“hundreds of sensible men went mad over that there Tichborne case who
didn't have anything to do with it, but just through thinking on it; and
you're ratty enough already, Jack. Let it alone and trust me to find out
who's Smith just as soon as ever we cut out.”
Meanwhile Smith ate, worked, and slept, and borrowed tobacco and forgot
to return it--which was made a note of. He talked freely about his case
when asked, but if he addressed anyone, it was with the air of the timid
but good young man, who is fully aware of the extent and power of this
world's wickedness, and stands somewhat in awe of it, but yet would
beg you to favour a humble worker in the vineyard by kindly accepting a
tract, and passing it on to friends after perusal.
One Saturday morning, about a fortnight before cut out, The Oracle came
late to his stand, and apparently with something on his mind. Smith
hadn't turned up, and the next rouseabout was doing his work, to the
mutual dissatisfaction of all parties immediately concerned.
“Did you see anything of Smith?” asked Mitchell of The Oracle. “Seems to
have forgot to get up this morning.”
Tom looked disheartened and disappointed. _“He's forgot again_,” said
he, slowly and impressively.
“Forgot what? We know he's blessed well forgot to come to graft.”
“He's forgot again,” repeated Tom. “He woke up this morning and wanted
to know who he was and where he was.” Comments.
“Better give him best, Oracle,” said Mitchell presently. “If he can't
find out who he is and where he is, the boss'll soon find it out for
him.”
“No,” said Tom, “when I take a thing in hand I see it through.”
This was also characteristic of the boss-over-the-board, though in
another direction. He went down to the but and inquired for Smith.
“Why ain't you at work?”
“Who am I, sir? Where am I?” whined Smith. “Can you please tell me who I
am and where I am?”
The boss drew a long breath and stared blankly at the Mystery; then he
erupted.
“Now, look here!” he howled, “I don't know who the gory sheol you are,
except that you're a gory lunatic, and what's more, I don't care a damn.
But I'll soon show you where you are! You can call up at the store and
get your cheque, and soon as you blessed well like; and then take a
walk, and don't forget to take your lovely swag with you.”
The matter was discussed at the dinner-table. The Oracle swore that it
was a cruel, mean way to treat a “pore afflicted chap,” and cursed the
boss. Tom's admirers cursed in sympathy, and trouble seemed threatening,
when the voice of Mitchell was heard to rise in slow, deliberate tones
over the clatter of cutlery and tin plates.
“I wonder,” said the voice, “I wonder whether Smith forgot his cheque?”
It was ascertained that Smith hadn't.
There was some eating and thinking done. Soon Mitchell's voice was heard
again, directed at The Oracle.
It said “Do you keep any vallabels about your bunk, Oracle?”
Tom looked hard at Mitchell. “Why?”
“Oh, nothin': only I think it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to look at
your bunk and see whether Smith forgot.”
The chaps grew awfully interested. They fixed their eyes on Tom, and he
looked with feeling from one face to another; then he pushed his plate
back, and slowly extracted his long legs from between the stool and the
table. He climbed to his bunk, and carefully reviewed the ingredients of
his swag. Smith hadn't forgot.
When The Oracle's face came round again there was in it a strange
expression which a close study would have revealed to be more of anger
than of sorrow, but that was not all. It was an expression such as a man
might wear who is undergoing a terrible operation, without chloroform,
but is determined not to let a whimper escape him. Tom didn't swear, and
by that token they guessed how mad he was. 'Twas a rough shed, with
a free and lurid vocabulary, but had they all sworn in chorus, with
One-eyed Bogan as lead, it would not have done justice to Tom's
feelings--and they realized this.
The Oracle took down his bridle from its peg, and started for the door
amid a respectful and sympathetic silence, which was only partly broken
once by the voice of Mitchell, which asked in an awed whisper:
“Going ter ketch yer horse, Tom?” The Oracle nodded, and passed on; he
spake no word--he was too full for words.
Five minutes passed, and then the voice of Mitchell was heard again,
uninterrupted by the clatter of tinware. It said in impressive tones:
“It would not be a bad idea for some of you chaps that camp in the bunks
along there, to have a look at your things. Scotty's bunk is next to
Tom's.”
Scotty shot out of his place as if a snake had hold of his leg, starting
a plank in the table and upsetting three soup plates. He reached for his
bunk like a drowning man clutching at a plank, and tore out the bedding.
Again, Smith hadn't forgot.
Then followed a general overhaul, and it was found in most cases that
Smith had remembered. The pent-up reservoir of blasphemy burst forth.
The Oracle came up with Smith that night at the nearest shanty, and
found that he had forgotten again, and in several instances, and was
forgetting some more under the influence of rum and of the flattering
interest taken in his case by a drunken Bachelor of Arts who happened to
be at the pub. Tom came in quietly from the rear, and crooked his finger
at the shanty-keeper. They went apart from the rest, and talked together
a while very earnestly. Then they secretly examined Smith's swag, the
core of which was composed of Tom's and his mate's valuables.
Then The Oracle stirred up Smith's recollections and departed.
Smith was about again in a couple of weeks. He was damaged somewhat
physically, but his memory was no longer impaired.
HUNGERFORD
One of the hungriest cleared roads in New South Wales runs to within a
couple of miles of Hungerford, and stops there; then you strike through
the scrub to the town. There is no distant prospect of Hungerford--you
don't see the town till you are quite close to it, and then two or three
white-washed galvanized-iron roofs start out of the mulga.
They say that a past Ministry commenced to clear the road from Bourke,
under the impression that Hungerford was an important place, and went
on, with the blindness peculiar to governments, till they got to within
two miles of the town. Then they ran short of rum and rations, and sent
a man on to get them, and make inquiries. The member never came back,
and two more were sent to find him--or Hungerford. Three days later
the two returned in an exhausted condition, and submitted a motion of
want-of-confidence, which was lost. Then the whole House went on and was
lost also. Strange to relate, that Government was never missed.
However, we found Hungerford and camped there for a day. The town is
right on the Queensland border, and an interprovincial rabbit-proof
fence--with rabbits on both sides of it--runs across the main street.
This fence is a standing joke with Australian rabbits--about the only
joke they have out there, except the memory of Pasteur and poison and
inoculation. It is amusing to go a little way out of town, about sunset,
and watch them crack Noah's Ark rabbit jokes about that fence, and
burrow under and play leap-frog over it till they get tired. One old
buck rabbit sat up and nearly laughed his ears off at a joke of his own
about that fence. He laughed so much that he couldn't get away when
I reached for him. I could hardly eat him for laughing. I never saw a
rabbit laugh before; but I've seen a 'possum do it.
Hungerford consists of two houses and a humpy in New South Wales, and
five houses in Queensland. Characteristically enough, both the pubs are
in Queensland. We got a glass of sour yeast at one and paid sixpence for
it--we had asked for English ale.
The post office is in New South Wales, and the police-barracks in
Bananaland. The police cannot do anything if there's a row going on
across the street in New South Wales, except to send to Brisbane and
have an extradition warrant applied for; and they don't do much if
there's a row in Queensland. Most of the rows are across the border,
where the pubs are.
At least, I believe that's how it is, though the man who told me might
have been a liar. Another man said he was a liar, but then _he_ might
have been a liar himself--a third person said he was one. I heard that
there was a fight over it, but the man who told me about the fight might
not have been telling the truth.
One part of the town swears at Brisbane when things go wrong, and the
other part curses Sydney.
The country looks as though a great ash-heap had been spread out there,
and mulga scrub and firewood planted--and neglected. The country looks
just as bad for a hundred miles round Hungerford, and beyond that it
gets worse--a blasted, barren wilderness that doesn't even howl. If it
howled it would be a relief.
I believe that Bourke and Wills found Hungerford, and it's a pity they
did; but, if I ever stand by the graves of the men who first travelled
through this country, when there were neither roads nor stations, nor
tanks, nor bores, nor pubs, I'll--I'll take my hat off. There were brave
men in the land in those days.
It is said that the explorers gave the district its name chiefly because
of the hunger they found there, which has remained there ever since. I
don't know where the “ford” comes in--there's nothing to ford, except in
flood-time. Hungerthirst would have been better. The town is supposed
to be situated on the banks of a river called the Paroo, but we saw no
water there, except what passed for it in a tank. The goats and sheep
and dogs and the rest of the population drink there. It is dangerous to
take too much of that water in a raw state.
Except in flood-time you couldn't find the bed of the river without the
aid of a spirit-level and a long straight-edge. There is a Custom-house
against the fence on the northern side. A pound of tea often costs
six shillings on that side, and you can get a common lead pencil for
fourpence at the rival store across the street in the mother province.
Also, a small loaf of sour bread sells for a shilling at the humpy
aforementioned. Only about sixty per cent of the sugar will melt.
We saw one of the storekeepers give a dead-beat swagman five shillings'
worth of rations to take him on into Queensland. The storekeepers often
do this, and put it down on the loss side of their books. I hope the
recording angel listens, and puts it down on the right side of his book.
We camped on the Queensland side of the fence, and after tea had a yarn
with an old man who was minding a mixed flock of goats and sheep; and we
asked him whether he thought Queensland was better than New South Wales,
or the other way about.
He scratched the back of his head, and thought a while, and hesitated
like a stranger who is going to do you a favour at some personal
inconvenience.
At last, with the bored air of a man who has gone through the same
performance too often before, he stepped deliberately up to the fence
and spat over it into New South Wales. After which he got leisurely
through and spat back on Queensland.
“That's what I think of the blanky colonies!” he said.
He gave us time to become sufficiently impressed; then he said:
“And if I was at the Victorian and South Australian border I'd do the
same thing.”
He let that soak into our minds, and added: “And the same with West
Australia--and--and Tasmania.” Then he went away.
The last would have been a long spit--and he forgot Maoriland.
We heard afterwards that his name was Clancy and he had that day been
offered a job droving at “twenty-five shillings a week and find your
own horse.” Also find your own horse feed and tobacco and soap and other
luxuries, at station prices. Moreover, if you lost your own horse you
would have to find another, and if that died or went astray you would
have to find a third--or forfeit your pay and return on foot. The
boss drover agreed to provide flour and mutton--when such things were
procurable.
Consequently, Clancy's unfavourable opinion of the colonies.
My mate and I sat down on our swags against the fence to talk things
over. One of us was very deaf. Presently a black tracker went past and
looked at us, and returned to the pub. Then a trooper in Queensland
uniform came along and asked us what the trouble was about, and where
we came from and were going, and where we camped. We said we were
discussing private business, and he explained that he thought it was
a row, and came over to see. Then he left us, and later on we saw him
sitting with the rest of the population on a bench under the hotel
veranda. Next morning we rolled up our swags and left Hungerford to the
north-west.
A CAMP-FIRE YARN
“This girl,” said Mitchell, continuing a yarn to his mate, “was about
the ugliest girl I ever saw, except one, and I'll tell you about her
directly. The old man had a carpenter's shop fixed up in a shed at the
back of his house, and he used to work there pretty often, and sometimes
I'd come over and yarn with him. One day I was sitting on the end of
the bench, and the old man was working away, and Mary was standing there
too, all three of us yarning--she mostly came poking round where I was
if I happened to be on the premises--or at least I thought so--and
we got yarning about getting married, and the old cove said he'd get
married again if the old woman died.
“'_You_ get married again!' said Mary. 'Why, father, you wouldn't get
anyone to marry you--who'd have you?'
“'Well,' he said, 'I bet I'll get someone sooner than you, anyway.
You don't seem to be able to get anyone, and it's pretty near time you
thought of settlin' down and gettin' married. I wish _someone_ would
have you.'
“He hit her pretty hard there, but it served her right. She got as good
as she gave. She looked at me and went all colours, and then she went
back to her washtub.
“She was mighty quiet at tea-time--she seemed hurt a lot, and I began to
feel sorry I'd laughed at the old man's joke, for she was really a good,
hard-working girl, and you couldn't help liking her.
“So after tea I went out to her in the kitchen, where she was washing
up, to try and cheer her up a bit. She'd scarcely speak at first, except
to say 'Yes' or 'No', and kept her face turned away from me; and I could
see that she'd been crying. I began to feel sorry for her and mad at the
old man, and I started to comfort her. But I didn't go the right way to
work about it. I told her that she mustn't take any notice of the old
cove, as he didn't mean half he said. But she seemed to take it harder
than ever, and at last I got so sorry for her that I told her that _I'd_
have her if she'd have me.”
“And what did she say?” asked Mitchell's mate, after a pause.
“She said she wouldn't have me at any price!”
The mate laughed, and Mitchell grinned his quiet grin.
“Well, this set me thinking,” he continued. “I always knew I was a
dashed ugly cove, and I began to wonder whether any girl would really
have me; and I kept on it till at last I made up my mind to find out and
settle the matter for good--or bad.
“There was another farmer's daughter living close by, and I met her
pretty often coming home from work, and sometimes I had a yarn with her.
She was plain, and no mistake: Mary was a Venus alongside of her. She
had feet like a Lascar, and hands about ten sizes too large for her,
and a face like that camel--only red; she walked like a camel, too. She
looked like a ladder with a dress on, and she didn't know a great A from
a corner cupboard.
“Well, one evening I met her at the sliprails, and presently I asked
her, for a joke, if she'd marry me. Mind you, I never wanted to marry
_her_; I was only curious to know whether any girl would have me.
“She turned away her face and seemed to hesitate, and I was just turning
away and beginning to think I was a dashed hopeless case, when all of a
sudden she fell up against me and said she'd be my wife.... And it wasn't
her fault that she wasn't.”
“What did she do?”
“Do! What didn't she do? Next day she went down to our place when I
was at work, and hugged and kissed mother and the girls all round, and
cried, and told mother that she'd try and be a dutiful daughter to her.
Good Lord! You should have seen the old woman and the girls when I came
home.
“Then she let everyone know that Bridget Page was engaged to Jack
Mitchell, and told her friends that she went down on her knees every
night and thanked the Lord for getting the love of a good man. Didn't
the fellows chyack me, though! My sisters were raving mad about it, for
their chums kept asking them how they liked their new sister, and when
it was going to come off, and who'd be bridesmaids and best man, and
whether they weren't surprised at their brother Jack's choice; and then
I'd gammon at home that it was all true.
“At last the place got too hot for me. I got sick of dodging that girl.
I sent a mate of mine to tell her that it was all a joke, and that I was
already married in secret; but she didn't see it, then I cleared, and
got a job in Newcastle, but had to leave there when my mates sent me the
office that she was coming. I wouldn't wonder but what she is humping
her swag after me now. In fact, I thought you was her in disguise when
I set eyes on you first.... You needn't get mad about it; I don't mean to
say that you're quite as ugly as she was, because I never saw a man that
was--or a woman either. Anyway, I'll never ask a woman to marry me again
unless I'm ready to marry her.”
Then Mitchell's mate told a yarn.
“I knew a case once something like the one you were telling me about;
the landlady of a hash-house where I was stopping in Albany told me.
There was a young carpenter staying there, who'd run away from Sydney
from an old maid who wanted to marry him. He'd cleared from the church
door, I believe. He was scarcely more'n a boy--about nineteen--and a
soft kind of a fellow, something like you, only good-looking--that is,
he was passable. Well, as soon as the woman found out where he'd gone,
she came after him. She turned up at the boarding-house one Saturday
morning when Bobbie was at work; and the first thing she did was to rent
a double room from the landlady and buy some cups and saucers to start
housekeeping with. When Bobbie came home he just gave her one look and
gave up the game.
“'Get your dinner, Bobbie,' she said, after she'd slobbered over him a
bit, 'and then get dressed and come with me and get married!'
“She was about three times his age, and had a face like that picture of
a lady over Sappho Smith's letters in the Sydney _Bulletin_.
“Well, Bobbie went with her like a--like a lamb; never gave a kick or
tried to clear.”
“Hold on,” said Mitchell, “did you ever shear lambs?”
“Never mind. Let me finish the yarn. Bobbie was married; but she
wouldn't let him out of her sight all that afternoon, and he had to put
up with her before them all. About bedtime he sneaked out and started
along the passage to his room that he shared with two or three mates.
But she'd her eye on him.
“'Bobbie, Bobbie!' she says, 'Where are you going?'
“'I'm going to bed,' said Bobbie. 'Good night!'
“'Bobbie, Bobbie,' she says, sharply. 'That isn't our room; _this_ is
our room, Bobbie. Come back at once! What do you mean, Bobbie? _Do you
hear me, Bobbie?_'
“So Bobbie came back, and went in with the scarecrow. Next morning she
was first at the breakfast table, in a dressing-gown and curl papers.
And when they were all sitting down Bobbie sneaked in, looking awfully
sheepish, and sidled for his chair at the other end of the table. But
she'd her eyes on him.
“'Bobbie, Bobbie!' she said, 'Come and kiss me, Bobbie!'” And he had to
do it in front of them all.
“But I believe she made him a good wife.”
HIS COUNTRY-AFTER ALL
The Blenheim coach was descending into the valley of the Avetere
River--pronounced Aveterry--from the saddle of Taylor's Pass. Across
the river to the right, the grey slopes and flats stretched away to
the distant sea from a range of tussock hills. There was no native bush
there; but there were several groves of imported timber standing wide
apart---sentinel-like--seeming lonely and striking in their isolation.
“Grand country, New Zealand, eh?” said a stout man with a brown face,
grey beard, and grey eyes, who sat between the driver and another
passenger on the box.
“You don't call this grand country!” exclaimed the other passenger, who
claimed to be, and looked like, a commercial traveller, and might have
been a professional spieler--quite possibly both. “Why, it's about the
poorest country in New Zealand! You ought to see some of the country in
the North Island--Wairarapa and Napier districts, round about Pahiatua.
I call this damn poor country.”
“Well, I reckon you wouldn't, if you'd ever been in Australia--back in
New South Wales. The people here don't seem to know what a grand country
they've got. You say this is the worst, eh? Well, this would make an
Australian cockatoo's mouth water-the worst of New Zealand would.”
“I always thought Australia was all good country,” mused the driver--a
flax-stick. “I always thought--”
“Good country!” exclaimed the man with the grey beard, in a tone of
disgust. “Why, it's only a mongrel desert, except some bits round the
coast. The worst dried-up and God-forsaken country I was ever in.”
There was a silence, thoughtful on the driver's part, and aggressive on
that of the stranger.
“I always thought,” said the driver, reflectively, after the pause--“I
always thought Australia was a good country,” and he placed his foot on
the brake.
They let him think. The coach descended the natural terraces above the
river bank, and pulled up at the pub.
“So you're a native of Australia?” said the bagman to the grey-beard, as
the coach went on again.
“Well, I suppose I am. Anyway, I was born there. That's the main thing
I've got against the darned country.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Till I got away,” said the stranger. Then, after a think, he added, “I
went away first when I was thirty-five--went to the islands. I swore I'd
never go back to Australia again; but I did. I thought I had a kind of
affection for old Sydney. I knocked about the blasted country for five
or six years, and then I cleared out to 'Frisco. I swore I'd never go
back again, and I never will.”
“But surely you'll take a run over and have a look at old Sydney and
those places, before you go back to America, after getting so near?”
“What the blazes do I want to have a look at the blamed country for?”
snapped the stranger, who had refreshed considerably. “I've got nothing
to thank Australia for--except getting out of it. It's the best country
to get out of that I was ever in.”
“Oh, well, I only thought you might have had some friends over there,”
interposed the traveller in an injured tone.
“Friends! That's another reason. I wouldn't go back there for all the
friends and relations since Adam. I had more than quite enough of it
while I was there. The worst and hardest years of my life were spent
in Australia. I might have starved there, and did do it half my time. I
worked harder and got less in my own country in five years than I ever
did in any other in fifteen”--he was getting mixed--“and I've been in
a few since then. No, Australia is the worst country that ever the Lord
had the sense to forget. I mean to stick to the country that stuck to
me, when I was starved out of my own dear native land--and that country
is the United States of America. What's Australia? A big, thirsty,
hungry wilderness, with one or two cities for the convenience of foreign
speculators, and a few collections of humpies, called towns--also for
the convenience of foreign speculators; and populated mostly by mongrel
sheep, and partly by fools, who live like European slaves in the towns,
and like dingoes in the bush--who drivel about 'democracy,' and yet
haven't any more spunk than to graft for a few Cockney dudes that
razzle-dazzle most of the time in Paris. Why, the Australians haven't
even got the grit to claim enough of their own money to throw a few dams
across their watercourses, and so make some of the interior fit to live
in. America's bad enough, but it was never so small as that.... Bah! The
curse of Australia is sheep, and the Australian war cry is Baa!”
“Well, you're the first man I ever heard talk as you've been doing about
his own country,” said the bagman, getting tired and impatient of being
sat on all the time. “'Lives there a man with a soul so dead, who never
said--to--to himself'... I forget the darned thing.”