and hid the skins in
the ground. And if a goanna or a crow came and frightened a hen from
her nest Casey always got the egg, and when he had gobbled it up he
would chase that crow or goanna for its life and shout lustily.
Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man,
and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Casey
would give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. If
Maloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or a
dray, or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it with
pleasure, and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it.
Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the same
as Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection.
Casey knew a thing or two--so he said. One fine morning, when all the
sky was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cows
smashed down a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey,
assisted by Joe, put them all in the yard, and hammered them with
sticks. Dwyer came along.
"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily.
"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then he
put his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer's
face. Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything--he
was n't a man of words--but started throwing the rails down to let the
cows out. Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with his
long, brown arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joe
mounted the stockyard. Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then there
was a struggle--on Casey's part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried him
away and set him down on his back, then hastened to the rails. But
before he could throw them down Casey was upon him again. Casey never
knew when he was beaten. Dwyer was getting annoyed. He took Casey by
the back of the neck and squeezed him. Casey humped his shoulders and
gasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein hung on the yard. Dwyer
reached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer fastened one end of the
rope round Casey's body--under the arms--and stared about again. And
again "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the yard to get further
away. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near. Dad once used
it as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein into a coil
and heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he tied the end
of the rope to the yard and drove out the cows.
"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away, "cut the
rope."
Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spin
round--to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyed
the twirling form with joy.
Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe.
"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w--WOP."
Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it under
Casey, and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily as
he could. Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingers
and he let go, and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Casey
was an invalid at our place. He would have been invalided there for
the rest of his days only old Dad came home and induced him to leave.
Casey did n't want to go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him that
generally proved effectual.
Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarce
where he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe started
a mob nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and he
pondered. Suddenly he had an original inspiration--originality was
Joe's strong point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buried
himself there for two days. For two whole days he was never "at
home,", except when he stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog for
yelping for a drink. The greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'd
had a billyful--Joe told him. On the morning of the third day the
barn-door swung open, and forth came a kangaroo, with the sharpened
carving knife in its paws. It hopped across the yard and sat up, bold
and erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly broke his neck trying to
get at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you useless hound!" and
started across the cultivation!, heading for the grass-paddock in long,
erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it spotted a mob of
other kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver.
Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was the
matter. She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunken
manner towards the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him,
Bluey! Sool him!" Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axe
to get the scalp. As the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned and
hissed, "G' home, y' mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when he
had nailed the kangaroo dextrously by the thigh and got him down did it
dawn upon the marsupial that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore off
his head-gear, called the dog affectionately by name, and yelled for
help; but Bluey had not had anything substantial to eat for over a
week, and he worried away vigorously.
Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junk
off Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, and
grabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal!
Mother arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, and
shrieked. "Pull him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mother
shrieked louder, and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey.
He was a good dog, was Bluey!
At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took a
mouthful of kangaroo with him as he went.
Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. It
was very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it and
cried, "Oh, Joe! My child! my child!"
It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he
went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--like
Butler--alone.