and the bagman commenced arguing with drunken gravity and precision
about politics, even while a third bushman was approaching the climax of
an out-back yarn of many adjectives, of which he himself was the hero.
The scraps of conversation that we caught were somewhat as follow. We
leave out most of the adjectives.
First Voice: “Now, look here. The women will vote for men, not
principles. That's why I'm against women voting. Now, just mark my---”
Third Voice (trying to finish yarn): “Hold on. Just wait till I tell
yer. Well, this bloomin' bloke, he says---”
Second Voice (evidently in reply to first): “Principles you mean, not
men. You're getting a bit mixed, old man.” (Smothered chuckle from
comedian over our head.)
Third Voice (seeming to drift round in search of sympathy): “'You will!'
sez I. 'Yes, I will,' he sez. 'Oh, you will, will yer?' I sez; and with
that I---”
Second Voice (apparently wandering from both subjects) “Blanker has
always stuck up for the workin' man, an' he'll get in, you'll see. Why,
he's a bloomin' workin' man himself. Me and Blanker---”
Disgusted voice from a bunk: “Oh, that's damn rot! We've had enough of
lumpers in parliament! Horny hands are all right enough, but we don't
want any more blanky horny heads!”
Third Voice (threateningly): “Who's talkin' about 'orny heads? That
pitch is meant for us, ain't it? Do you mean to say that I've got a
'orny head?”
Here two men commenced snarling at each other, and there was some talk
of punching the causes of the dispute; but the bagman interfered, a
fresh flask was passed round, and some more eternal friendship sworn to.
We dozed off again, and the next time we were aware of anything the
commercial and Moses had disappeared, the rest were lying or sitting in
their bunks, and the third shearer was telling a yarn about an alleged
fight he had at a shed up-country; and perhaps he was telling it for the
benefit of the dissatisfied individual who made the injudicious remark
concerning horny heads.
“So I said to the boss-over-the-board, 'you're a nice sort of a thing,'
I sez. 'Who are you talkin' to?' he says. 'You, bless yer,' I says.
'Now, look here,' he says, 'you get your cheque and clear! 'All right,'
I says, 'you can take that!' and I hauled off and landed him a beauty
under the butt of the listener. Then the boss came along with two
blacklegs, but the boys made a ring, and I laid out the blanks in just
five minutes. Then I sez to the boss, 'That's the sort of cove I am,' I
sez, 'an' now, if you---”
But just here there came a deep, growling voice--seemingly from out of
the depths of the forehold--anyway, there came a voice, and it said:
“For the Lord's sake give her a rest!”
The steward turned off the electricity, but there were two lanterns
dimly burning in our part of the steerage. It was a narrow compartment
running across the width of the boat, and had evidently been partitioned
off from the top floor of the hold to meet the emigration from Australia
to New Zealand. There were three tiers of bunks, two deep, on the far
side, three rows of single bunks on the other, and two at each end of
the cabin, the top ones just under the portholes.
The shearers had turned in “all standing;” two of them were lying feet
to feet in a couple of outside lower berths. One lay on his stomach with
his face turned outwards, his arm thrown over the side of the bunk, and
his knuckles resting on the deck, the other rested on the broad of his
back with his arm also hanging over the side and his knuckles resting on
the floor. And so they slept the sleep of the drunk.
A fair, girl-faced young Swiss emigrant occupied one of the top berths,
with his curly, flaxen head resting close alongside one of the lanterns
that were dimly burning, and an Anglo-foreign dictionary in his hand.
His mate, or brother, who resembled him in everything except that he
had dark hair, lay asleep alongside; and in the next berth a long
consumptive-looking new chum sat in his pyjamas, with his legs hanging
over the edge, and his hands grasping the sideboard, to which, on his
right hand, a sort of tin-can arrangement was hooked. He was staring
intently at nothing, and seemed to be thinking very hard.
We dozed off again, and woke suddenly to find our eyes wide open, and
the young Swiss still studying, and the jackaroo still sitting in the
same position, but with a kind of waiting expression on his face--a sort
of expectant light in his eyes. Suddenly he lurched for the can, and
after awhile he lay back looking like a corpse.
We slept again, and finally awoke to daylight and the clatter of
plates. All the bunks were vacated except two, which contained corpses,
apparently.
Wet decks, and a round, stiff, morning breeze, blowing strongly across
the deck, abeam, and gustily through the open portholes. There was a
dull grey sky, and the sea at first sight seemed to be of a dark blue
or green, but on closer inspection it took a dirty slate colour, with
splashes as of indigo in the hollows. There was one of those near, yet
far-away horizons.
About two-thirds of the men were on deck, but the women had not shown up
yet--nor did they show up until towards the end of the trip.
Some of the men were smoking in a sheltered corner, some walking up and
down, two or three trying to play quoits, one looking at the poultry,
one standing abaft the purser's cabin with hands in the pockets of
his long ragged overcoat, watching the engines, and two
more--carpenters--were discussing a big cedar log, about five feet in
diameter, which was lashed on deck alongside the hatch.
While we were waiting for the _Oroya_ some of the ship's officers came
and had a consultation over this log and called up part of the crew, who
got some more ropes and a chain on to it. It struck us at the time that
that log would make a sensation if it fetched loose in rough weather.
But there wasn't any rough weather.
The fore-cabin was kept clean; the assistant steward was good-humoured
and obliging; his chief was civil enough to freeze the Never-Never
country; but the bill of fare was monotonous.
During the afternoon a first-salooner made himself obnoxious by swelling
round for'ard. He was a big bull-necked “Britisher” (that word covers
it) with a bloated face, prominent gooseberry eyes, fore 'n' aft cap,
and long tan shoes. He seemed as if he'd come to see a “zoo,” and was
dissatisfied with it--had a fine contempt for it, in fact, because it
did not come up to other zoological gardens that he had seen in London,
and on the _aw_--continong and in the--_aw_-er--_aw_--the States,
dontcherknow. The fellows reckoned that he ought to be “took down a peg”
(dontcherknow) and the sandy-complexioned comedian said he'd do it. So
he stepped softly up to the swell, tapped him lightly on the shoulder,
and pointed aft--holding his arm out like a pump handle and his
forefinger rigid.
The Britisher's face was a study; it was blank at first and then it went
all colours, and wore, in succession, every possible expression except
a pleasant one. He seemed bursting with indignation, but he did not
speak--could not, perhaps; and, as soon as he could detach his feet
from the spot to which they had been nailed in the first place by
astonishment, he stalked aft. He did not come to see the zoo any more.
The fellows in the fore-cabin that evening were growling about the bad
quality of the grub supplied.
Then the shearer's volcano showed signs of activity. He shifted round,
spat impatiently, and said:
“You chaps don't know what yer talkin' about. You want something to
grumble about. You should have been out with me last year on the Paroo
in Noo South Wales. The meat we got there was so bad that it uster
travel!”
“What?”
“Yes! travel! take the track! go on the wallaby! The cockies over there
used to hang the meat up on the branches of the trees, and just shake
it whenever they wanted to feed the fowls. And the water was so bad
that half a pound of tea in the billy wouldn't make no impression on the
colour--nor the taste. The further west we went the worse our meat got,
till at last we had to carry a dog-chain to chain it up at night. Then
it got worse and broke the chain, and then we had to train the blessed
dogs to shepherd it and bring it back. But we fell in with another chap
with a bad old dog--a downright knowing, thieving, old hard-case of
a dog; and this dog led our dogs astray---demoralized them--corrupted
their morals--and so one morning they came home with the blooming meat
inside them, instead of outside--and we had to go hungry for breakfast.”
“You'd better turn in, gentlemen. I'm going to turn off the light,” said
the steward.
The yarn reminded the Sydney man of a dog he had, and he started some
dog lies.
“This dog of mine,” he said, “knowed the way into the best
public-houses. If I came to a strange town and wanted a good drink, I'd
only have to say, 'Jack, I'm dry,' and he'd lead me all right. He always
knew the side entrances and private doors after hours, and I--”
But the yarn did not go very well--it fell flat in fact. Then the
commercial traveller was taken bad with an anecdote. “That's nothing,”
he said, “I had a black bag once that knew the way into public-houses.”
“A what?”
“Yes. A black bag. A long black bag like that one I've got there in my
bunk. I was staying at a boarding-house in Sydney, and one of us used to
go out every night for a couple of bottles of beer, and we carried the
bottles in the bag; and when we got opposite the pub the front end of
the bag would begin to swing round towards the door. It was wonderful.
It was just as if there was a lump of steel in the end of the bag and a
magnet in the bar. We tried it with ever so many people, but it always
acted the same. We couldn't use that bag for any other purpose, for if
we carried it along the street it would make our wrists ache trying
to go into pubs. It twisted my wrist one time, and it ain't got right
since--I always feel the pain in dull weather. Well, one night we got
yarning and didn't notice how the time was going, and forgot to go for
the beer till it was nearly too late. We looked for the bag and couldn't
find it--we generally kept it under a side-table, but it wasn't there,
and before we were done looking, eleven o'clock went. We sat down round
the fire, feeling pretty thirsty, and were just thinking about turning
in when we heard a thump on the table behind us. We looked round, and
there was that bag with two full bottles of English ale in it.
“Then I remembered that I'd left a bob in the bottom of the bag, and---”
The steward turned off the electric light.
There were some hundreds of cases of oranges stacked on deck, and made
fast with matting and cordage to the bulwarks. That night was very dark,
and next morning there was a row. The captain said he'd “give any man
three months that he caught at those oranges.”
“Wot, yer givin' us?” said a shearer. “We don't know anything about yer
bloomin' oranges.... I seen one of the saloon passengers moochin' round
for'ard last night. You'd better search the saloon for your blarsted
oranges, an' don't come round tacklin' the wrong men.”
It was not necessary to search our quarters, for the “offside” steward
was sweeping orange peel out of the steerage for three days thereafter.
And that night, just as we were about to fall asleep, a round,
good-humoured face loomed over the edge of the shelf above and a small,
twinkling, grey eye winked at us. Then a hand came over, gave a jerk,
and something fell on our nose. It was an orange. We sent a “thank you”
up through the boards and commenced hurriedly and furtively to stow
away the orange. But the comedian had an axe to grind--most people
have--wanted to drop his peel alongside our berth; and it made us uneasy
because we did not want circumstantial evidence lying round us if the
captain chanced to come down to inquire. The next man to us had a barney
with the man above him about the same thing. Then the peel was scattered
round pretty fairly, or thrown into an empty bunk, and no man dared
growl lest he should come to be regarded as a blackleg--a would-be
informer.
The men opposite the door kept a look out; and two Australian jokers
sat in the top end berth with their legs hanging over and swinging
contentedly, and the porthole open ready for a swift and easy disposal
of circumstantial evidence on the first alarm. They were eating a
pineapple which they had sliced and extracted in sections from a crate
up on deck. They looked so chummy, and so school-boyishly happy and
contented, that they reminded us of the days long ago, when we were so
high.
The chaps had talk about those oranges on deck next day. The commercial
traveller said we had a right to the oranges, because the company didn't
give us enough to eat. He said that we were already suffering from
insufficient proper nourishment, and he'd tell the doctor so if the
doctor came on board at Auckland. Anyway, it was no sin to rob a
company.
“But then,” said our comedian, “those oranges, perhaps, were sent over
by a poor, struggling orange grower, with a wife and family to keep,
and he'll have to bear the loss, and a few bob might make a lot of
difference to him. It ain't right to rob a poor man.”
This made us feel doubtful and mean, and one or two got uncomfortable
and shifted round uneasily. But presently the traveller came to the
rescue. He said that no doubt the oranges belonged to a middleman, and
the middleman was the curse of the country. We felt better.
Towards the end of the trip the women began to turn up. There were
five grass widows, and every female of them had a baby. The Australian
marries young and poor; and, when he can live no longer in his native
land, he sells the furniture, buys a steerage ticket to New Zealand or
Western Australia, and leaves his wife with her relatives or friends
until he earns enough money to send for her. Four of our women were
girl-wives, and mostly pretty. One little handful of a thing had a fine
baby boy, nearly as big as herself, and she looked so fragile and
pale, and pretty and lonely, and had such an appealing light in her big
shadowed brown eyes, and such a pathetic droop at the corners of her
sweet little mouth, that you longed to take her in your manly arms--baby
and all--and comfort her.
The last afternoon on high seas was spent in looking through glasses
for the Pinnacles, off North Cape. And, as we neared the land, the
commercial traveller remarked that he wouldn't mind if there was a wreck
now--provided we all got saved. “We'd have all our names in the papers,”
he said. “Gallant conduct of the passengers and crew. Heroic rescue by
Mr So-and-so-climbing the cliffs with a girl under his arm, and all that
sort of thing.”
The chaps smiled a doleful smile, and turned away again to look at the
Promised Land. They had had no anxiety to speak of for the last two
or three days; but now they were again face to face with the cursed
question, “How to make a living.” They were wondering whether or no they
would get work in New Zealand, and feeling more doubtful about it than
when they embarked.
Pity we couldn't go to sea and sail away for ever, and never see land
any more--or, at least, not till better and brighter days--if they ever
come.
THE STORY OF MALACHI
Malachi was very tall, very thin, and very round-shouldered, and the
sandiness of his hair also cried aloud for an adjective. All the boys
considered Malachi the greatest ass on the station, and there was no
doubt that he _was_ an awful fool. He had never been out of his native
bush in all his life, excepting once, when he paid a short visit to
Sydney, and when he returned it was evident that his nerves had received
a shaking. We failed to draw one word out of Malachi regarding his views
on the city--to describe it was not in his power, for it had evidently
been something far beyond his comprehension. Even after his visit had
become a matter of history, if you were to ask him what he thought of
Sydney the dazed expression would come back into his face, and he would
scratch his head and say in a slow and deliberate manner, “Well, there's
no mistake, it's a caution.” And as such the city remained, so far as
Malachi's opinion of it was concerned.
Malachi was always shabbily dressed, in spite of his pound a week and
board, and “When Malachi gets a new suit of clothes” was the expression
invariably used by the boys to fix a date for some altogether improbable
event. We were always having larks with Malachi, for we looked upon
him as our legitimate butt. He seldom complained, and when he did his
remonstrance hardly ever went beyond repeating the words, “Now, none of
your pranktical jokes!” If this had not the desired effect, and we
put up some too outrageous trick on him, he would content himself by
muttering with sorrowful conviction, “Well, there's no mistake, it's a
caution.”
We were not content with common jokes, such as sewing up the legs
of Malachi's trousers while he slept, fixing his bunk, or putting
explosives in his pipe--we aspired to some of the higher branches of
the practical joker's art. It was well known that Malachi had an undying
hatred for words of four syllables and over, and the use of them was
always sufficient to forfeit any good opinions he might have previously
entertained concerning the user. “I hate them high-flown words,” he
would say--“I got a book at home that I could get them out of if I
wanted them; but I don't.” The book referred to was a very dilapidated
dictionary. Malachi's hatred for high-flown words was only equalled
by his aversion to the opposite sex; and, this being known, we used to
write letters to him in a feminine hand, threatening divers breach of
promise actions, and composed in the high-flown language above alluded
to. We used to think this very funny, and by these means we made his
life a burden to him. Malachi put the most implicit faith in everything
we told him; he would take in the most improbable yarn provided we
preserved a grave demeanour and used no high-flown expressions. He would
indeed sometimes remark that our yarns were a caution, but that was all.
We played upon him the most gigantic joke of all during the visit of a
certain bricklayer, who came to do some work at the homestead. “Bricky”
was a bit of a phrenologist, and knew enough of physiognomy and human
nature to give a pretty fair delineation of character. He also went
in for spirit-rapping, greatly to the disgust of the two ancient
housekeepers, who declared that they'd have “no dalins wid him and his
divil's worruk.”'
The bricklayer was from the first an object of awe to Malachi, who
carefully avoided him; but one night we got the butt into a room
where the artisan was entertaining the boys with a seance. After
the table-rapping, during which Malachi sat with uncovered head and
awe-struck expression, we proposed that he should have his bumps read,
and before he could make his escape Malachi was seated in a chair in the
middle of the room and the bricklayer was running his fingers over
his head. I really believe that Malachi's hair bristled between the
phrenologist's fingers. Whenever he made a hit his staunch admirer,
“Donegal,” would exclaim “Look at that now!” while the girls tittered
and said, “Just fancy!” and from time to time Malachi would be heard
to mutter to himself, in a tone of the most intense conviction, that,
“without the least mistake it was a caution.” Several times at his work
the next day Malachi was observed to rest on his spade, while he tilted
his hat forward with one hand and felt the back of his head as though he
had not been previously aware of its existence.
We “ran” Malachi to believe that the bricklayer was mad on the subject
of phrenology, and was suspected of having killed several persons in
order to obtain their skulls for experimental purposes. We further
said that he had been heard to say that Malachi's skull was a most
extraordinary one, and so we advised him to be careful.
Malachi occupied a hut some distance from the station, and one night,
the last night of the bricklayer's stay, as Malachi sat smoking over the
fire the door opened quietly and the phrenologist entered. He carried a
bag with a pumpkin in the bottom of it, and, sitting down on a stool, he
let the bag down with a bump on the floor between his feet. Malachi was
badly scared, but he managed to stammer out--
“'Ello!” “'Ello!” said the phrenologist.
There was an embarrassing silence, which was at last broken by “Bricky”
saying “How are you gettin' on, Malachi?”
“Oh, jist right,” replied Malachi.
Nothing was said for a while, until Malachi, after fidgeting a good deal
on his stool, asked the bricklayer when he was leaving the station.
“Oh, I'm going away in the morning, early,” said he. “I've jist been
over to Jimmy Nowlett's camp, and as I was passing I thought I'd call
and get your head.”
“What?”
“I come for your skull.
“Yes,” the phrenologist continued, while Malachi sat horror-stricken;
“I've got Jimmy Nowlett's skull here,” and he lifted the bag and
lovingly felt the pumpkin--it must have weighed forty pounds. “I spoilt
one of his best bumps with the tomahawk. I had to hit him twice,
but it's no use crying over spilt milk.” Here he drew a heavy
shingling-hammer out of the bag and wiped off with his sleeve something
that looked like blood. Malachi had been edging round for the door, and
now he made a rush for it. But the skull-fancier was there before him.
“Gor-sake you don't want to murder me!” gasped Malachi.
“Not if I can get your skull any other way,” said Bricky.
“Oh!” gasped Malachi--and then, with a vague idea that it was best
to humour a lunatic, he continued, in a tone meant to be off-hand and
careless--“Now, look here, if yer only waits till I die you can have my
whole skelington and welcome.”
“Now Malachi,” said the phrenologist sternly, “d'ye think I'm a fool? I
ain't going to stand any humbug. If yer acts sensible you'll be quiet,
and it'll soon be over, but if yer---”
Malachi did not wait to hear the rest. He made a spring for the back of
the hut and through it, taking down a large new sheet of stringy-bark in
his flight. Then he could be heard loudly ejaculating “It's a caution!”
as he went through the bush like a startled kangaroo, and he didn't stop
till he reached the station.
Jimmy Nowlett and I had been peeping through a crack in the same sheet
of bark that Malachi dislodged; it fell on us and bruised us somewhat,
but it wasn't enough to knock the fun out of the thing.
When Jimmy Nowlett crawled out from under the bark he had to lie down
on Malachi's bunk to laugh, and even for some time afterwards it was not
unusual for Jimmy to wake up in the' night and laugh till we wished him
dead.
I should like to finish here, but there remains something more to be
said about Malachi.
One of the best cows at the homestead had a calf, about which she made
a great deal of fuss. She was ordinarily a quiet, docile creature, and,
though somewhat fussy after calving no one ever dreamed that she would
injure anyone. It happened one day that the squatter's daughter and her
intended husband, a Sydney exquisite, were strolling in a paddock where
the cow was. Whether the cow objected to the masher or his lady love's
red parasol, or whether she suspected designs upon her progeny, is not
certain; anyhow, she went for them. The young man saw the cow coming
first, and he gallantly struck a bee-line for the fence, leaving the
girl to manage for herself. She wouldn't have managed very well if
Malachi hadn't been passing just then. He saw the girl's danger and ran
to intercept the cow with no weapon but his hands.
It didn't last long. There was a roar, a rush, and a cloud of dust, out
of which the cow presently emerged, and went scampering back to the bush
in which her calf was hidden.
We carried Malachi home and laid him on a bed. He had a terrible wound
in the groin, and the blood soaked through the bandages like water. We
did all that was possible for him, the boys killed the squatter's best
horse and spoilt two others riding for a doctor, but it was of no use.
In the last half-hour of his life we all gathered round Malachi's bed;
he was only twenty-two. Once he said:
“I wonder how mother'll manage now?”
“Why, where's your mother?” someone asked gently; we had never dreamt
that Malachi might have someone to love him and be proud of him.