They were all very sore at Barracaboo station. From manager to
horse-boy, from jackaroo to boundary-rider, they felt aggrieved and
vengeful. First it had been ‘Around the World by Sea and Land,’
copiously illustrated, and in monthly parts. This was dull—unutterably
dull—and each instalment turned out duller and heavier than the last.
Also, the pictures resembled those on the specimen sheets as nearly as
a mule does a grindstone.
After this came ‘Diseases of All Known Domestic Animals,’ with
gorgeously coloured pictures. As nothing could be found in the whole
work relating to horses or cattle or dogs, except the illustrations,
this was also voted a fraud. However, they cut out the plates, and
stuck them upon the walls of the huts and cottages, so that it was not
clear loss altogether.
[Illustration: Started back to Atlanta, pursued for half the
distance with thunderous whip-crackings. (Page 194.)]
But the last straw was ‘The Universal Biography of Eminent Men—Dead
and Alive,’ with splendid portraits. When they discovered that the
notices they had been led to expect of their own ‘Boss,’ ‘Hungry’
Parkes of Humpalong, the Mayor of Atlanta, etc., etc., were absent,
and their places filled by paragraphs and woodcuts relating to Nelson,
Julius Cæsar, Pompey, Scipio Africanus, and such-like characters, they
one and all bucked, and refused to pay on delivery. Then they were
hauled to Quarter Sessions, confronted with their signatures, and made
to pay.
In vain they swore that the thing had never been ordered; that it
wasn’t up to specification; that their handwriting was a palpable
forgery. In vain they related how they had never touched it, but had
left their copies lying on verandahs, stockyard posts, in mud, in
dust, wherever, in fact, the agent had chanced to bail them up. All in
vain; they had to pay—costs and all.
Therefore was it that Barracaboo had forsworn literature by sample, or
in uncertain instalments, and vowed vengeance upon all shabby men with
indelible pencils, and printed agreements with a space left for
signature. More especially had they a ‘down’ on people who wore
goatees and snuffled when they talked.
‘If you see one of ’em at the station,’ said the manager—a rough,
tough old customer, and disappointed at being ousted by Julius
Cæsar—‘set the dogs on him. I’ll pay damages. If he don’t take that
hint, touch him up with stockwhips. It’ll only be justifiable homicide
at the worst. I know the law: an’ I don’t mind a fiver in such a
case!’
‘Let us only get a chance, sorr,’ said the sheep-overseer, ‘an’ we’ll
learn ’em betther manners wid our whups. Doggin’s too good for the
thrash!’
This state of affairs was pretty well known at Atlanta, the
neighbouring township; and book-fiends, warned, generally gave
Barracaboo a wide berth. Once, certainly, a new hand at the game, and
one who fancied himself too much to bother about collecting local
information, came boldly into the station-yard just as the bell was
ringing for dinner, and produced the advance sheets of a sweet and
lively work, entitled, ‘Hermits, Ancient and Modern: Illustrated with
Forty-seven Choice Engravings.’
He had got to ‘Now, gentlemen,’ when, hearing the howl of execration
that went up, he suddenly took in the situation and started back to
Atlanta, pursued for half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings
by the sheep-overseer and the butcher, who were the only two who
happened to have their horses ready.
Chancing to have a capital mount, he distanced them and galloped into
town, and up the main street, reins on his horse’s neck, and trousers
over his knees, half dead with fright, only to be promptly summoned
and fined for furious riding within the municipality.
For weeks afterwards sheets of ‘Hermits’ strewed the ‘cleared line,’
and he received a merciless chaffing from his fellow-fiends, who could
have warned him what to expect had he confided his destination to
them.
About this time came to Atlanta a small, ’cute-looking, clean-shaven,
elderly man. He was unknown to any present, but modestly admitted
that he was in the book trade, and had a consignment with him. And he
listened with interest to the conversation in the ‘Commercial Room.’
‘The district’s petered out,’ remarked a tall American gentleman, with
the goatee and nasal voice abhorred of Barracaboo. ‘Clean petered out
since that last “Universal Biography” business. They’re kickin’
everywhere. Darned if a feller didn’t draw a bead on me yesterday
afore I’d time almost to explain business. Then he got so mad that I
left, not wantin’ to become a lead mine.’
‘Been here a week and haven’t cleared exes.,’ said another mournfully.
‘Off to-morrow. No use trying to work such a desert as this now.’
‘Big place, this station with the funny name, you’re talkin’ about?’
asked the newcomer, who had introduced himself as ‘Mr Potts, from
London.’
‘Over a hundred men of one sort or another all the year round,’ was
the reply. ‘Capital shop for us, once too. But it’s sudden death to
venture there now. I did real good biz at Barracaboo for the Shuffle
Litho. Company. It wouldn’t pay, though, to chance back again.’
‘Ah, that was the “Around the World” thing, wasn’t it? Didn’t come up
to guarantee, eh?’
‘Well, hardly,’ replied the other. ‘However, that wasn’t my fault, you
know. All I had to do was to get the orders, which I did to the tune
of a couple of hundred or thereabout.’
‘That’s the worst of those things,’ said Mr Potts. ‘Instalments always
make a mess of it. Then the agent loses his character, if nothing
else. I was out delivering in the Western District for Shuffle Litho.,
and was glad to get away by the skin of my teeth. But it’s not only
the personal danger I object to,’ continued Mr Potts, after a pause.
‘It is the, ahem, the moral degradation involved in such a pursuit—you
know what I mean, sir?’
‘Just so, just so,’ answered the other vaguely, with a hard stare at
the round, red face looming through cigar smoke.
‘That’s what made me throw the line up,’ went on Mr Potts, ‘more than
anything else. The money’s not clean, sir! I’d rather carry about a
ton of print, and risk selling for cash at a fractional advance upon
cost price.’
‘That’s all right,’ replied his companion with a grin. ‘Only take my
advice, and don’t trouble Barracaboo with your ton of print, or you’ll
be very apt to leave it there. They won’t give you time to open your
mouth. Ask “The Hermit,” if you don’t believe me.’
For a whole day Mr Potts drove around and about with a selection from
his stock.
But he never was allowed even a chance to exhibit a sample. Farmers,
selectors, squatters, townsfolk, had all apparently quite made up
their minds.
Times out of number he was threatened with personal violence, and
greeted with language quite unprintable here. Once sticks were thrown
at him; and once an old copy of the ‘Biography’ was hurled into the
buggy, whilst cattle-dogs were heeling his horses. Clearly it was
useless to persist. The district was fairly demoralised; and with a
sigh, Mr Potts drove home to receive the ‘What did I tell you’s’ of
the other ‘gents.’
But he was a resourceful man was Mr Potts, and he determined, before
leaving the district for ever, to have one more attempt under
conditions which should, at all events, give him an opportunity of
displaying a specimen of his goods. Besides, he thirsted for vengeance
on the community, and knew that if he could but get an opening it was
his, full and complete.
* * * * *
‘No objection to my camping here to-night, I s’pose?’ asked a rather
forlorn-looking traveller of the cook at Barracaboo, shortly after the
events related above.
‘Chop that heap o’ wood up, an’ you gets your supper an’ breakfus’,’
said the cook, laconically.
The traveller worked hard for an hour, and finished his task, handling
the axe as if born to it, and provoking the cook’s admiration to such
an extent that he went one better than his promise, and proffered a
pint of tea and a lump of ‘brownie.’
Presently, lighting his pipe, and undoing his swag, the new-comer,
remarking that there was nothing like a read for passing the time
away, took out a gorgeously bound volume, sat down at the table, and
was soon so interested that he let his pipe go out. Save for the cook,
the long kitchen was empty, all the men being away on the run.
For a time, busy with a batch of bread, the former took no notice of
the stranger. Then, his work done, he came and looked over his
shoulder, saying, ‘What you got there, mate?’
‘Finest thing ever you read,’ said the other, carelessly turning over
some vivid pictures. “The Life and Adventures of Dick Turpin, Claude
Duval, and Other Eminent Outlaws.” Something like a book this is,’ he
continued. ‘Six hundred pages full of love and murder; and that
excitin’ you can’t bear to put it down!’
This was charming; and the cook, and the butcher, and a couple of
boundary riders dropped in for a yarn, at once became inquisitive, and
anxious to have a look.
‘See here,’ said the owner of the wonderful volume, pointing to an
outrageous effort in coloured process, ‘this is the bold Dick Turpin
on his wonderful mare, Black Bess, taking the ten-foot gate on the
road to York. See, he’s got the reins in his teeth and a pistol in
each hand.’
‘By gum, she’s a flyer!’ ‘Twig the long-necked spurs.’ ‘No knee-pads
to the saddle either!’ ‘Ten foot! there ain’t a horse in Hostralia as
could do it!’—exclaimed his audience, becoming excited.
‘And here you have,’ went on the traveller, ‘the gentle highwayman,
Claude Duval, stickin’ up the Duke of York’s coach on ’Oundslow ’Eath.
And here he is again, dancing under the moon with the Duchess.’ And so
he continued, setting forth in tempting sequence the glories of the
work, pausing at intervals to read aloud thrilling bits, and comment
upon them.
‘Where did you get it, mate?’ at length asked the cook.
‘Bought it in Atlanta,’ replied the other. ‘Fellow there’s got lots of
’em, and only thirty bob apiece. Cheap at double the price, I reckon,
considerin’ the amoun’ of readin’ in it.’
‘Ain’t no deliv’rin’ numbers, or signin’ ’greements, or any o’ that
game?’ asked one suspiciously. ‘’Cause if there is, we’re full.’
‘No,’ was the reply; ‘you pays your money and you takes your bargain.
But I don’t think you fellows’ll ever get the chance. I heard him say
he’d as soon face a mad bull as come to this station.’