POTTER'S SHANTY
Dr Tom remained for three days at Wanabeen.
'If there's anyone ill they know where to find me,' he said.
'They'll never come to Wanabeen for you. There's a bad name about this
place,' Jim replied.
'Who's given it?'
'The police, and well--you know--others.'
'Why?'
Jim Dennis shrugged his shoulders. It was an expressive gesture, it
meant so much to a man who understood him.
'You are one of the old gang, they tell me, Jim--is that true?'
'What do you mean by the old gang?'
'One of the men who stuck the beggars all up at Potter's Shanty when the
coach was stopped,' said Dr Tom.
'They say that--do they?'
'Yes.'
'Then let it rest. I was there that night.'
'Were you in it, Jim?--no halves.'
'No, doc, I was not in it in the sense you mean.'
'Who put it up?'
The question was a simple one, but Jim Dennis turned round like a lion
at bay, and said,--
'You--you--dare ask _me_ that?'
Dr Tom felt uncomfortable.
'I don't want you to give a pal away,' he said.
Jim Dennis strode over to him and took his arm. The pressure was painful
and Dr Tom winced.
'This is not an amputation case,' he said.
Jim Dennis dropped his arm and said quietly,--
'Forgive me, doc; but don't you really know the fact of that matter?'
'No, on my honour.'
'Then I am the last man to tell you.'
Dr Tom sighed and glanced out of his eyes at Jim.
That 'sticking up' case at Potter's Shanty had puzzled more than one
clever man.
Now the little chap has pulled through, and death is not knocking at his
door, it may be as well to relate the incident.
Potter's Shanty was a public-house, a wayside hotel, a dispensary for
every kind of infernal liquor, bad and indifferent--there was no good.
The mail coach stopped at Potter's, and it was reported to the police
that sometimes the mails stopped there also. Potter's was a curious old
place, and lay, or, to be more correct, tried to stand, between Swamp
Creek and Wanabeen. Old Potter was a relic of bygone days. He had been
mixed up with the Kelly gang over the border, and at various times a
hospitable Government had entertained him without his sanction.
Old Potter was a trifle of a moralist in his way. He could neither read
or write; so on one occasion when he was accused of forgery he brought
forward unimpeachable evidence in his favour.
The Crown had produced a mass of evidence which proved up to the hilt
that old Potter was an unmitigated thief, but the prosecution went too
far, as prosecutions occasionally do, and proved too much. It was sworn
on oath (Potter was particular about oaths) that old Samuel Potter had
forged a signature to a bill.
'What's a bill?' asked Samuel.
The Court tittered. There were a few remarks made as to Samuel Potter's
blissful ignorance.
'Do you mean to tell me you don't know what a bill is?' asked the Crown
prosecutor.
'Well, that depends,' said Potter.
'What depends? Depends on what? Answer me that, sir!' thundered the
irate man with the flowing wig.
'Well, it's this way, you see. If you stayed at my shanty and ran up a
score, which you didn't pay, and I asked you for the amount, I'd call
that a bill.'
The learned gentleman pulled his black cloak furiously and said,--
'If I owed you a bill I would pay it, provided you presented it in due
form.'
'That's what I couldn't do, your worship,' said Potter.
'Why?' asked the judge.
'Because I can't read or write.'
The judge put on his spectacles, which had been reposing on his
notebook, and said, as he eyed the Crown prosecutor with severity,--
'I understood this man was charged with forgery.'
The Crown prosecutor blinked, and eventually Samuel Potter was
discharged.
Although it was perfectly true that Potter could neither read or write,
he was a shrewd man, and his shanty had been the scene of many an
illegal transaction.
Swamp Creek folk had a wholesome dread of Potter's, and the solitary
mounted constable in the place knew it was wise for him to 'keep in'
with old Sam.
The police magistrate for the district was also aware that Potter's
Shanty was a house of ill repute, but what could he do, he was one
against many?
The incident alluded to by Dr Tom was exciting enough in its way.
Ned Glenn, the driver of the coach, pulled up as usual at Potter's to
refresh his horses, five of them, fairly good animals. The passengers
also endeavoured to cool their parched throats, but old Sam was one too
many for them. His liquors were strong and 'home made,' and so the
passengers discovered.
It so happened that on this journey the young manager of the Swamp Creek
branch of the Nation's Bank was on his way to the headquarters for the
Western District at Bourke. He carried with him a considerable sum of
money, much in gold, more in notes.
It was his way of doing it. He thought that by not giving notice of the
fact, publicity would be avoided, and that he might escape observation.
Thirty or forty years ago things were very different in Australia to
what they are now, and coaches were run in districts where the trains
may now be seen daily.
Jim Dennis was at Potter's Shanty the night the coach stopped and the
manager of the Nation's Bank was robbed.
A month after the robbery he cashed a note for five pounds in the Swamp
Creek Hotel, and this same note was proved to have been in the
possession of the manager of the Nation's Bank on the day of the robbery
at Potter's. There was no direct evidence to prove Jim Dennis had any
hand in the business, but in those days suspicion once fastened on to a
man was difficult to get rid of. The majority of the people in the
district believed Jim Dennis had a hand in the robbery, in fact was the
instigator of it, and Sam Potter encouraged the impression.
Between Potter and Jim Dennis a continual war had been waged ever since,
and, what made matters worse, Ned Glenn, the coach driver, sided with
the owner of Wanabeen. Ned Glenn was no fool. He had driven the coach
between Swamp Creek and Bourke for several years. He knew every inch of
the road, or, to be more correct, the track, and no man could frighten a
box-seat passenger out of his senses better than Ned. He was a
weather-beaten old fellow, with a face like cracked parchment, merry
little twinkling eyes that were suggestive of unlimited fun and roguery.
Ned Glenn was a character. He had figured, even in those early days, as
a prominent man--a full page all to himself--in the _Sydney Lantern_. In
this remarkable sheet Ned Glenn was depicted as a kind of Claude Duval
on the box seat of his coach. Passengers were notified to 'beware of the
driver,' and Ned's pockets were bulging out with stolen notes and
various articles of attire alleged to have been the property of his
passengers.
Ned was advised by the local lawyer at Swamp Creek that he had a good
action against the paper and would recover heavy damages.
'And who'll get 'em?' said Ned.
'You will,' replied the lawyer.
'And what about your share?' asked Ned.
'I shall expect some recompense,' said the legal luminary.
Ned winked his near side eye and thought they had better let the matter
slide. To tell the honest truth, Ned Glenn was rather proud of figuring
in the _Lantern_. He had seen the Premier occupying the front page, also
the Governor, and even if reflections were cast upon his character by
the sketch, it was good to be in such company.
'And the hartist's signed his name to it,' said Ned, proudly, as he
produced the crumpled up journal for the benefit of the 'bagman,' who
occupied the box seat. Ned Glenn was a thick-and-thin supporter of Jim
Dennis and Dr Tom, not to mention the little chap, and Sal. If the whole
of the members of the ministry had been on his coach, Ned would have
pulled up at Wanabeen.
It so came about that the night Dr Tom was to leave Wanabeen Ned's coach
was due.
The doctor and Jim Dennis were standing on the verandah, and saw him
tooling his team along at a shambling gallop.
'Funny thing we should be talking about that affair at Potter's,' said
the doctor. 'Here's Ned's coach.'
'He'll pull up here, he always does,' said Jim. 'I'll go and get him a
drink ready. I feel quite light-hearted now the little chap is
better--thanks to you, doc.'
Jim Dennis passed inside, and before he came out again Ned Glenn had
pulled up his horses in front of the homestead.
There were no passengers; he merely had the mail and some luggage.
'Hullo, doctor, what are you doing here?' sang out Ned in his cheery
voice.
'Jim's youngster has been very ill. I've been here these three days.'
'Eh, Gad! What! the little chap?' exclaimed Ned, as he scrambled down.
'Yes, the little chap; but he's out of danger now,' said the doctor.
'Where's Jim?'
'Gone inside to get you a drink.'
Ned Glenn left the mails, the coach and the horses to look after
themselves. His old-fashioned figure glided round the side of the
homestead, and when he saw Jim Dennis he said,--
'He's all right, eh, Jim? We can't afford to lose him. There never was
such a child.'
'Yes, Ned, he's safe, thanks to Dr Tom; but he's had a tough time of
it.'
'And pulled through,' said Ned. 'I hope I'll live to see him on the back
of a cup winner for his dad before I peg out.'