There was a conflict of opinions. Says Prudence, 'What! buy a screw?

Brilliant, of course, but sure to crack soon. Been had that way before.

I'm ashamed of you.'

Said Hope, 'I don't know so much about that. Knee probably an accident:

dark night—heap of stones—anything. Goes like a bird. Grand shoulder.

_Can't_ fall. Legs come right with rest. Barely seven—quite a babe.

Cheap at anything under fifty. Chance him.'

'I'll buy him—d—dashed if I don't.' I got in again, and drove

thoughtfully to the stables of Mr. Washington, a large-sized gentleman

of colour, hailing from the States.

'He's de favouritest animile in my stable, boss,' he made answer to me

as I guardedly introduced the subject of purchase. 'All de young women's

dead sot on him—donow's I cud do athout him, noways.'

Every word of this was true, as it turned out; but how was I to know?

The world of currycombs and dandy-brushes is full of insincerities.

_Caveat emptor!_ I continued airily, 'You won't charge extra for this

broken knee? What's the figure?' Here I touched the too yielding

ankle-joint with my boot.

That may have decided him—much hung in the balance. Many a year of

splendid service—a child's life saved—a grand night-exploit in a flooded

river, with distressed damsels nearly overborne by a raging torrent,—all

these lay in the future.

'You gimme thirty pound, boss,' he gulped out. 'You'll never be sorry

for it.'

'Lend me a saddle,' quoth I. 'I'll write the cheque now. Take him out; I

can ride him away.'

I did so. Never did I—never did another man—make a better bargain.

I had partly purchased and wholly christened him to match another bay

celebrity named Railway, of whom I had become possessed after this

fashion. Wanting a harness horse at short notice a few months before, I

betook myself to the coach depôt of Cobb and Co. situated in Lonsdale

Street. Mr. Beck was then the manager, and to him I addressed myself. He

ordered out several likely animals—from his point of view—for my

inspection. But I was not satisfied with any of them. At length, 'Bring

out the Railway horse,' said the man in authority. And out came, as I

thought, rather a 'peacocky' bay, with head and tail up. A great

shoulder certainly, but rather light-waisted—hem—possessed of four

capital legs. Very fine in the skin—yes; still I mistrusted him as a

'Sunday horse.' Never was there a greater mistake.

'Like to see him go?' I nodded assent. In a minute and a half we were

spinning up Lonsdale Street in an Abbot buggy, across William and down

Collins Street, then pretty crowded, at the rate of fourteen miles an

hour; Mr. Beck holding a broad red rein in either hand, and threading

the ranks of vehicles with graceful ease.

'He can go,' I observed.

'He's a tarnation fine traveller, I tell you,' was the answer—a

statement which I found, by after-experience, to be strictly in

accordance with fact.

The price required was forty pounds. The which promptly paying (this was

in 1860), I drove my new purchase out to Heidelberg that night. One of

those horses that required of one nothing but to sit still and hold him;

fast, game, wiry and enduring.

When I became possessed of Steamer, I had such a pair as few people were

privileged to sit behind. For four years I enjoyed as much happiness as

can be absorbed by mortal horse-owner in connection with an

unsurpassable pair of harness horses. They were simply perfect as to

style, speed, and action. I never was passed, never even challenged, on

the road by any other pair. Railway, the slower horse of the two, had

done, by measurement, eight miles in half an hour. So at their best,

both horses at speed, it may be guessed how they made a buggy spin

behind them. Then they were a true match; one a little darker than the

other, but so much alike in form, colour, and courage, that strangers

never knew them apart. They became attached readily, and would leave

other horses and feed about together, when turned into a paddock or the

bush.

A check, however, was given to exultation during the first days of my

proprietorship. Both horses when bought were low in flesh—in hard

condition, certainly, but showing a good deal of bone. A month's

stabling and gentle exercise caused them to look very different. The new

buggy came home—the new harness. They were put together for the first

time. Full of joyful anticipation I mounted the driving seat, and told

the groom to let go their heads. Horror of horrors! 'The divil a stir,'

as he remarked, could be got out of them. Collar-proud from ease and

good living, they declined to tighten the traces. An indiscreet touch or

two with the whip caused one horse to plunge, the other to hold back. In

half-and-half condition I had seen both draw like working bullocks. Now

'they wouldn't pull the hat off your head,' my Australian Mickey Free

affirmed.

By patience and persuasion I prevailed upon them at length to move off.

Then it _was_ a luxury of a very high order to sit behind them. How they

caused the strong but light-running trap to whirl and spin!—an express

train with the steam omitted. Mile after mile might one sit when roads

were good, careful only to keep the pace at twelve miles an hour; by no

means to alter the pull on the reins lest they should translate it into

an order for full speed. With heads held high at the same angle, with

legs rising from the ground at the same second of time, alike their

extravagant action, their eager courage. As mile after mile was cast

behind, the exclamation of 'Perfection, absolute perfection!' rose

involuntarily to one's lips.

In this 'Wale,' where deceitful dealers and plausible horses abound, how

rare to experience so full-flavoured a satisfaction! None of us,

however, are perfect all round. Flawless might be their action, but both

Steamer and his friend Railway had 'a little temper,' the differing

expressions of which took me years to circumvent. Curiously, neither

exhibited the least forwardness in _single_ harness.

Railway was by temperament dignified, undemonstrative, proud. If touched

sharply with the whip he turned his head and gazed at you. He did not

offer to kick or stop; such vulgar tricks were beneath him. But he

calmly gave you to understand that he would not accelerate his

movements, or start when unwilling, if you flogged him to death. No whip

did he need, I trow. The most constant horse in the world, he kept going

through the longest day with the tireless regularity of an engine.

They never became quite free from certain peculiarities at starting,

after a spell or when in high condition. Years passed in experiments

before I wrote myself conqueror. I tried the whip more than once—I

record it contritely—with signal ill-success. It was truly wonderful why

they declined to start on the first day of a journey. Once off they

would pull staunchly wherever horses could stand. Never was the day too

long, the pace too fast, the road too deep. What, then, was the hidden

cause, the _premier pas_, which cost so much trouble to achieve?

Nervous excitability seemed to be the drawback. The fact of being

attached to a trap in _double_ harness appeared to overexcite their

sensitive, highly-strung organisations. Was it not worth while, then, to

take thought and care for a pair which could travel fifty or sixty miles

a day—in front of a family vehicle filled with children and luggage—for

a week together, that didn't cost a shilling a year for whip-cord, and

that had _never_ been passed by a pair on the road since I had possessed

them? Were they not worth a little extra trouble?

Many trials and experiments demonstrated that there was but one

solution. Success meant patience, with a dash of forethought. A little

saddle-exercise for a day or two before the start. Then to begin early

on the morning of the eventful day; to have everything packed—passengers

and all—in the buggy—coach fashion—before any hint of putting to. Both

horses to be fed and watered at least an hour before. Then at the last

moment to bring them out of the stable, heedfully and respectfully,

avoiding 'rude speech or jesting rough.' Railway especially resented

being 'lugged' awkwardly by the rein. If all things were done decently

and in order, this would be the usual programme.

Steamer, more excitable but more amiable, would be entrusted to a groom.

Silently and quickly they would be poled up, the reins buckled, and

Railway's traces attached. All concerned had been drilled, down to the

youngest child, to be discreetly silent. It was forbidden, on pain of

death, to offer suggestion, much less to 't-c-h-i-c-k.' The reins were

taken in one hand by paterfamilias, who with the other drew back

Steamer's traces, oppressed with an awful sense of responsibility, as of

one igniting a fuse or connecting a torpedo wire, and as the outer trace

was attached, stepped lightly on to the front seat. The groom and helper

stole backward like shadows. Steamer made a plunging snatch at his

collar; Railway followed up with a steady rush; and we were off—off for

good and all—for one hundred, two hundred, five hundred miles. Distance

made no difference to _them_. The last stage was even as the first. They

only wanted holding. Not that they pulled disagreeably, or unreasonably

either. I lost my whip once, and drove without one for six months. It

was only on the first day of a journey that the theatrical performance

was produced.

But this chronicle would be incomplete without reference to the sad

alternative when the start did _not_ come off at first intention. On

these inauspicious occasions, possibly from an east wind or oats below

sample, everything went wrong. Steamer sidled and pulled prematurely

before the traces were 'hitched,' while Railway's reserved expression

deepened—a sure sign that he wasn't going to pull at all. The other

varied his vexatious plungings by backing on to the whippletree, or

bending outwards, by way of testing the elasticity of the pole.

Nothing could now be done. Persuasion, intimidation, deception, had all

been tried previously in vain. The recipe of paterfamilias, as to horse

management, was to sit perfectly still with the reins firmly held but

moveless, buttoning his gloves with an elaborate pretence of never

minding. All known expedients have come to nought long ago. Pushing the

wheels, even down hill, is regarded with contempt; leading (except by a

lady) scornfully refused. The whip is out of the question. 'Patience is

a virtue'—indeed _the_ virtue, the only one which will serve our turn.

Meanwhile, when people are fairly on the warpath, this dead refusal to

budge an inch is a little, just a little, exasperating. Paterfamilias

computes, however, that ten minutes' delay can be made up with such

steppers. He smiles benignantly as he pulls out a newspaper and asks his

wife if she has brought her book. Two minutes, four, five, or is it half

an hour? The time seems long. 'Trois cent milles diables!' the natural

man feels inclined to ejaculate. He knows that he is sinking fast in the

estimation of newly-arrived station hands and chance spectators. Eight

minutes—Railway makes no sign; years might roll on before _he_ would

start with an unwilling mate. Nine minutes—Steamer, whose impatient soul

abhors inaction, begins to paw. The student is absorbed in his leading

article. Ten minutes!—Steamer opens his mouth and carries the whole

equipage off with one rush. Railway is up and away; half a second later

the proprietor folds up his journal and takes them firmly in hand. The

children begin to laugh and chatter; the lady to converse; and the

journey, long or short, wet or dry, may be considered, as far as

horseflesh is concerned, to be _un fait accompli_.

At the end of four years of unclouded happiness (as novelists write of

wedded life), this state of literal conjugal bliss was doomed to end. An

epidemic of lung disease, such as at intervals sweeps over the land,

occurred in Victoria. Railway fell a victim, being found dead in his

paddock. Up to this time he had never been 'sick or sorry,' lame, tired,

or unfit to go. His iron legs, with feet to match, showed no sign of

work. In single harness he was miraculous, going mile after mile with

the regularity of a steam-engine, apparently incapable of fatigue. I was

lucky enough to have a fast, clever grandson of Cornborough to put in

his place. He lasted ten years. A half-brother three years more. The old

horse was using up his _fourth_ running mate, and entering upon his

twentieth year _in my service_, when King Death put on the brake.

Not the least noticeable among Steamer's many good qualities was his

kindly, generous temper. His was the Arab's docile gentleness with

children. The large mild eye, 'on which you could hang your hat,' as the

stable idiom goes, was a true indication of character. I was a bachelor

when I first became his master. As time passed on, Mrs. Boldrewood and

the elder girls used to drive him to the country town in New South

Wales, near which we afterwards dwelt. The boys rode him as soon as they

could straddle a horse. They hung by his tail, walked between his legs,

and did all kinds of confidential circus performances for the benefit of

their young friends. He was never known to bite, kick, or in any way

offer harm; and, speedy to the last, with age he never lost pace or

courage. 'All spirit and no vice' was a compendium of his character. By

flood and field, in summer's heat or winter's cold, he failed us never;

was credited, besides, with having saved the lives of two of the

children by his docility and intelligence. He was twice loose with the

buggy at his heels at night—once without winkers, which he had rubbed

off. On the last occasion, after walking down to the gate of the

paddock, and finding it shut—nearly a mile—he turned round without

locking the wheels, and came galloping up to the door of the house (it

was a ball night, and he had got tired of waiting). When I ran out, pale

with apprehension, I discovered the headstall hanging below his chest.

His extreme docility with children I attribute to his being for many

years strictly a family horse, exclusively fed, harnessed, and driven by

ourselves. It is needless to say he was petted a good deal: indeed he

thought nothing of walking through the kitchen, a brick-floored edifice,

when he thought corn should be forthcoming. Horses are generally

peaceable with children but not invariably, as I have known of limbs

broken and more than one lamentable death occasioned by kicks, when the

poor things went too near unwittingly. But the old horse _couldn't_

kick. 'I reckon he didn't know how.' And when he died, gloom and grief

fell upon the whole family, who mourned as for the death of a dear

friend.

HOW I BEGAN TO WRITE

For publication I mean. Having the pen of a ready writer by inheritance,

I had dashed off occasional onslaughts in the journals of the day,

chiefly in defence of the divine rights of kings (pastoral ones). I had

assailed incoherent democrats, who perversely denied that Australia was

created chiefly for the sustenance of sheep and cattle and the

aggrandisement of those heroic individuals who first explored and then

exploited the 'Waste Lands of the Crown.' The school of political belief

to which I then belonged derided agriculture, and was subsequently

committed to a scheme for the formation of the Riverina into a separate

pastoral kingdom or colony. A petition embodying a statement to this

effect, wholly unfitted as it was for the sustenance of a population

dependent upon agriculture, was forwarded to the Secretary for the

Colonies, who very properly disregarded it. The petitioners could not

then foresee the stacking of 20,000 bags of wheat, holding four bushels

each, awaiting railway transport at one of the farming centres of this

barren region in the year 1897. Allied facts caused me to reconsider my

very pronounced opinions, and, perhaps, led others to question the

accuracy of theirs. My deliverances in the journals of the period

occurred in the forties and fifties of the century, and gradually

subsided.

I was battling with the season of 1865 on a station on the Murrumbidgee

River, at no great distance from the flourishing town of Narandera, then

consisting of two hotels, a small store, and a large graveyard, when an

uncertain-tempered young horse kicked me just above the ankle with such

force and accuracy that I thought the bone was broken. I was to have

ridden at daylight to count a flock of sheep, and could scarcely crawl

back to the huts from the stock-yard without assistance, so great was

the agony. I sat down on the frosted ground and pulled off my boot,

knowing that the leg would swell. Cold as it was, the thirst of the

wounded soldier immediately attacked me. My room in the slab hut,

preceding the brick cottage, then in course of erection, was, to use Mr.

Swiveller's description, 'an airy and well-ventilated apartment.' It

contained, in addition to joint stools, a solid table, upon which my

simple meals of chops, damper, and tea were displayed three times a day

by a shepherd's wife, an elderly personage of varied and sensational

experiences.

I may mention that the great Riverina region was as yet in its unfenced,

more or less Arcadian stage, the flocks being 'shepherded' (expressive

Australian verb, since enlarged as to meaning) and duly folded or camped

at night. Something of Mrs. Regan's advanced tone of thought may be

gathered from the following dialogue, which I overheard:—

Shady township individual—'Your man shot my dorg t'other night. What

d'yer do that fer?'

Mrs. Regan—''Cause we caught him among the sheep; and we'd 'a shot

_you_, if you'd bin in the same place.'

Township individual—'You seem rather hot coffee, missus! I've 'arf a

mind to pull your boss next Court day for the valley of the dorg.'

Mrs. Regan—'You'd better clear out and do it, then. The P.M.'s a-comin'

from Wagga on Friday, and he'll give yer three months' "hard," like as

not. Ask the pleece for yer character.'

Township individual—'D—n you and the pleece too! A pore man gets no show

between the traps and squatters in this bloomin' country. Wish I'd never

seen it!'

This was by the way of interlude, serving to relieve the monotony of the

situation. I could eat, drink, smoke, and sleep, but the injured

leg—worse than broken—I could not put to the ground. Nor had I company

of any kind, save that of old Jack and Mrs. Regan, for a whole month.

So, casting about for occupation, I bethought myself that I might write

something for an English magazine. The subject pitched upon was a

kangaroo drive or battue, then common in Western Victoria, which I had

lately quitted. The kangaroo had become so numerous that they were

eating the squatters out of house and home. Something had to be done; so

they were driven into yards in great numbers and killed. This severe

mode of dealing with the too prolific marsupial, in whole battalions, I

judged correctly, would be among the 'things not generally known' to the

British public.

I sat down and wrote a twelve-page article, describing a grand muster

for the purpose at a station about twenty miles from Port Fairy, and

seven miles from my own place, Squattlesea Mere.

The first time I went to Melbourne I posted it, with the aid of my good

friend, the late Mr. Mullen, to the editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_,

and thought no more about the matter. A few days after the adventure, my

neighbour, Adam M'Neill, of North Yanko, hearing of my invalid state,

rode over and carried me off to his hospitable home. I had to be lifted

on my horse, but after a month's rest and recreation was well enough to

return to pastoral duties. I was lame, however, for quite a year

afterwards, and narrowly escaped injuring the other ankle, which began

to show signs of over-work. About the time of my full recovery, I

received a new _Cornhill Magazine_, and a note from Messrs. Smith and

Elder, forwarding a draft, which, added to the honour and glory of

seeing my article flourishing in a first-class London magazine, afforded

me much joy and satisfaction. The English review notices were also

cheering. I thereupon dashed off a second sketch, entitled 'Shearing in

Riverina,' which I despatched to the same address. The striking

presentment of seventy shearers, all going their hardest, was a novelty

also to the British public.

The constant clash that the shear-blades make

When the fastest shearers are making play

(as Mr. 'Banjo' Paterson has it, in 'The Two Devines,' more than twenty

years later), could not but challenge attention. This also was accepted.

I received a cheque in due course, which came at a time when such

remittances commenced to have more interest for me than had been the

case for some years past.

The station was sold in the adverse pastoral period of '68-'69, through

drought, debt, financial 'dismalness of sorts'; but 'that is another

story.' Christmas time found me in Sydney, where it straightway began to

rain with unreasonable persistency (as I thought), now it could do me no

good; never left off (more or less) for five years. The which, in

plenteousness of pasture and high prices for wool and stock, were the

most fortunate seasons for squatters since the 'fifties,' with their

accompanying goldfields prosperity.

The last station having been sold, there was no chance of repairing hard

fortune by pastoral investment. 'Finis Poloniæ.' During my temporary

sojourn in Sydney I fell across a friend to whom in other days I had

rendered a service. He suggested that I might turn to profitable use a

facile pen and some gift of observation. My friend, who had filled

various parts in the drama of life, some of them not undistinguished,

was now a professional journalist. He introduced me to his chief, the

late Mr. Samuel Bennett, proprietor of the _Sydney Town and Country

Journal_. That gentleman, whom I remember gratefully for his kind and

sensible advice, gave me a commission for certain sketches of bush

life—a series of which appeared from time to time. For him I wrote my

first tale, _The Fencing of Wanderoona_, succeeding which, _The

Squatter's Dream_, and others, since published in England, appeared in

the weekly paper referred to.

Thus launched upon the 'wide, the fresh, the ever free' ocean of

fiction, I continued to make voyages and excursions thereon—mostly

profitable, as it turned out. A varied colonial experience, the area of

which became enlarged when I was appointed a police magistrate and

goldfields commissioner in 1871, supplied types and incidents. This

position I held for nearly twenty-five years.

Although I had, particularly in the early days of my goldfields duties,

a sufficiency of hard and anxious work, entailing serious

responsibility, I never relinquished the habit of daily writing and

story-weaving. That I did not on that account neglect my duties I can

fearlessly aver. The constant official journeying, riding and driving,

over a wide district, agreed with my open-air habitudes. The method of

composition which I employed, though regular, was not fatiguing, and

suited a somewhat desultory turn of mind. I arranged for a serial tale

by sending the first two or three chapters to the editor, and mentioning

that it would last a twelvemonth, more or less. If accepted, the matter

was settled. I had but to post the weekly packet, and my mind was at

ease. I was rarely more than one or two chapters ahead of the printer;

yet in twenty years I was only once late with my instalment, which had

to go by sea from another colony. Every author has his own way of

writing; this was mine. I never but once completed a story before it was

published; and on that occasion it was—sad to say—declined by the

editor. Not in New South Wales, however; and as it has since appeared in

England, it did not greatly signify.

In this fashion _Robbery Under Arms_ was written for the _Sydney Mail_

after having been refused by other editors. It has been successful

beyond expectation; and, though I say it, there is no country where the

English language is spoken in which it has not been read.

I was satisfied with the honorarium which my stories yielded. It made a

distinct addition to my income, every shilling of which, as a

paterfamilias, was needed. I looked forward, however, to making a hit

some day, and with the publication of _Robbery Under Arms_, in England,

that day arrived. Other books followed, which have had a gratifying

measure of acceptance by the English-speaking public, at home and

abroad.

As a prophet I have not been 'without honour in mine own country.' My

Australian countrymen have supported me nobly, which I take as an

especial compliment, and an expression of confidence, to the effect

that, as to colonial matters, I knew what I was writing about.

In my relations with editors, I am free to confess that I have always

been treated honourably. I have had few discouragements to complain of,

or disappointments, though not without occasional rubs and remonstrances

from reviewers for carelessness, to which, to a certain extent, I plead

guilty. In extenuation, I may state that I have rarely had the

opportunity of correcting proofs. As to the attainment of literary

success, as to which I often receive inquiries, as also how to secure a

publisher, I have always given one answer: Try the Australian weekly

papers, if you have any gift of expression, till one of them takes you

up. After that the path is more easy. Perseverance and practice will

ordinarily discover the method which leads to success.

A natural turn for writing is necessary, perhaps indispensable. Practice

does much, but the novelist, like the poet, is chiefly 'born, not made.'

Even in the case of hunters and steeplechasers, the expression 'a

natural jumper' is common among trainers. A habit of noting, almost

unconsciously, manner, bearing, dialect, tricks of expression, among all

sorts and conditions of men, provides 'situations.' Experience, too, of

varied scenes and societies is a great aid. Imagination does much to

enlarge and embellish the lay figure, to deepen the shades and heighten

the colours of the picture; but it will not do everything. There should

be some experience of that most ancient conflict between the powers of

Good and Evil, before the battle of life can be pictorially described. I

am proud to note among my Australian brothers and sisters, of a newer

generation, many promising, even brilliant, performances in prose and

verse. They have my sincerest sympathy, and I feel no doubt as to their

gaining in the future a large measure of acknowledged success.

As to my time method, it was tolerably regular. As early as five or six

o'clock in the morning in the summer, and as soon as I could see in

winter, I was at my desk, proper or provisional, until the hour arrived

for bath and breakfast. If at a friend's house, I wrote in my bedroom

and corrected in the afternoon, when my official duties were over. At

home or on the road, as I had much travelling to do, I wrote after

dinner till bedtime, making up generally five or six hours a day. Many a

good evening's work have I done in the clean, quiet, if unpretending

roadside inns, common enough in New South Wales. In winter, with a log

fire and the inn parlour all to myself, or with a sensible companion, I

could write until bedtime with ease and comfort. My day's ride or drive

might be long, cold enough in winter or hot in summer, but carrying

paper, pens, and ink I rarely missed the night's work. I never felt too

tired to set to after a wholesome if simple meal. Fatigue has rarely

assailed me, I am thankful to say, and in my twenty-five years of

official service I was never a day absent from duty on account of

illness, with one notable exception, when I was knocked over by fever,

which necessitated sick-leave. It has been my experience that in early

morning the brain is clearer, the hand steadier, the general mental tone

more satisfactory, than at any other time of day.

A MOUNTAIN FOREST

Excepting perhaps the ocean, nothing in Nature is more deceitful than a

mountain forest. Last time we crossed through snow, enveloped in mist

and drenched with pitiless rain. Now, no one could think evil hap could

chance to the wayfarer here—so dry the forest paths, so blue the sky, so

bright the scene, so soft the whispering breeze. The shadows of the

great trees fall on the emerald sward, tempering the ardent sun-rays.

Flickers of light dance in the thickets, and laugh at the stern

solemnity of the endless groves. Bird-calls are frequent and joyous. We

might be roaming in the Forest of Arden, and meet a 'stag of ten' in the

glade, for any hint to the contrary. Forest memories come into our heads

as we stride merrily along the winding track. Robin Hood and his merry

men, Friar Tuck and Little John! Oh, fountain of chivalry! How

indissolubly a forest life in the glad summer days seems bound up with

deeds of high emprise; how linked with the season of love and joy, hope

and pride, with a sparkle of the cup of that divinest life-essence,

youthful pleasure.

'Here shall he fear no enemy,

But winter and rough weather.'

As we thus carol somewhat loudly, we are aware of a man standing

motionless, regarding us, not far from a gate, humorously supposed to

restrain the stock in these somewhat careless-ordered enclosures. Ha!

what if he be a robber? We have been 'stuck up' ere now, and mislike the

operation. He has something in his hand too. May it be a

'shooting-iron,' as the American idiom runs?

We continue to sing, however,

'Viator vacuus coram latronem.'

Our treasury consists of half-a-sovereign and an old watch, a new hat

and a clean shirt—what matter if he levy on these? He has a dog,

however,—that is a good sign. Bushrangers rarely travel with dogs. And

the weapon is a stick. Ha! it is well. Only an official connected with

the railway line, awaiting the mailman. We interchange courtesies, and

are invited to the camp with proffer of hospitality. We feel compelled

to decline. We may not halt by any wayside arbour.

We reach St. Bago Hospice at Laurel Hill before lunch time. Sixteen

miles over a road not too smooth. Really, we have performed the stage

with ridiculous ease. We are half tempted to go on to Tumut; but

twenty-eight miles seems a longish step. Let us not be imprudently

enthusiastic. We decide to remain. The hospice has put on a summer garb,

and is wholly devoid of snowballs or other wintry emblems. The great

laurel, the noble elm, the hawthorn, are in full leaf and flower. The

orchard trees are greenly budding. At the spring well in the creek five

crimson lories are drinking. They stand on a tray, so to speak, of

softest emerald moss, walking delicately; all things tell of summer.

During the afternoon, so fresh did we feel that we took a stroll of five

miles, and visited the nearest farmer. As we stepped along the

red-soiled path, amid the immense timber, we realised the surroundings

of the earlier American settlers. Hawk-eye might have issued from the

ti-tree thicket by the creek and chuckled in his noiseless manner, while

he rested _la longue carabine_ on a fallen log. Uncas and Chingachgook

would, of course, have turned up shortly afterwards.

The tiny creek speeds swiftly onward over ancient gold-washings and

abandoned sluice channels. Tracks of that queer animal the wombat

(_Phascolomys_) near his burrows and galleries are frequent. His habitat

is often near the sea, but here is proof that he can accommodate himself

to circumstances. Easily-excavated soil like this red loam is necessary

for his comfort apparently. Ferns are not objected to. Our host at Bago

informed us that one dull winter's evening he observed two animals

coming towards him through the bush. He took them to be pigs, until,

shooting with both right and left barrels, they turned out to be

wombats. He had happened to be near their burrow, to which they always

make if disturbed. In confirmation of this statement he presented me

with a skin—dark brown in colour—with long coarse hair, something

between that of a dog and a kangaroo. The thick hide covers the body in

loose folds. The dogs become aware by experience that, on account of its

thickness and slippery looseness, it is vain to attempt capture of a

wombat. Retreating to his burrow, he scratches earth briskly into his

opponent's mouth and eyes until he desists. One peculiarity of this

underground animal is, that the eyes are apparently protected by a

movable eyebrow, which, in the form of a small flap of skin, shuts over

the indispensable organ.

We are politely received at the selector's house. A few cattle are kept;

pigs and poultry abound. The father and son 'work in the creek' for

gold, when the water is low, and thus supplement the family earnings.

Clearing is too expensive as yet to be entered into on a large scale.

Want of roads must militate for a while against farming profits in rough

and elevated country. A flower-garden and orchard bear testimony to the

richness of the soil. But looking forward to the value of the timber,

the certainty of annual crops, the gradual covering of the pasture with

clover and exotic grasses, the day is not distant in our opinion when

the agriculture of this region will stand upon a safe and solvent basis.

It is hard to overestimate the value of a moist, temperate climate, and

this the inhabitants of the vicinity possess beyond all dispute.

The sun is showing above the tall tree-tops as we sit at breakfast next

morning. The air is keen. We need the fire which glows in the cavernous

chimney. In ten minutes we are off—ready to do or die—to accomplish the

voluntary march or perish by the wayside.

How pleasant is it as we swing along in the fresh morning air. If we had

had a mate—one who read the same books, thought the same thoughts, had

the same tastes, and in a general way was congenial and sympathetic—our

happiness would be complete. But in this desperately busy, workaday

land, properly-graduated companionship is difficult to procure.

Still, to those who do not let their minds remain entirely fallow, there

is choice companionship in these wooded highlands—that of the nobles and

monarchs of literature is always at hand; ceases not the murmuring talk

of half-forgotten friends, acquaintances, lovers, what not, of the

spirit-world of letters; 'songs without words,' wit and laughter, tears

and sighs, pæans of praise, sadly humorous subtleties, recall and repeat

themselves. So we are not entirely alone, even were there not the

whispering leaves, the frowning tree-trunks, the tremulous ferns and

delicate grasses, the smiling flowerets, each with its own legend to

keep us company. The sun mounts higher in the heavens; still it is not

too hot. The green gloom of the great woodland lies between us, a shade

against the fiercest sun-rays. So we fare on joyously. Three hours' fair

walking brings us to the end of the forest proper. We take one look, as

we stand on a clear hill-top—while on either side great glens are

hollowed out like demoniac punch-bowls (the Australian native idiom)—at

the mountains, at the oceans of frondage.

We are on the 'down grade.' At our feet lies the Middle Adelong, with

deserted gold-workings, sluices, and all the debris of water-mining; a

roomy homestead, with orchard pertaining, once an inn doubtless; now no

longer, as I can testify.

It is high noon and hot withal. The sun, no longer fended off by

o'erarching boughs, becomes aggressive. We have gained the valley and

lost the cooling breeze. We request a glass of water, which is handed to

us by the good-wife. We drink, and, seating ourselves upon a log on the

hillside, commence upon a crust of bread—unwonted foresight this—with

considerable relish. As we happen to have Carl Vosmaer's _Amazon_ in our

hand (every step of the way did we carry her), we tackle an æsthetic

chapter with enthusiasm.

In twenty minutes we breast the hill, a trifle stiffer for the rest,

and, it may be fancy, our left boot-sole has developed an inequality not

previously sensitive. We swing along, however, in all the pride of

'second wind,' and fix our thoughts upon the next stage, eight miles

farther on. We have come about sixteen.

We pass another hill, a plateau, and then a long declivitous grade. By

and by we enter upon the fertile valley which leads to Tumut. The green

valley of river-encircled sward on either side is one mat of clover and

rye-grass. We display an increasing preference for the turf as

distinguished from the roadway. The sun is becoming hotter. The clouds

have retired. There is a hint of storm. The heavy air is charged with

electricity. We put on the pace a little. One may as well have this sort

of thing over in a condensed form.

Here we stop to look at a man ploughing for maize. Our brow is wet with

'honest——,' whatsy name? We must weigh pounds less than this morning.

How far to the Gilmore Inn? 'Four miles!' Thermometer over a hundred in

the shade. We set our teeth and march on. We are acquiring the regular

slouching swing of the 'sundowner,' it appears to us. There is nothing

like similar experience for producing sympathy. We can almost fancy

ourselves accosting the overseer with the customary, 'Got any work, sir,

for a man to do?' and subsiding to the traveller's hut, with the

regulation junk of meat and pannikin of flour. Can partly gauge the

feelings of the honest son of toil, weary, athirst, somewhat sore-footed

(surely there must be a nail?), when said overseer, being in bad temper,

tells him to go to the deuce, that he knows he won't take work if it's

offered, and that he has no rations to spare for useless loafers.

It is more than an hour later—we think it more than an hour hotter—as we

sight the Gilmore Inn, near rushing stream, hidden by enormous willows.

We have abstained from drinking of the trickling rill, hot and dusty as

we are. Thoughts of 'that poor creature, small beer,' obtrude, if the

local optionists have not abolished him.

In the parlour of this snug roadside inn we put down our 'swag,' and

order a large glass of home-brewed and a crust of bread. We certainly

agree with Mr. Swiveller, 'Beer can't be tasted in a sip,' especially

after a twenty-mile trudge. When we put down the 'long-sleever' there is

but a modicum left.

We give ourselves about half an hour here, by which time we are cooled

and refreshed, as is apparently the day. Sol is lower and more

reasonable. We sling on, by no means done—rather improving pace than

otherwise—till overtaken by a friend and his family in a buggy. He

kindly proffers to drive us in; but we have made it a point of honour to

walk every yard, so we decline. He will leave the valise at our

hotel—which kindness we accept. The rest is easy going. We lounge into

the 'Commercial' as if we had just dismounted, and order a warm bath and

dinner, with the _mens conscia recti_ in a high state of preservation.

THE FREE SELECTOR

A COMEDIETTA

ACT I

_Enter THE HONOURABLE RUFUS POLYBLOCK, Member of Upper House, and

immensely rich squatter—his Overseer, MR. GAYTERS (imperfectly

educated)._

THE HON. RUFUS. Well, Gayters, how's everything gettin' on? I mean the

sheep, of course. Splendid season, ain't it? Grand lambing, tremendous

heavy clip, eh? Why, you look dubersome?

GAYTERS. Marked 92 per cent of lambs all round. The clip'll be heavier

than it was last year—that means money off a hundred and fifty thousand

sheep, but——

HON. RUFUS. Sheep right; lambs too; shearing all to the good; why, what

_can_ be wrong? (_Walks up and down._) Must be them infernal,

underminding free selectors. Rot 'em! if they ain't worse than

blackfellows or dingoes—and you can't shoot 'em or poison 'em legally;

not yet, that is—_not yet_!

GAYTERS. You've about hit it, sir. I'd hardly the face to tell you, one

of 'em's taken up the main camp, opposite the big water-hole—a

half-section, too! [320 acres.]

HON. RUFUS. What! Our main camp! Good Gad! Why, the country's goin' to

destruction! The best water-hole on the creek, too. Why, _I_ thought

that had been secured. Wasn't Sam Appinson to take it up last Thursday?

GAYTERS. Yes, sir; cert'nly, sir; but his mother went and died the day

afore, and he had to go down the country. Didn't think it would matter

for a week; when this young chap pops in, all on a sudden like, and

collars it. It's turned out quite contrairy, ain't it, sir?

HON. RUFUS. Contrairy! It's ruination, that's what it is! It'll play h—l

and Tommy with the sheep in the Ban Ban Paddock. What's to keep 'em off

his pre-lease? And he can pound 'em any day he likes. He'll do me

thousands of pounds' worth of harm with his beggarly half-section. Have

to buy him out and give him two prices—the old story.

GAYTERS. I hardly think he'll agree to that, sir! I heard him yesterday

say, says he, 'I'm a-going to settle down for good, and make a home in

this wilderness; this here land is so fertile,' says he——

HON. RUFUS. Wilderness indeed! On a flat like that! Fert'le,

fert'le—what's that? Good corn land? D—n his impudence; what's it to

him, I'd like to know? Is he going to _cultivate_ for a living in a dry

country? Bah! I've seen them kind of coves afore. I give him two years

to lose everything, to his shirt! What sort of a chap is he, Gayters?

GAYTERS. Well, a civil-spoken young man enough, sir. Talks very nice,

and seems to know himself. I should take him to be a gentleman.

HON. RUFUS. A gentleman! Bosh! How the devil _can_ he be a gentleman and

a free selector, eh? A feller that robs people of their land. He's next

door to a cattle duffer. He'd turn bushranger, only he ain't got pluck

enough.

GAYTERS. Very true, sir; cert'nly, sir; but he says it's not agin the

law.

HON. RUFUS. The law! _Hang_ the law! What's that got to do with it? A

parcel of fellers that never owned a run or a foot of ground get into

this Lower 'Ouse and makes laws to bind people that could buy 'em out

over and over again. D'ye call that honest? I call it daylight robbery;

and I'm not a-goin' to keep laws made that way if I can find a way to

drive through 'em; yes, _through_ 'em, with a coach and four!

GAYTERS. Yes, sir; but what are we to do? He'll have his nine hundred

and sixty acres of pre-lease, and our sheep can't be kept off it nohow.

HON. RUFUS. Put a man on to free select right agin his frontage, take up

two flocks, and shepherd all round him. I'll feed him out; I'll make him

keep to his blasted half-section. Curse him! I'll ruin him! Damme! I'll

have him in gaol afore I've done with him. I'll——

_Enter MISS DULCIE POLYBLOCK in her riding-habit, also

MISS ALICE MERTON (a friend)._

MISS DULCIE. Why, dad, what's all this about? Who's to be hanged, drawn,

and quartered, whatever that means? We used to have it in our history

lesson. Oh, I want to tell you something! Whom do you think we met?

HON. RUFUS. Don't know, I'm sure. Was it Lord Arthur Howard or young

Goldsmith? I know they came up to Deem Deem the other day.

MISS DULCIE. Well, he was _such_ a handsome young man, father; and so

polite and gentlemanlike. Alice's horse shied at a hawker's cart, and

Sultan, like an old goose, began to rear. Alice dropped her whip, so he

picked it up and gave it to her with such a bow! He said he was coming

to be a neighbour of ours, so perhaps it _was_ Lord Arthur. Oh, I nearly

forgot! He gave me a card, and said he hoped he might be permitted to

call. Here it is.

HON. RUFUS. H'm, ha! Likely it was his lordship, or one of them swells

that I heard were coming up to learn experience at Deem Deem. Old

Maclaren's a regular brick for hospitality! Well, I'll ask him over,

Dulcie. He won't see a prettier girl anywheres, nor a better one, tho' I

say it. We must have him over to dinner on Sunday. What did you say his

name was?

MISS DULCIE (_reads from card_). Mr. Cecil Egremont. Isn't it a pretty

one?

HON. RUFUS. Eggermont, Eggermont, eh? Hand me over that paper there;

it's a copy of a Application. Why, confound and smother all

land-stealin' villains, if that ain't the very man that's took up my

main camp! He a gentleman! He's an impostor, a swindler. He's tryin' to

rob your poor old father. He's a _free selector_!

BOTH GIRLS (_horrified_). A free selector! Oh!! (_Scream loudly and run

out of room._)

END OF FIRST ACT

ACT II

_Enter MR. CECIL EGREMONT, dressed in blue Crimean shirt,

moleskin trousers, knee-boots, straw hat._

EGREMONT. And so I'm farming in Australia. A thing I've longed for all

my days. Such a free, independent, pleasant life. No one to bother you;

no one to interfere with you. Such a splendid large piece of land I've

secured too—three hundred and twenty acres, with three times as much for

grazing. Grazing right, that's the expression—a pre-lease, ha! (_Looks

in book._) I believe my fortune's made. Who's this? Some neighbour

probably. Good-day, sir; very glad to see you.

GAYTERS. It's more'n I am to see _you_ here. D'ye know where you are?

EGREMONT. On the Crown Lands of Her Majesty the Queen of England in the

first place, and on the farm conditionally purchased (_refers to Land

Regulations_) by Cecil Egremont, gentleman farmer, late of Bideford,

Devon.

GAYTERS. What's the good of all this rubbish? You're on our _main camp_.

EGREMONT. Camp? camp?—I see no traces of an encampment. In what

historical period, may I ask?

GAYTERS. Can't yer see this? (_Kicks bone aside._) It's our cattle camp.

I don't mean a soldier's camp or any of that rot. It's been our—the

Hon'ble Rufus Polyblock's—Bundabah Run, this twenty year and more.

EGREMONT. Has this land been sold before? Then that land agent has

deceived me! And yet he looked respectable. I paid him eighty pounds

deposit. Have his receipt.

GAYTERS. I don't mean sold exactly—not but that Mr. Polyblock would have

bought it fast enough if Government had let him. But we had a lease of

it and always had stock running on it.

EGREMONT. Oh, a lease!—for a special object I presume, or perhaps a

pastoral lease? (_Consults book._) Perhaps it was a Run—Run—oh, I have

it here!—page 38. But surely that gives you no legal right to hold it

against the _bona-fide_ conditional purchaser?

GAYTERS. Well, I expect we've no _legal_ claim if it comes to that. But

no gentleman in this country goes to select on another gentleman's run.

It ain't the thing, you know.

EGREMONT. Oh, 'it ain't the thing'? Something like poaching or shooting

without a license; but how was I to know? The law says, 25 Vict. No. 1,

Section 13 (_opens copy of Crown Lands Alienation Act_), 'On and from

the first day of January 1862——'

GAYTERS. Oh, hang the law! The Act's all very well for them as knows no

better, or as wants to take advantage-like of a squatter, but it ain't

the square deal if you mean to act honest—what I call between man and

man. Good-morning, sir.

[_Exit GAYTERS._

EGREMONT (_soliloquising_). What an extraordinary country! When I

quarrelled with my uncle, who wanted me to go into the Church, and came

out to Australia to carve out a fortune in a new world where land was

plentiful and caste unknown, I never expected to meet with class

distinctions. Instead of being able to live my own life in peace, I am

met with obstacles at every turn. I might as well have remained in North

Devon, for all I can see. Well! courage—I'll go and finish my work, and

cut this splendid log into lengths for fencing slabs. (_Begins to chop

log._) Why, here comes the young lady whose horse was frightened

yesterday. How handsome she is, and such a figure too! What a soft voice

she had. I had no idea the girls out here were anything like this!

(_Goes on chopping; his dogs rush out._) Down, Ponto! Down, Clumber!

Come to heel! (_Throws down axe and calls off dogs._) Pray don't be

frightened—a—I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name—I hope you have

quite recovered yesterday's accident.

MISS DULCIE P. I am not in the least frightened, thank you. What

beautiful dogs! I am sure they are too well-bred to hurt a lady. Oh, my

name! (_slight confusion_)—my name is Dulcie Polyblock. I feel much

obliged by your kindness last evening.

EGREMONT. (_Aside_—Polyblock! Polyblock! Why, that's the name of the

owner of the station, the overseer told me. Probably a nice person. I'll

go and explain matters to him.) (_Speaks._) Really I'm delighted to have

been of the slightest service. I hope, as I am settled in this part of

the world, that I may have the privilege of meeting you occasionally.

MISS DULCIE (_confused_). I don't know—I can't say—just at present,

but—— (_Aside_—How distinguished-looking he is, but what queer clothes!)

EGREMONT. Does your father, Mr. Polyblock (_aside_—Droll name, but that

doesn't matter), live in this neighbourhood?

MISS DULCIE. _Live_ here! Why, he owns the Run you're on. Our

home-station, Bundabah, is about five miles off.

EGREMONT. Oh, indeed, what a long way! I had thought we might be near

neighbours. I had intended to call and inquire if you had quite

recovered from your fright.

MISS DULCIE P. I wasn't frightened, pray don't suppose _that_, but I

might have been hurt if you had not come up. Are you going to stay here

long?

EGREMONT (_proudly_). Till I make a fortune. [DULCIE (_aside_)—Oh!] I

have resolved to turn this waste into a productive farm—a—it will be the

work of years.

MISS DULCIE. I should think it would. (_Aside_—Waste, indeed!) It's the

best part of Bundabah Run.

EGREMONT. So I was quite right to purchase it from the Crown.

MISS DULCIE. Oh no. Quite _wrong_. It's never done, except by—by low

sort of people.

EGREMONT. Indeed! Then perhaps I'm mistaken about the law. Just oblige

me by looking at this section of the Land Act. (_Hands book to her—she

stoops from her horse—their heads come close together—she

reads_—'Section 13, Crown lands other than town lands,' etc.) Well, it

really seems as if you had the right to do it, or anybody else, but

father's in the Upper House, and all that. He says it's a perfect

robbery to free-select on his Run. It's very confusing, don't you think?

But I must say good-bye.

EGREMONT. Good-bye, Miss Polyblock. (_Shakes hands warmly._) You have

really comforted me very much. If you had time to explain this Act to me

I really think I should get over all my difficulties; as it is, I

despair.

MISS DULCIE P. (_Aside_—Poor fellow! It's very hard for him; and how

white his hands are—such expressive eyes too. I oughtn't to have come, I

know, but still—I might bring about an understanding between him and

father.) Well, perhaps I _might_ be riding this way on Saturday, near

that water-hole where the willows are. Good-bye. Now then you naughty

Sultan (_canters off_).

EGREMONT (_sitting down on log_). She has gone! disappeared like a

beautiful dream. What a kind face it is too—anxious to be friendly, and

yet, with maidenly diffidence, doubting the propriety. Polyblock!

Dulcie! a sweet name. Dulce Domum—ha! shall I ever have a home in this

wilderness? So she's the daughter of this old party who owns the Run—the

Run—ha! ha! What an idea! This elderly fossil in aboriginal times fed

his flocks and herds here. He doesn't know the difference between lease

and freehold evidently. What ignorant people these Australians are! But

the daughter—how could she have acquired that air of _fierté_, that

aplomb, that intonation? I must consider my course. (_Puts his head

between his hands and seems lost in thought for some minutes._) I have

resolved (_rises and walks proudly erect_) I will visit the old

gentleman in his own house. I will convince him of his error. I will

argue the point with him. I will show him this Act of Parliament—these

Regulations (_slaps book_). I will appeal to him as an Englishman bound

to respect the law. We shall then be on good terms. Perhaps I may even

catch a sight of _her_. But I must finish. (_Recommences chopping—sees a

horseman approaching, and sits down on log. MR. GAYTERS rides up._)

GAYTERS. Good day—good day, Mr. Whatsisname! So you've sat down here

permanent, it seems?

EGREMONT. My name is Egremont, if you will please to remember; yours I

believe to be Gayters. I don't quite follow you about sitting down

(_rises_); I get up occasionally, I assure you. But I have settled here

permanently, as far as that goes.

GAYTERS. Oh yes, cert'nly, cert'nly, of course! We know all that. Heard

it afore. But perhaps you'll hear reason (they mostly does). I'm here to

make you an offer—so much on your bargain.

EGREMONT. I don't quite understand?

GAYTERS. Well (_sits down_), let's argue it out between man and man.

EGREMONT. I'm ready; which section do you refer to? (_Takes up copy of

Act._)

GAYTERS. Oh, blow the Act! What's it got to do with it? (_EGREMONT makes

gesture of surprise._) See here; of course you're here to make money?

EGREMONT. Honestly—legally—certainly I am.

GAYTERS. Dash the honesty! the legal part's all right of course—else it

wouldn't _wash_, you know. Now you know, this being our main camp, it

ain't the good you can do yourself, but the harm you can do him—the

boss—the Hon'ble Rufus—that's what you're looking at, naturally.

EGREMONT (_appears puzzled_). Can't understand you.

GAYTERS. Perhaps you'll understand _this_ (_takes out cheque_). Mr.

Polyblock says, 'Gayters,' says he, 'we've not been half sharp this

time; this here land ought to have been secured. But the young chap's

been and got the pull, and we can't afford to lose our main camp. Of

course he'll go pounding our stock night and day; so you take him this

five 'undred pound—five 'undred! and give it him _on conditions_ as he

does the residence for twelve months and then conveys the s'lection over

to me, all legal and ship-shape,' says he—and here it is. (_Hands out

cheque._) Ha! ha! I expect you understand me now.

EGREMONT (_rising slowly_). I believe I do.

GAYTERS (_rising quickly_). Just you sign this, then.

EGREMONT (_with lofty anger_). Confound your cheque, sir! Take it back,

and with it my scorn and contempt, which you can present to your master,

telling him from me, at the same time, that you are a pair of

scoundrels!

GAYTERS. Scoundrels! What d'ye mean? Are yer off yer chump? A free

selector to call the Hon'ble Mr. Polyblock of Bundabah and his super a

pair of scoundrels! Take care what you're about, young man. A camp's a

public place, or close up. 'Words calculated to cause a breach of the

peace——'

EGREMONT (_deliberately_). Yes, scoundrels! First of all to insult a

gentleman by treating him as a rascally blackmailer; secondly, by

offering an honest man money to break the law of the land—to violate

every principle of honour and integrity. And now, if you don't quit my

land at once, I'll kick you from here into the brook!

GAYTERS (_hastily mounting_). You take care what you're about, young

man—two can play at that game. (_Aside_—Most extraordinary chap! Rummest

free selector _I_ ever seen.)

_Later—Bundabah House—THE HON'BLE MR. POLYBLOCK in his morning room,

pacing up and down, disturbed in mind. Enter GAYTERS._

MR. POLYBLOCK. Well, what is it? He's got the money of course—I'm always

_had_, seems to me. D'ye want any more cheques? If you'd been half sharp

enough he'd never have been there.

GAYTERS. You won't want no more cheques, unless you're drove to dummying

all round him.

MR. POLYBLOCK. _Dummy_, sir! Damme! What d'ye mean by that expression?

Are you aware that I'm a member of the Hupper 'Ouse, Mr. Gayters?

GAYTERS. Beg pardon, sir. I meant perhaps other parties might desire to

select on his pre-lease and might want a bit of assistance, like.

MR. POLYBLOCK. That's another matter! I always make a point of advancing

money to the struggling free selector—as long as I get a proper mortgage

on the land—Bonus Allround sees to that. But about this young chap?

GAYTERS. He won't take the cheque; all but threw it at me.

MR. POLYBLOCK (_much astonished_). Won't take the cheque! and won't go

out?

GAYTERS. Not he; won't hear of it. Called you and—well his language was

horful!

MR. POLYBLOCK. What did he call me—_me_?

GAYTERS. Said we was a pair of damned scoundrels! and he'd kick me off

his ground.

MR. POLYBLOCK (_solemnly_). This is what the country's a-comin' to! What

with universal sufferage, bushranging, and free selection—as is land

robbery by Act of Parliament—pore old Australia ain't a country for a

gentleman to live in. Are you sure he called _me_, the Hon'ble Rufus

Polyblock, a scoundrel, or was it only _you_?

GAYTERS. Both of us, sure as I'm alive. 'Take this to your master,' says

he, 'with my scorn and contempt.' He talked like a chap I see at that

circus last shearin'. He looked grand, I tell you, sir.

HON'BLE RUFUS (_gloomily_). He won't look so grand when I've done with

him. He's got no stock yet?

GAYTERS. Not so much as a horse. He's building his cottage at present,

he says—ha! ha!

HON'BLE RUFUS (_grimly_). Wait till he gets his stock on, that's all.

And you watch him—watch him night and day. If he puts a foot on my

ground, pull him for trespass; if he touches a head of stock, have him

up for stealin' 'em. It's what he's layin' himself out for, of course,

and we may as well fit him first as last.

[_Exit GAYTERS._

END OF SECOND ACT

ACT III

MR. EGREMONT (_discovered nailing up slabs, in order to complete

dwelling_). Well, this is a most enjoyable life; that is, it will be

enjoyable when I have completed my cottage (_hits finger with hammer,

and examines same_), but at present I seem rather hurried. I have had to

help the ploughman in order to get the crop in. I have quite ten acres

of wheat nicely sown and harrowed. I intend to plant potatoes after the

cottage is up, and I must manage to have some turnips; they're always

useful for the stock. A good deal of money seems to be going out; it is

equally certain that none is coming in. No man can have worked harder

either in an old or new country. But the worst of it is (_sits down on

round post and considers_), I am not fully convinced that I am working

to the best purpose. I may be doing all this for nothing! Miss

Polyblock—somehow I'm always thinking of that girl!—implied as much the

last time I saw her. By all the saints and angels, here she comes! How

gloriously handsome she always looks, and how well her habit becomes

her! Strange, what a gulf there seems to be between us!

DULCIE. So you're working away as usual, Mr. Egremont? You certainly are

a pattern young man. How hot it must make you this terrible weather?

EGREMONT. I thought everybody worked hard in this country.

DULCIE. That's a popular error, as you'll find out by and by. They work

in some ways, but not usually with their hands, except when pioneering

or exploring.

EGREMONT. Well, am I not pioneering?

DULCIE (_bursting out laughing_). What! upon three hundred and twenty

acres of land! Excuse my rudeness in laughing.

EGREMONT (_rather nettled_). _We_ think it a decent-sized piece of land

in England.

DULCIE. Oh, do you, really? I beg your pardon, but father did all the

pioneering work here years and years ago. Fought the blacks when he took

up the country, and was speared by them when I was a little girl. So

there isn't much pioneering left for _you_ to do, is there?

EGREMONT. I wish there was.

DULCIE. Oh, do you? Then why don't you go outside?

EGREMONT. Outside—outside—where's that? I thought I was pretty well

outside here; I haven't slept under a roof these two months.

DULCIE (_laughing again_). Oh, indeed, I didn't mean that. Of course

you're outside now; I wish you were not. I'm afraid you'll get a

dreadful cold, the weather is so changeable; but I mean _real outside

country_, beyond the settled districts, in Queensland, Western

Australia, Kimberley—anywhere.

EGREMONT. But how far off is that?

DULCIE. Oh, a couple of thousand miles; but it doesn't matter _how far

it is_; it's the way to make money, and position, and a name. Here no

one can do anything but potter about, live miserably, and—and vegetate.

EGREMONT. But I thought everybody _farmed_ in Australia?

DULCIE. Farmed! farmed! (_with amazement_). Why, _nobody_ does; no

_gentleman_ farms, I assure you. But English people never seem to

understand things for the first year or two.

EGREMONT (_with air of astonishment_). Oh, then I shall only _begin_ to

understand the country in another year? At present I am supposed to be

blissfully ignorant of the real meaning of matters Colonial. I may have

all my work to undo; is that what _you_ think?

DULCIE. Well, very nearly. It's rude, of course, to say so, but you'd

rather be told the truth, wouldn't you? (_He bows._) I've heard young

Englishmen say over and over again that if they'd done nothing for the

first two years they would have learned a great deal and saved all their

money.

EGREMONT. But surely there is nothing so hard to understand about the

country after all? Any one can see the sense of these regulations, for

instance. (_Produces book, Land Act Amendment._)

DULCIE. Oh, don't show me that horrid book! It's about free selection

and all that, and dad says it's done no end of harm. Oh, I wish I could

advise you properly!

EGREMONT. If you only would undertake the task! (_Takes her hand and

looks at her tenderly._)

DULCIE (_hastily_). Oh, really, I have no time now; I shall be late for

lunch as it is. Good-morning.

MR. POLYBLOCK'S DRAWING-ROOM.

MR. POLYBLOCK (_looks at wrong card_). Mr. Stanley—Hubert Stanley—oh,

one of the swells that came up with the governor! Show him in.

_Enter MR. EGREMONT, neatly and cleanly attired in

bush-fashion—Crimean shirt, moleskin trousers, no coat._

MR. P. (_surprised and irritated_). Hulloa! who the devil are you? Oh, I

see, swell out of luck! Want employment or else, perhaps, I wouldn't

mind advancing twenty pound till your remittance came out. Is that the

game?

EGREMONT (_haughtily_). No, sir; I am perfectly able to pay my way, and

trust to be so for the future. We have not met before, but no doubt you

will know who I am when I tell you that my name is Cecil Egremont.

MR. P. Eggermont? Eggermont? We've not met afore, as you say; but, by

George, I'll meet _you_ some day! You're the chap as took up my main

camp. Then what the devil do you want at my private house, eh? Mind, I

won't sell you a pound of beef or mutton either, if you want it ever so

bad. I ain't to be had that way.

EGREMONT (_proudly_). You're over-hasty in your conclusions, sir. I have

no pressing need for butcher's meat. But you are right in surmising that

I _do_ want something from you—something of value also.

MR. P. (_much surprised_). Good Gad! (_Aside_—What can he want? Don't

want money nor beef; perhaps it's wheat or 'taters. Never knew a free

selector yet that didn't want one of 'em.) What is it, man, speak out?

EGREMONT. The fact is, Mr. Polyblock, your daughter; that is, I have

long cherished an admiration——

MR. P. (_wrathfully_). Admiration be hanged! You said my daughter—_my_

daughter! God bless my soul and body! You don't mean to say she'd ever

say a word to the likes of you?

EGREMONT. I fear, sir, that without the least intention of gaining her

affections clandestinely, I have been so imprudent as to receive counsel

respecting my course of action in a strange land, which Miss Polyblock

was too generous to refuse. This harmless intercourse has ripened into

intimacy—into, I may boldly say, mutual affection. As a man of honour I

feel it my duty to acquaint you with the fact, and to respectfully

demand her hand. I——

MR. P. (_deeply shocked and violently affected_). Stop! not another

word! Man of honour! Ha! ha! how the devil _can_ a free selector be a

man of honour? So you think my daughter, as has been eddicated equal to

the first lady in the land, is to go into a hut, and—and—— (_Breaks into

uncontrollable rage._) You—you—robber—murderer—_free selector_! Leave

this room—get off my place, or by —— I'll set the dogs on ye! (_Advances

threateningly._)

EGREMONT (_slowly receding_). I can afford to smile at your vehemence,

to laugh at your threats. There are reasons which prevent me from

resenting your ignorant, ungentlemanly conduct.

MR. P. (_in boxing attitude_). Come on, if that's what you want. Put up

your 'ands. I may be a member of the Hupper 'Ouse, and not so young as I

was, but I can take the conceit out of a chap like you yet. (_Advances

with hands up._)

DULCIE (_coming from behind, pulls him by the coat-tail_). Oh, father,

father! don't touch him.

MR. P. Let me go, girl!

DULCIE. Oh, Cecil, _Cecil_! why don't you go away? (_Throws her arms

round Mr. P. and drags him back; EGREMONT slowly retreating, Mr.

POLYBLOCK struggling and menacing him._)

[_Curtain falls._

END OF THIRD ACT

ACT IV

_About a year afterwards—MR. POLYBLOCK in library,

also MR. GAYTERS._

MR. P. (_walks up and down_). Well, I feel regularly stumped and dried

out. Haven't felt so bad since the '68 drought. I don't know what's

comin' over the country. This young Colonial experiencer stands up agin'

me like a bulldog ant in front of a team of bullocks! My gal, Dulcie, as

I've spent thousands on—and where's there a gal like her, high or

low?—is turned that stupid and ungrateful that she's crying her eyes

out; and who for? Why, a low feller with only a half-section of land to

his name—worse than a boundary-rider, I call him! Damme! I'll dummy all

round him—eat him up that close that he won't have grass for a

bandicoot. I'm that miserable as I could go and drownd myself in that

creek afore the door. Blast that infernal Land Act and them as made it!

It'll ruin the country and every man of property in it. Well (_turns

angrily to GAYTERS_), what do _you_ want?

GAYTERS (_hesitatingly_). Mr. Overdew has just sent his reporter for ten

thousand sheep, sir; wants to know if you'll let him take them through

the Run, along the back track.

MR. P. (_with concentrated wrath_). Tell him if he dares to go one yard

off his half-mile from the main-frontage road I'll pound every hoof of

his grass-stealin', hungry, loafin' sheep, as is the dead image of their

owner—if he _does_ own 'em, and not the bank. Tell him _that_, and mind

you shepherd him slap through the boundary gate.

GAYTERS. Of course, sir; cert'nly, sir. Anything else, sir?

MR. P. (_with sudden fury_). Only, you stand gapin' there another minute

and I'll knock yer through my study winder!

GAYTERS. Cert'nly, sir; of course, sir.

[_Exit hastily._

_MR. CECIL EGREMONT on his selection, discovered chopping

down a tree_.

(_Speaks._) I am more than ever confirmed in my opinion that this is

_the_ most extraordinary, puzzling, topsy-turvy country in the whole

world. I might just as well have remained in North Devon for all the

good I am likely to do. I could have taken a farm there,

and—well—probably have managed to pay the rent. I _have_ bought a farm

here, become a free-holder—that most enviable position, at least in

England—and now when I've got it I don't know what to do with it. Old

Polyblock's sheep eat right up to my boundary, and beyond it too. I

gather there's not much to be done with three hundred and twenty acres

in a dry season. My wheat is prematurely yellow; my potatoes won't come

up! I must fence my farm in; that will cost—at six shillings a rod—let

me see—how much? (_Sits down on log and begins to cipher in

pocket-book._)

DULCIE (_who has ridden closely up in the meantime, and is watching him,

coughs slightly_). Don't let me interrupt you, but you seem absorbed in

thought. Is it about the value of the tree, or some other abstruse

calculation?

EGREMONT (_jumps up hastily_). Oh, my dearest Dulcie! neither, that is,

both—really I hardly know what I am about at present. I was working to

distract my mind. I suppose it's always right to cut down a tree?

DULCIE. Nonsense! About the worst thing you could do. Sinful waste of

time. Do you suppose father made his money in that way? The pencil and

pocket-book look more like it. We say in Australia that a man's head

ought to be good enough to save his hands. Are your birth, breeding, and

education only equal to a pound a week? Because you can buy a man's work

for that—all the year round.

EGREMONT. But I thought all the early colonists worked with their hands,

tended their sheep, drove bullocks and all that—the books say so.

DULCIE. Nonsense! The people who know, don't write books—very seldom at

least. The people who write books, don't know. That's the English of it.

But I came through the township and I've brought your post. Here's a

letter and a newspaper.

EGREMONT. Heaven be thanked and my Guardian Angel! That's _you_, my

dearest Dulcie. Oh, that I had you always to be near me—to protect me

from the ways of this wicked Australian world!

DULCIE. H—m! _You want some one_, I do believe. I might consider over

the contract, but my tender—ahem!—wouldn't be accepted at present.

Father's going on like an old 'rager' bullock, all by himself in the

strangers' yard. But hadn't you better open your letter?

EGREMONT. Then you _do_ take an interest in me? After this I fear

nothing. Why will you not consent to trust your future welfare to my

guidance?

DULCIE (_scornfully_). A likely thing! Trust a free selector! Not if I

know it!!! Why, what would become of us? Perhaps you'd like to see me

lifting the top off a camp-oven—on a fire, under that black stump

there—whilst you were—chopping—down—a—tree! ha! ha! No! (_surveying her

well-fitting riding-habit—her thoroughbred horse, and stroking her

gloves_) I seem to like this sort of thing better. I must drag on for a

while with my allowance from poor old dad.

EGREMONT (_with lofty resolve_). You are heartless, Dulcie—devoid of

natural affection. You laugh at my inexperience, you sneer at my

poverty—let us part for ever. Go back to your father's mansion and leave

me to my fate. I feel that I shall succeed, perhaps make a fortune, in

the end.

DULCIE (_Aside_—It will be a precious long time first! What a dear,

noble fellow he is—I hate to bully him!) _Aloud_—Come, Cecil

(_winningly_), you mustn't be cross. I am only a poor simple girl

brought up in the bush (I wonder what _he_ is then?), but of course I

know more about stock and land than you do. If we are not to be married

(you see I love you a little) till you make enough to buy the ring out

of this calf-paddock of yours, we may wait till we're grey! But why

don't you open the letter? It might contain something of importance.

EGREMONT (_partly mollified_). I'm afraid not; merely an entreaty to

return from this wild country, where there are no people fit for me to

associate with, where I may starve, or be killed by blacks or wild

beasts—that's the general tone of my letters of late. Ha! What is this?

(_Reads_—Your poor Uncle Humphrey died last week; he was on bad terms

with our side of the house, and has not spoken to your father for forty

years; but he has left you £20,000, for which you will receive a

bank-draft by this mail. Of course you will come home at once!) Of

course, of course! Oh! eh! Dulcie dear? Now I shall build a house here,

plant a garden, make a lakelet, sow artificial grasses, fence and

subdivide,—in fact, make a paradise of these desolate, bare acres.

Eventually it will be highly remunerative. But when my house is

completed and furnished in accordance with modern art, _you_ will come

there to be my queen and its most brilliant ornament? (_looks

entreatingly at her_).

DULCIE (_with expression of horror_). What! improve a selection? Spend

thousands of pounds on it? Build a really good house and ask me to live

_there_! Did you ever hear of Tarban Creek?

EGREMONT. Not that I can recall—an aboriginal name, I presume. I have

caught the name of Curbin, I think. Is that a similar watercourse?

DULCIE (_restraining herself_). It's hardly worth explaining—a little

joke of mine. But to come to business. Suppose _I_ show you a way to

invest your money—to get twenty per cent for it in a few years, at the

same time to make father think you a clever, rising man—an opinion

which, ahem! he does _not_ hold at present—and lastly, to cause him to

give his consent to our marriage, (_coaxingly_) what should you say

then? Would you be willing to do what I told you?

EGREMONT. I always thought you as clever as you were beautiful, my own

dearest Dulcie! Take me with all that is mine and do what you will.

DULCIE. Very nice—indeed flattering! How long will it last, I wonder?

'Now you lisdens do me' (as our German gardener used to say) and you

will hear something to your advantage. But first promise to do what I

ask—you _will_ promise? (_looking entreatingly and archly at him_).

EGREMONT. On my honour; on the cross of my ancestor's sword—he was a

Crusader.

DULCIE. The first is enough; I am afraid you are inclined to be a

Crusader too, as far as romantic enthusiasm goes—still it's a fault on

the right side, and will be cured by colonial and other experience.

Firstly, you must sell this selection.

EGREMONT. _What!_ sell my farm—my home—my first venture in this new

world?

DULCIE. Stuff and nonsense! It's poor dad's Run, to begin with, and you

ought never to have touched it! You wouldn't, either, if you'd known how

hard he worked for it before I was born.

EGREMONT (_meditatively_). How could it be _his_; or, if so, how did the

Government sell it to _me_? (_Placing his hand to his forehead_) I never

_shall_ understand the Land Act of this country. But don't ask me to

sell my—my—birthright!

DULCIE (_decisively_). You've promised me, and you _must_ sell it. Of

course if you prefer living here by yourself as a 'hatter'—for _I'll_

never come into it—you may keep it.

EGREMONT. (_Aside_—A hatter!—is that a legal term in this most

perplexing Act? What can she mean? However, I surrender

unconditionally.) To whom shall I sell it?

DULCIE. That's a good boy and he shall be rewarded. Go into the township

and ask for the office of Mr. Bonus Allround, the lawyer; offer it to

him, and he'll give you a cheque for it. How much has it cost you?

Thousands by this time, I suppose.

EGREMONT. Really more than any one would suppose. Firstly, the deposit,

five shillings per acre—and seed wheat—and other things.

DULCIE. Oh, of course, I forgot! Well, value all your improvements, loss

of time, etc. You have lost plenty of time, you know, talking to me. We

won't say yet whether you mightn't have done worse. But put it all down,

every shilling; add your own time at a pound a week—you're not _quite_

worth that, but he'll pass it to get the land. He'll pay you the money

sharp, and all you have to do is to sign a transfer.

EGREMONT. Seems simple enough—only turn myself out of house and home.

Well, after that little step?

DULCIE. Go to Sydney as soon as you can. I see Banda Plains Run is in

the market, with only a few head of cattle—two thousand, I think. I've

heard father talk about the place by the hour; he thinks no end of

it—says he never saw better fattening country.

EGREMONT (_doubtingly_). Am I to go to him?

DULCIE. Not yet, goose! When you're in Sydney, call on Messrs. Drawwell

and Backer—get Banda Plains as cheap as you can, but _buy_ at all risks.

Give them their price at last; then come back and tell dad what you've

done. He can't eat you.

EGREMONT. He looked as if he _would_ last time, without salt! But I will

go straight to Sydney and do your bidding. Drawwell and Backer, Stock

Agents, Pitt Street, Sydney, that's the address (_notes in

pocket-book_).

DULCIE. You're getting quite a man of business. If you're so much

improved in an hour, what will you be in a year? Really, I'm quite proud

of my handiwork. And oh, one thing, dearest! don't forget—it's most

important (_impressively_)—have your hair cut by Adger! You see it is a

little long (_touches his hair_)—thinking of your woes, I suppose? But

we respect the fashions in Australia, though you mightn't think it.

You'd better not be eccentric.

EGREMONT (_laughs_). Anything else, Miss Polyblock? I see the

foreshadowing of an oligarchy. But it will be a benevolent despotism, I

trust?

DULCIE. Bless me! how late it is! The sun is quite low. I shall have to

ride fast. Don't _you_ lose a moment either.

EGREMONT. Trust me; but—one minute—as a reward for my unquestioning

obedience, don't you think——

[_Comes close as if to whisper—kisses her, and exit._

ACT V

MR. POLYBLOCK (_discovered walking up and down the library_). Well, I

don't know as ever I spent a more miserable month. Dulcie don't take no

interest in the things as used to amuse her. I don't know what's come to

the gal. If I could see my way at all, and thought this young chap was

steady and sensible—likely to get on—I might push him; but—a free

selector—a half-section, crawling duffer as won't have grass for a

milker nor credit for a bag of flour in another year—No! I couldn't

think of it. It's enough to make a man turn agin his own flesh and

blood. (_Knocking heard._) Who's that?

MAID. A gentleman wants to see you, sir.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Who is it? That chap as was going to buy the Weejoglag

store-cattle, p'raps?

_Enter CECIL EGREMONT, dressed in tweeds._

MR. POLYBLOCK. Oh, it's you, Mr. Eggermont! (_Aside_—How well the feller

looks! Holds up his head too! Dashed if he ain't a fine, upstanding,

good-looking chap when he's turned out decent! He looked more like a

shearer when I seen him last.) Well, sir! what can I do for you? Sheep

been trespassing, I suppose?

EGREMONT. No, Mr. Polyblock, such is not the case. Nor will it matter to

me in future. I have sold my land.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Sold the s'lection! You don't say so! Who to? who to? Mr.

Eggermont, why didn't you come to me, if you wanted to part with it? I'd

have given you anything in reason.

EGREMONT. You must pardon me for reminding you, Mr. Polyblock, that your

manner was not reassuring at our last interview.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Perhaps not—rather hasty, I know. Mustn't mind an old

man; but who's got the s'lection?

EGREMONT. I disposed of it to Mr. Allround in the township, from whom I

received a cheque, paying me in full for all improvements and loss of

time.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Bonus Allround! Good shot! It's all right—you've sold to

_me_ through him—he's my agent. I should have been sold, my word! if any

other buyer had come in there. And now what are you a-goin' to do?

You're a man of capital now, you know!

EGREMONT. I was fortunate enough to have a moderate legacy left me by an

uncle just before I went to Sydney. While there, under advice, I

invested eight thousand pounds in a run called Banda Plains, on the

Queensland border. They tell me it's a good purchase. There are two

thousand cattle, besides horses.

MR. POLYBLOCK. Good purchase, sir! It's the best thing in the market.

Banda Plains, with only two thousand head of cattle—it's a gift—a

reg'lar gift! Your fortune's made.

EGREMONT. It gratifies me to hear you say so, Mr. Polyblock—most deeply,

I assure you. And now, sir, perhaps you will reconsider your rather

strongly-expressed refusal to me of your daughter's hand?

DULCIE (_who has opened the door softly and stolen into the room_). Oh,

dad, you don't want to break your poor Dulcie's heart! I _do_ love him

so!

MR. POLYBLOCK (_clearing his throat and speaking in a parliamentary tone

of voice_). Ahem! I am not aware, Mr. President, that there's anything

in the Land Act or Regulations against the daughter of a M.L.C. marryin'

a squatter—a squatter, you observe, Mr. Eggermont. Had the party been a

selector; but I won't dwell on a subject too painful to a parent's

feelin's. Take her, my boy! And a better gal, tho' I say it—good, game,

and good-lookin'—she's all that and more—never——'

DULCIE (_moving up to EGREMONT and placing her hand on his shoulder_).

Never gave advice to a struggling free selector. Is that what you were

going to say, daddy? Never mind—he had sense enough to take it. Hadn't

you, Cecil dear?

MR. POLYBLOCK. Seems to me he's free selected on a pastoral holding to

some purpose, you monkey. Is there any clause about that in the new

Land Act, I wonder, as they're makin' such a bother about? Anyway, I'm

the happiest lessee in the unsettled districts, now this little

matter's settled satisfactory. And tell you what, Dulcie (_GAYTERS

comes in here—looks rather blank_), I'll send Gayters out to Banda

Plains to take delivery and wire into the bullockin' for a bit. It'll

do him good—he's been takin' it too easy lately; and as it happens to

be Christmas time, we'll get the transfer business put through by the

Rev. Mr. Robinson at the township, and, Cecil, my boy! give us your

hand (_puts DULCIE'S into it_). There now, you can take up this

additional conditional selection. It won't want improvin', that's one

thing. Ha! ha! I'm that full of happiness that I can get a joke out of

the Land Act—Rum-ty-idity—fol-de-rol (_dances round the room_).

_CECIL puts his arm round DULCIE; they look tenderly into

each other's faces._

CURTAIN FALLS

BUSH HOSPITALITY

In the pioneer period of the pastoral industry, which has since known

such phenomenal development and, alas! no less phenomenal declension,

the hospitality of the dwellers in the wilderness was proverbially free

and unchallenged. But even then there were 'metes and bounds.' Like

Colonial society—though apparently 'a free and a fetterless thing'—there

were lines of demarcation. These, though unsubstantial and shadowy to

superficial observers, were nevertheless discovered by experiment to be

strangely hard and fast.

In those Arcadian days the stranger, on arriving at the homestead of a

man whom he had never seen, and whose name possibly he had scarcely

heard, was warranted by custom, on riding up to the door, in proposing

to stay all night. It was the rule of the period. If there was no inn

within a dozen miles, it became an unquestioned right.

The owner or manager of the station, if at home, welcomed the stranger

with more or less courtesy, according to his disposition, assisting the

guest, whom Allah had sent him, to take off his saddle and place it in

the verandah of the cottage, to turn out his horse in the paddock, or,

in default of that "improvement," to hobble or tether the trusty steed

on good pasture.

If the personages referred to were absent, the traveller, unless he

happened to be abnormally diffident, informed the cook, hut-keeper, or

any station hand whom he might chance to encounter, that he had come to

stay all night, turned his horse out, and entering the plainly-furnished

abode, made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of.

If his host delayed his coming, supper was served. The stranger foraged

about among the books and newspapers, and with the aid of tobacco,

managed to spend the evening, retiring to rest in the apartment

indicated, with perfect cheerfulness and self-possession.

If, as chiefly happened, the hard-worked colonist returned from the

quest of lost sheep or strayed cattle before bedtime, he usually

expressed himself much gratified by the unexpected companionship, and

after a cheery confab about the latest news, politics, prospects

(pastoral), and a parting smoke, both retired to the couches where

unbroken slumbers were the rule. It was a mutual benefit. The monotonous

life of the squatter was cheered by the advent of a fresh face, fresh

news and ideas. The weary traveller found frank entertainment for man

and beast, company and a guide, possibly, for the morrow's journey.

In these strictly equestrian days (for gentlefolk) no man could carry

more than a limited change of apparel in the leather valise strapped to

the fore-part of the saddle. Saddlebags were occasionally used, but they

were held to be cumbrous. The journeys were rough and protracted. Clean

linen has ever been unwillingly dispensed with by the Briton. In that

barbaric epoch, Crimean shirts could not be, the quarrel with the Sultan

about the mythical keys not having arisen. Paper collars, much more

celluloids, were in the future. The only recognised departure from the

full-dress white raiment, the 'biled shirt' of the American humorist to

come, was the check or 'regatta' shirt.

Now this was a garment of compromise, not disreputably soiled after a

couple of days' use. Still its existence as a respectable article of

apparel had a limit. When that was reached, the stranger was permitted

to levy on the host's wardrobe, if a bachelor, to the extent of one

coloured shirt, leaving his own in lieu. This was held to be fair

exchange—the alien vestment, when washed, being, if of ordinary texture

and age, of equal average value to the one taken; the host doing

likewise when on _his_ travels. The chief and perhaps only undesirable

result was, that every proprietor on a frequented line of road had a

collection of the most varied and cosmopolitan autographs in marking

ink, on his shirts, probably ever noticed in one gentleman's wardrobe.

Now this was all very well in the days when Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were

in the free and independent condition of bachelors. They could smoke

their pipe unconcernedly with Jackson the cattle-dealer, or Tomkins the

working overseer from an out-station, or Binks, who was nobody in

particular, or Jinks, who was a cheeky sort of a fellow, but with no

harm in him. But all this was changed when Jones or Smith took unto

himself a wife. He then desired to have his evenings to himself; and

though a gentleman or an agreeable stranger was always welcome, he by no

means cared about entertaining half-and-half people, or being bothered

with making talk for uncongenial persons all the evening. Yet he did not

quite like to send all wayfarers whom he did not know or care about to

the 'men's hut.' Some of them doubtless were more at home there, or

managed to pass the evening without complaint; still, mistakes were

occasionally made. Therefore some kind of intermediate arrangement came

to be needed.

When an inn was within a mile or two, the difficulty was removed. No

stranger could desire to be entertained at the house of a man he did not

know, merely because it was cheaper. If he were mean enough to make the

attempt, he received a rebuff—possibly no more than his due. Still, in

some instances, the squatter, even if unmarried, dreaded the hotel as

the nucleus of a township, and bore the enforced intrusion rather than

risk the invasion of his Run.

It became thus one of the unwritten laws of Bushland that, though a

bachelor station was fair game, and introductions might be dispensed

with, more circumspection must be exercised in the case of the homestead

which contained a lady. Even if the hospitality was unrestricted as of

yore, the restraint was felt by the more homely of the wayfarers, and a

sensible lowering of the average of visitors took place.

And even when there was no such adequate reason, the resident proprietor

was occasionally, by nature or on principle, opposed to the

indiscriminate entertainment of chance-comers, and cast about for some

method of ensuring privacy. The late Mr. Charles Ebden discovered that

'Carlsruhe,' named after a continental reminiscence of travel, was by no

means likely to be the 'Charles' Rest' which the name promised. So he

made a bold innovation, the fame of which went through the length and

breadth of the land: he established a 'visitors' hut.'

There appeared to be no great harm in this—merely a comfortable cottage,

wherein the visitor was supplied with an evening meal, bed, and

breakfast, all comfortably arranged. His horse would of course be cared

for, paddocked, and brought up in the morning. One would fancy this

gratuitous entertainment would have been voted sufficient. But the

roving pastoralists were dissatisfied. They did not want merely meat and

drink—they wanted a welcome: to have speech also with the master of the

house. He was suspected of considering himself too good for his

surroundings. And so 'Carlsruhe' was gradually avoided—not that the

perhaps too fastidious 'Count' Ebden cared a jot.

An amusing _contretemps_ with respect to this novel disposal of guests

was that related of the late Sir James Hawthorn. The good old gentleman

arrived late one evening at 'Carlsruhe,' naturally concluding that he

would receive special consideration. It did not so chance, however,

whether from non-recognition—he was not a knight then, but a doctor—or

some other cause. Before leaving the visitors' hut in the morning, he

left a formal note of thanks for his night's lodging, and enclosed a

cheque for a guinea as payment.

But the Colonial Treasurer of the future was equal to the occasion. He

made answer by post, in a carefully-worded epistle, acknowledging 'a

most extraordinary communication, containing a cheque, for which he was

totally unable to conceive any reasonable explanation, and had forwarded

to Secretary of the Lunatic Asylum.'

After the changes which turned the homesteads of the larger stations

into small villages, the 'big house,' as it came to be called, was no

longer expected to accommodate the proprietor, the overseer, and the

young gentleman learning Colonial experience, in addition to every

wanderer that turned up. The overseer generally had a commodious if,

perhaps, plainly-furnished cottage allotted to him. This came to be

known as the 'barracks,' and to be used as a convenient abode for

strangers and pilgrims, as well as for the storekeeper, the working

overseers, and the young gentlemen. Here, in summer, they could sleep on

the verandah, smoke and yarn on the same, or, in winter, around the

cheerful fire, without danger of disturbing the squatter's domestic

arrangements. This of course without prejudice to personal friends or

strangers of distinction.

As to the pilgrims, they might be described as 'human warious.' There

was first the squatter proper, young, middle-aged, or elderly, on his

way from one station to the other, returning from new country or from a

journey with fat cattle or sheep. He was of course welcome, being,

presumably, ready and willing to repay the accommodation in kind. Then

there were overseers and managers, cattle and sheep buyers, agents and

drovers. These were pastoral personages, and, of course, to be

considered. The dealers, even when roughish in manner, were a power in

the land, capable too of drawing cheques to an amount which secured

respect. They could not in any case be sent to the men's hut. Tourists,

_bona-fide_ travellers, and globe-trotters, having business of some

sort, others without any particular aim or destination,—these gentry in

the 'barracks' were evidently the 'right men in the right place.'

It must be surmised also that adventurers travelled about among the

stations as a pleasant way of seeing the country and spending a few

months at free quarters. A man of prepossessing appearance and agreeable

manners, 'who wanted to buy a station—a real first-class property, you

know,' made his appearance in a certain district just 'after the gold.'

He was courteously treated, and shown a variety of stations. He passed a

whole summer in the leisurely inspection of sheep and cattle properties,

none of which quite suited his taste. He became quite a well-known

inhabitant. Many people believed at last that he had so invested, and

accepted him as a recognised identity. But he never _did_ buy a station

or any stock—eventually contenting himself with a Government billet of a

moderate description, under circumstances which proved the presumption

of his being a capitalist to have been erroneous.

As a general rule it may be stated that the farther back, the more

distant the station, the more liberal and invariable the hospitality.

When men went seldom to town, when books and newspapers were scarce, the

lonely squatter was well disposed towards any kind of stranger guest

above the level of shepherd or stock-rider. He was a change, an animated

evening newspaper, and as such intrinsically valuable. His visit,

besides, was of a transitory or fleeting nature, so that only his good

qualities were apparent.

Even this form of enjoyment was subject to abatement. There was the

pilgrim now and then who declined to proceed on his pilgrimage,

especially when he fell upon a comfortable bachelor abode, with

_cuisine_, library, and liquor reasonably up to date. Not infrequently

the pilgrim's steed would stray, which the owner would search for in

such a perfunctory manner that it seemed as if years might roll on

before he was run in. One really most agreeable and gifted person——he

afterwards became Premier in a neighbouring colony—was celebrated as

protracting his visits by this device. One morning there appeared in a

provincial paper the startling announcement, 'Mr. Blank's horse is

found.' It was the making of him. The laughter was so general that he

left that colony, and attained in another to political eminence and

material prosperity.

Not always, however, was even the _bona-fide_ squatter on his travels

made welcome. A friend of mine arrived at a station late in the evening.

'I am Mr. Blake,' he said, 'of Kilrush'—a name well known throughout his

own and other districts for generous, unstinted hospitality. The

proprietor stood at his door, but offered no welcome.

'How far is it to the next place?' inquired the traveller.

'Sixteen miles; you can't miss the road.'

'Thanks; much obliged.' So he put spurs to his weary steed—he had come

far since sunrise—and departed, reaching the station, so obligingly

referred to, long after dark on a cold night.

In the following year the same squatter arrived at Kilrush. He was

cordially received—invited to stay a day and rest his horse. 'I killed

him with kindness,' were my friend's words—relating the affair to me

years afterwards—'and when he rode away, did everything possible, short

of holding his stirrup for him.

'"Mr. Blake," said he, "you've behaved to me like a gentleman! I am

afraid I didn't give you that idea when you called at Bareacres. I feel

ashamed of myself, I assure you."

'"So you ought to be," I said, looking him straight in the face. He

muttered something and rode away.'

LAPSED GENTLEFOLK

Ah me! who has not known and pitied them in this Australian land of

ours? The workman's Paradise! yet all too well adapted for converting

the gently-nurtured waif into the resigned labourer, the homeless

vagrant. The gradations through which slowly, invisibly, but none the

less surely, drifts to lower levels the luckless gentleman adventurer,

are fraught with a melancholy interest. How sad it seems to realise that

of the hundreds of well-dressed, well-educated, high-hearted youngsters,

fresh from pleasant British homes, who every season land on our shores,

a certain proportion will, in a few years of Colonial Experience (save

the mark!), be transformed into misanthropic shepherds, ragged tramps,

or reckless rouseabouts.

One always sees a few in the men's hut at shearing time, owning no

higher aspirations than the ordinary station hand, living the rough life

of the bush-labourer, relishing coarse tobacco and the coarser jests

when the day's work is done, hardly distinguishable in dress, tone, and

manner from their ruder comrades. Like them, alas! too prone to end each

term's unrelieved labour by an aimless, ruinous drinking-bout.

It is not that the daily toil, the plain fare, and rude companionship

would be in any sense degrading, were they used as means to an end. Did

the cadet resolve to save all but the cash absolutely required for

clothing and other needs, a small capital might easily be acquired, with

reasonable credit in proportion, for which a profitable outlet is always

to be found. And a knowledge of the rougher side of Australian life is

always valuable wherever his lot might be cast.

The real social deterioration accrues when the well-born or

well-educated man becomes fatally contented with his humble

surroundings; when hope has faded out, when ambition is dead, when

repeated trials have landed him in deeper failure; when the conviction

is only too well founded that for him no higher position is attainable

in this world. Nay, that even if attained, he is no longer fitted to

occupy it.

Persons imperfectly acquainted with our social system may say, 'Oh, once

a gentleman, always a gentleman!' and so on. From whatever rude

environment, he will come forth true to his training, and assume his

earlier habitudes as easily as the well-fitting garments which his

altered circumstances render necessary.

It is not so, unfortunately. Granted that the exceptional individual

emerges from the wreck of his youthful aspirations safe and uninjured,

more numerous are they tenfold who reach the shore bleeding and

disabled, never to be again but the simulacra of their former

selves—hopeless of ever attaining the fair heaven-crowned heights, so

near, so tempting of ascent in boyhood; heedless but of the lower pains

and pleasures to which they have all unresistingly yielded their future

lives.

Much of course depends on the mental fibre of the youngster. If happily

constituted, he may defy the most inauspicious surroundings to alter his

habits of thought or change his settled purpose in life. One boy, at the

roughest station in the 'back blocks,' will save his money and do his

work in a cheerfully observant spirit; he will utilise the spare time,

of which he has so large a supply, in reading and improving his mind; he

will find out all he can about the working of the station, with a view

to future operations when he is promoted to partnership or management.

To this he resolutely looks forward. He preserves the manners and the

principles which he brought from home untarnished; an easy enough

matter, since even in the farthest wilds, among the roughest working men

in Australia, a true gentleman's mien and tone are always held in

respect, which no man loses save by his own act.

Say that he has a few years of hard work and privation, he is sure to

rise in life, and eventually, by dint of perseverance and attention to

detail, to become the owner of or partner in a station. His character

for steadiness, efficiency, and industry becomes known from one end of

the district to the other. And if those with whom he is temporarily

connected do not advance him, be sure that some neighbouring proprietor

in need of an active lieutenant will not lose the opportunity.

The young man of less robust self-denial takes station life after a very

different fashion. His fixed idea has been from the first that galloping

about on horseback, smoking, shooting, and drinking are the recognised

pastoral industries by which fortunes in Australia are made. He does not

bother his head about the science of sheep-breeding, or the management

of that capricious but profitable animal the merino. He forgets

messages. He overrides the station horses. He smokes diligently, talks

familiarly and plays cards with the men, from whom he learns to swear

profanely and acquires no useful knowledge—on the contrary, much that is

evil. On his visits to the village or post-town he learns to drink

spirits, and thus lays the foundation of a dangerous habit, which, if

not checked, may destroy his after-life. At the end of his two years'

experience he is regarded as about on a level with the ordinary

rouseabout—hardly as good, certainly no better. On making up his mind to

leave for other employment, he is told that he is heartily welcome to

please himself.

Occasionally the unsuccessful gentleman, emigrant or colonial, is not

distinctly to blame for his fall in social position. He has adopted a

bush life, trusting vaguely to be able to get on in one of the numerous

ways of which he has heard tell. He tries hard at first for situations

suited to his former position in life, finding, however, that no one is

in pressing need of an inexperienced youth not brought up to work.

Still, if strong and willing, he can earn ordinary wages as a station

hand. He learns how to manage the routine work nearly as well as his

comrades in the men's hut, and by degrees, not being mentally

persistent, he adopts the tone and manner of the men who are his

companions—not at once, and not altogether, but after a year or two—to a

much greater extent than any one would think possible. In a work of

fiction some kindly squatter would free the poor fellow from his rough,

or let us say uneducated comrades, but in real life no one would risk

the experiment. He may have been deceived before. He would argue that

though the waif might be a gentleman by birth, it must have been his own

fault in some way that he was in his present position—most likely drank,

gambled, or had done something shady; and this would be true in nine

cases out of ten. If he introduced Mr. Waif to his family, or took him

into his house if a bachelor, he might, of course, behave well for a

time, but one fine day, unable to withstand the temptation of an open

sideboard, would be found dead drunk or madly intoxicated on his

employer's return.

Gradually the unsuccessful one, after a year or two of nomadic life,

tramping it from one end of a colony to another, begins to abandon the

punctilious habits of his early life. His speech shows signs of

degeneration. He talks of people indifferently as 'coves' or 'cards';

_causerie_ with him is 'pitching'; he refrains with difficulty from

expletives, and so on. His reading has not been kept up, though, had he

cared, it might have been. He is scented unpleasantly with coarse

tobacco, occasionally, alas! with the too frequent 'nip' of alcohol. If

he by any chance re-enters civilised life, he shows in a dozen ways that

he is no longer in touch with it. He makes things uncomfortable for his

friends or companions, and is thoroughly convinced that he is out of

place himself.

A youngster of this type came to a squatter's station one evening,

carrying his 'swag' like any other tramp. The owner knew that he was or

had been a gentleman, but apologised, as he had guests, for not asking

him into the house. He was too dirty to be quite exact, and neither in

raiment nor in other matters was he then fitted for the society of

ladies. So he had his supper and bed in the men's hut, smoked his pipe

over the fire with the man-cook, and turned in, quite contented with his

accommodation.

Sometimes, if fairly industrious and steady, the ex-tramp makes his way

to a managership, or even a share in a station, where he recovers a

portion of his earlier form. But he is apt to be rough and careless to

the end, which his English friends attribute to the necessarily

deteriorating influences of colonial life.

Perhaps the saddest sight of all is the broken-down 'swell' of maturer

years, carrying his 'swag' along the road, sometimes a solitary

'traveller'—a name that has its own significance in Australia—sometimes

in company with other 'sundowners.' He is free of the guild now,

unluckily. They neither resent his companionship, nor feel flattered by

it; in no way do they alter their mode of speech or action in

consequence. It is known that he has 'seen better days,' as the phrase

runs. If so, it is nobody's business but his own. A certain amount of

reticence characterises Australian bushmen, which is not noticeable

among their British comrades. The nomadic habit, and the goldfields'

experience—for nearly every able-bodied man in Australia has graduated

there—may be held accountable for this trait. Travel is the true

civiliser, and in many respects supplies the place of the higher

education, teaching reserve, undemonstrativeness, and the patient

endurance of privations and dangers which cannot be evaded.

So, though it is generally believed that Jack Somers or Bill Brown _was_

a gentleman (nothing, alas! will ever make or keep him one again), he is

treated by the master who employs him, and the station hands or farm

labourers who work with him, exactly as the others—neither better nor

worse. Generally a smart, intelligent worker, whether a shearer,

rouseabout, boundary rider, road hand, what not, during the often

protracted periods when he is compulsorily sober. This is secured by

giving him no money (the more obvious necessaries can be procured from

the station store), until his term of work be completed or his contract

finished. Then he gets his cheque, and short work he makes of it. For

the nearest bush public-house is to him a barrier fixed and impassable,

while there is a pound in his purse.

After all, Australia is perhaps the best country for the fallen swell. A

reasonable share of honest work is always open to him, which, from the

custom of the country, is not held to be degrading, as it would be in

Europe. He could not work in the field in Britain, tend sheep, drive a

team, break stones. All these things he can do in Australia with but

temporary loss of prestige or social rank. He would find it next to

impossible to gain a living in the old country in any form of day

labour. Were he even to succeed in doing so, he would be gazed and

wondered at by the whole country-side. A man of good family requested me

to officially certify his identity for the security of his people at

home, who were remitting money to his credit. Roughly dressed was he—had

evidently been 'on the wallaby' recently. After telling me his name and

birth, he must have thought I looked doubtful, for he said, 'I am the

man I say; I'm not the Claimant.' That great personage was then

supplying England and Australia with food for conversation. A book lay

near me with a Latin quotation on the frontispiece. This I slightly

indicated; he at once took the hint and translated it correctly.

'What have you been doing lately?' I inquired. His hands, roughened and

gnarled, with no make-believe manual labour, assured me that he had been

pretty continuously at work of some sort.

'Well, station work mostly,' he returned answer. 'My last job was

cooking for a survey camp.'

'Was it for this that you graduated at Trinity College, Dublin?' was my

unspoken thought. That he drank hard between times, poor fellow, was

apparent to my experienced eye. He received his money duly, which was,

of course, 'blued' like all previous remittances. I exchanged letters

with the friends who had written after him. I advised, if they were

really anxious for his return, that he should be placed on board ship,

but no money given to him till safe on blue water. What historiettes of

lapsed gentlefolk in the colonies might be written! The Honourable Blank

Blank, long past even the middle passage of station work, who loafs

about country towns, taking work as ostler, or even 'boots' at the

hotels, ready to drink with any rough, and feebly subsisting upon the

reflection of former greatness, until he becomes too useless for even

such a position, is locked up for repeated drunkenness, and finally dies

in a gutter.

The 'cranky' long-bearded shepherd vegetates on a back-block station,

amid desert regions now becoming traditionary, where wire fences are all

unknown, or by dingoes rendered ineffectual.

A row of books adorns his solitary hut, a weekly paper, perhaps his

sponge and ivory-backed brushes, curious-appearing souvenirs of old

days. He talks pleasantly enough to the rare-appearing stranger, who is

also a gentleman. The British tourist, if a new arrival, rides off with

pity in his heart, possibly with some idea of aiding the hermit to

return to his friends in England. If a colonist, he knows better; knows

that the old man has his half-yearly or annual 'break-out'; that he can

no more inhabit the same dwelling as ardent spirits without utter

debasement than fly; that such will be his life, without change or

amendment, until he ends it in a Benevolent Asylum, or, more probably,

is found dead in his hut. Then from his papers it will be discovered

that 'Old Jack' or 'Jindabyne Joe' was, once upon a time, Lieutenant

Harry Willoughby Howard of the—th Fusiliers, one of the smartest

subalterns in that distinguished and tolerably fast regiment. What

brought him here? How fared he so ill in Australia, where blue blood

always counts for something, the Radical press notwithstanding? Heigho!

These and other questions may be answered some day, or they may never

be. The nearest magistrate holds an inquiry, sitting on a bench outside

of the lonely hut on the sandhill. The overseer counts out his flock to

a fresh hand, and the ex-Fusilier, younger brother of one of the

magnates of Blankshire, is carted into the head station and decently

buried, with the collie dog as chief mourner, _his_ grief being real and

unaffected, and his lamentations for the next few days touchingly

audible.

Having a favourite horse to put in harness in the early goldfield days,

I betook me to an establishment in Melbourne where a brake was kept. Of

course I mounted the box to watch and perhaps assist in the interesting

performance. When the brakesman got up—a good-looking middle-aged man

with grey whiskers—if he was not a gentleman, and an ex-swell at that, I

had never seen one. From his cravat to his well-polished boots—a neat

foot, too—from his hat to his accurate dogskin gloves, he was 'good

form.' He might have walked straight out of one of Whyte Melville's

novels.

His 'hands,' in stable language, were perfection, and as he and the

brake-horse between them, with practised adroitness, conducted the drag

and my Zohrab, a slashing grey son of Donald Caird, out of the yard and

up Lonsdale Street, I felt a measureless pity for the dear old man, who,

doubtless failing to score at Bendigo or Sandhurst, had come down to

this for a livelihood. Charmed with his conversation and manners, I am

afraid I prolonged the lesson unduly, for when we returned my

aristocratic friend was urgently required to school other young ones at

a guinea per lesson. The proprietor, a vulgar person, expressed his

disapproval in language unfit for publication. I remonstrated hotly, but

the dependent _emigré_ said no word. I departed sadly, and never saw him

more. Melbourne was full of such derelicts in 'the fifties.'

SHEARING IN RIVERINA, NEW SOUTH WALES

'Shearing begins to-morrow!' These apparently simple words were spoken

by Hugh Gordon, the manager of Anabanco Station, in the district of

Riverina, in the colony of New South Wales, one Monday morning in the

month of August. The utterance had its significance to every member of a

rather extensive _corps dramatique_, awaiting the industrial drama about

to be performed.

A low sandhill, a few years since, had looked out over a sea of grey

plains, covered partly with grass, partly with salsiferous bushes and

herbs. Three huts built of the trunks of the pine and roofed with the

bark of the box-tree, and a skeleton-looking cattle-yard with its high

'gallows' (a rude timber arrangement whereon to hang slaughtered

cattle), alone broke the monotony of the plain-ocean. A comparatively

small herd of cattle, numbering two or three thousand, found more than

sufficient pasturage during the short winter and spring, but were often

compelled to migrate to mountain pastures when the precarious

water-stores of the 'Run' were dried up. But, at most, half-a-dozen

stock-riders and station hands were ever needed for the purpose of

managing the herd, so inadequate in number and profitable occupation to

this vast area of grazing country.

But a little later, one of the chiefs of the pastoral interest—a

shepherd king, so to speak—of shrewdness, energy, and capital—had seen,

approved of, and purchased the Crown lease of this waste kingdom. As if

by magic, the scene changed. Gangs of navvies appeared, wending their

way across the silent plain. Dams were made, wells were dug. Tons of

fencing-wire were dropped on the sand by long lines of teams which never

ceased arriving. Sheep by thousands and tens of thousands came grazing

and cropping up to the erstwhile lonely sandhill—now swarming with

blacksmiths, carpenters, engineers, fencers, shepherds,

bullock-drivers—till the place looked like a fair on the borders of

Tartary.

Meanwhile everything was moving with calculated force and cost, under

the 'reign of law.' The seeming expense illustrated the economic truth

of doing all necessary work at once, rather than by instalments. One

hundred men for one day, rather than one man for a hundred days. Results

began to demonstrate themselves. Within twelve months the dams were

full, the wells sending up their far-fetched, priceless water, the

wire-fences completed, the shepherds gone, and a hundred and seventy

thousand sheep were cropping the herbage of Anabanco. Tuesday was the

day fixed for the actual commencement of the momentous, almost solemn

transaction—the pastoral Hegira, so to speak, as the time of most

station events is calculated with reference to it, as happening before

or after shearing. But before the first shot is fired which tells of the

battle begun, what raids and skirmishes, what reconnoitring and vedette

duty must take place!

First arrives the cook-in-chief to the shearers, with two assistants, to

lay in a few provisions for the week's consumption of seventy

able-bodied men. Now the cook of a large shearing shed is a highly paid

and irresponsible official. He is chosen and provided by the shearers

themselves. Payment is generally arranged on the scale of half-a-crown a

head weekly from each shearer. For this sum he contracts to provide

punctual and effective cooking, paying out of his own pocket as many

_marmitons_ as may be needful for that end, and must satisfy the taste

of his exacting and fastidious employers.

In the present case he confers with the storekeeper, Mr. de Vere, a

young gentleman of aristocratic connections, who is thus gaining an

excellent practical knowledge of the working of a large station; and to

this end has the store-keeping department entrusted to him during

shearing.

He is not, perhaps, quite fit for a croquet party as he stands now, with

a flour-scoop in one hand and a pound of tobacco in the other. But he

looks like a man at work, also like a gentleman, as he is. 'Jack the

Cook' thus addresses him:

'Now, Mr. de Vere, I hope there's not going to be any humbugging about

my rations and things. The men are all up in their quarters, and as

hungry as free selectors. They've been a-payin' for their rations for

ever so long, and of course, now shearin's on, they're good for a little

extra.'

'All right, Jack,' returns De Vere good-humouredly; 'your order was

weighed out and sent away before breakfast. You must have missed the

cart. Here's the list. I'll read it out to you—three bags flour, half a

bullock, two bags sugar, a chest of tea, four dozen of pickles, four

dozen of jam, two gallons of vinegar, five lbs. pepper, a bag of salt,

plates, knives, forks, ovens, frying-pans, saucepans, iron pots, and

about a hundred other things. You're to return all the cooking things

safe, or _pay for them_, mind that! You don't want anything more, do

you? Got enough for a regiment of cavalry, I should think.'