whatever, not even a receding chin. It seemed as though his chin had
been cut clean off horizontally. When he took off his hat he showed to
the mild surprise of strangers a pair of shrewd grey eyes and a broad
high forehead. Chinny was in the empty bottle line.
“Now, then, hold up that horse of yours for a minute, Chinny,” said Bill
briskly, “'relse he'll fall down and break the shaft again.” (It had
already been broken in several places and spliced with strips of deal,
clothes-line, and wire.) “Now, you chaps, fling yourselves about and get
the furniture out.”
This was a great relief to the push. They ran against each other and the
door-post in their eagerness to be at work. The furniture--what Mrs A.
called her “few bits of things”--was carried out with elaborate care.
The ironing table was the main item. It was placed top down in the
cart, and the rest of the things went between the legs without bulging
sufficiently to cause Chinny any anxiety.
Just then the picket gave a low, earnest whistle, and they were aware of
a policeman standing statue-like under the lamp on the opposite corner,
and apparently unaware of their existence. He was looking, sphinx-like,
past them towards the city.
“It can't be helped; we must put on front an' go on with it now,” said
Bill.
“He's all right, I think,” said Chinny. “He knows me.”
“He can't do nothin',” said Bill; “don't mind him, Mrs Aspinall. Now,
then (to the push), tie up. Don't be frightened of the dorg-what are you
frightened of? Why! he'd only apologize if you trod on his tail.”
The dog went under the cart, and kept his tail carefully behind him.
The policeman--he was an elderly man--stood still, looking towards the
city, and over it, perhaps, and over the sea, to long years agone in
Ireland when he and the boys ducked bailiffs, and resisted evictions
with “shticks,” and “riz” sometimes, and gathered together at the rising
of the moon, and did many things contrary to the peace of Gracious
Majesty, its laws and constitutions, crown and dignity; as a reward for
which he had helped to preserve the said peace for the best years of his
life, without promotion; for he had a great aversion to running in “the
boys”--which included nearly all mankind--and preferred to keep, and was
most successful in keeping, the peace with no other assistance than that
of his own rich fatherly brogue.
Bill took charge of two of the children; Mrs Aspinall carried the
youngest.
“Go ahead, Chinny,” said Bill.
Chinny shambled forward, sideways, dragging the horse, with one long,
bony, short-sleeved arm stretched out behind holding the rope reins; the
horse stumbled out of the gutter, and the cart seemed to pause a moment,
as if undecided whether to follow or not, and then, with many rickety
complaints, moved slowly and painfully up on to the level out of the
gutter. The dog rose with a long, weary, mangy sigh, but with a lazy
sort of calculation, before his rope (which was short) grew taut--which
was good judgment on his part, for his neck was sore; and his feet being
tender, he felt his way carefully and painfully over the metal, as if
he feared that at any step he might spring some treacherous, air-trigger
trap-door which would drop and hang him.
“Nit, you chaps,” said Bill, “and wait for me.” The push rubbed its
head with its hat, said “Good night, Mrs Ashpennel,” and was absent,
spook-like.
When the funeral reached the street, the lonely “trap” was, somehow,
two blocks away in the opposite direction, moving very slowly, and very
upright, and very straight, like an automaton.
BOGG OF GEEBUNG
At the local police court, where the subject of this sketch turned up
periodically amongst the drunks, he had “James” prefixed to his name for
the sake of convenience and as a matter of form previous to his being
fined forty shillings (which he never paid) and sentenced to “a month
hard” (which he contrived to make as soft as possible). The local
larrikins called him “Grog,” a very appropriate name, all things
considered; but to the Geebung Times he was known until the day of his
death as “a well-known character named Bogg.” The antipathy of the local
paper might have been accounted for by the fact that Bogg strayed into
the office one day in a muddled condition during the absence of the
staff at lunch and corrected a revise proof of the next week's leader,
placing bracketed “query” and “see proof” marks opposite the editor's
most flowery periods and quotations, and leaving on the margin some
general advice to the printers to “space better.” He also corrected a
Latin quotation or two, and added a few ideas of his own in good French.
But no one, with the exception of the editor of the Times, ever dreamed
that there was anything out of the common in the shaggy, unkempt head
upon which poor Bogg used to “do his little time,” until a young English
doctor came to practise at Geebung. One night the doctor and the manager
of the local bank and one or two others wandered into the bar of the
Diggers' Arms, where Bogg sat in a dark corner mumbling to himself as
usual and spilling half his beer on the table and floor. Presently some
drunken utterances reached the doctor's ear, and he turned round in a
surprised manner and looked at Bogg. The drunkard continued to mutter
for some time, and then broke out into something like the fag-end of
a song. The doctor walked over to the table at which Bogg was
sitting, and, seating himself on the far corner, regarded the drunkard
attentively for some minutes; but the latter's voice ceased, his head
fell slowly on his folded arms, and all became silent except the drip,
drip of the overturned beer falling from the table to the form and from
the form to the floor.
The doctor rose and walked back to his friends with a graver face.
“You seem interested in Bogg,” said the bank manager.
“Yes,” said the doctor.
“What was he mumbling about?”
“Oh, that was a passage from Homer.”
“What?”
The doctor repeated his answer.
“Then do you mean to say he understands Greek?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, sadly; “he is, or must have been, a classical
scholar.”
The manager took time to digest this, and then asked:
“What was the song?”
“Oh, that was an old song we used to sing at the Dublin University,”
said the doctor.
During his sober days Bogg used to fossick about among the old mullock
heaps, or split palings in the bush, and just managed to keep out of
debt. Strange to say, in spite of his drunken habits, his credit was
as good as that of any man in the town. He was very unsociable, seldom
speaking, whether drunk or sober; but a weary, hard-up sundowner was
always pretty certain to get a meal and a shake-down at Bogg's lonely
hut among the waste heaps. It happened one dark night that a little
push of local larrikins, having nothing better to amuse them, wended
their way through the old mullock heaps in the direction of the lonely
little bark hut, with the object of playing off an elaborately planned
ghost joke on Bogg. Prior to commencing operations, the leader of the
jokers put his eye to a crack in the bark to reconnoitre. He didn't see
much, but what he did see seemed to interest him, for he kept his eye
there till his mates grew impatient. Bogg sat in front of his rough
little table with his elbows on the same, and his hands supporting
his forehead. Before him on the table lay a few articles such as lady
novelists and poets use in their work, and such as bitter cynics often
wear secretly next their bitter, cynical hearts.
There was the usual faded letter, a portrait of a girl, something that
looked like a pressed flower, and, of course, a lock of hair. Presently
Bogg folded his arms over these things, and his face sank lower and
lower, till nothing was visible to the unsuspected watcher except
the drunkard's rough, shaggy hair; rougher and wilder looking in the
uncertain light of the slush-lamp.
The larrikin turned away, and beckoned his comrades to follow him.
“Wot is it?” asked one, when they had gone some distance. The leader
said, “We're a-goin' ter let 'im alone; that's wot it is.”
There was some demur at this, and an explanation was demanded; but the
boss bully unbuttoned his coat, and spat on his hands, and said:
“We're a-goin' ter let Bogg alone; that's wot it is.”
So they went away and let Bogg alone.
A few days later the following paragraph appeared in the _Geebung
Times_: “A well-known character named Bogg was found drowned in the
river on Sunday last, his hat and coat being found on the bank. At a
late hour on Saturday night a member of our staff saw a man walking
slowly along the river bank, but it was too dark to identify the
person.”
We suppose it was Bogg whom the _Times_ reported, but of course we
cannot be sure. The chances are that it was Bogg. It was pretty evident
that he had committed suicide, and being “a well-known character,” no
doubt he had reasons for his rash act. Perhaps he was walking by himself
in the dark along the river bank, and thinking of those reasons when
the _Times_ man saw him. Strange to say, the world knows least about
the lives and sorrows of “well-known characters” of this kind, no matter
what their names might be, and--well, there is no reason why we should
bore a reader, or waste any more space over a well-known character named
Bogg.
SHE WOULDN'T SPEAK
Well, we reached the pub about dinner-time, dropped our swags outside,
had a drink, and then went into the dinin'-room. There was a lot of
jackaroo swells, that had been on a visit to the squatter, or something,
and they were sittin' down at dinner; and they seemed to think by their
looks that we ought to have stayed outside and waited till they were
done--we was only two rough shearers, you know. There was a
very good-looking servant girl waitin' on 'em, and she was all
smiles--laughin', and jokin', and chyackin', and barrickin' with 'em
like anything.
I thought a damp expression seemed to pass across her face when me and
my mate sat down, but she served us and said nothing--we was only two
dusty swaggies, you see. Dave said “Good day” to her when we came in,
but she didn't answer; and I could see from the first that she'd made up
her mind not to speak to us.
The swells finished, and got up and went out, leaving me and Dave and
the servant girl alone in the room; but she didn't open her mouth--not
once. Dave winked at her once or twice as she handed his cup, but it
wasn't no go. Dave was a good-lookin' chap, too; but we couldn't get her
to say a word--not one.
We finished the first blanky course, and, while she was gettin' our
puddin' from the side-table, Dave says to me in a loud whisper, so's she
could hear: “Ain't she a stunner, Joe! I never thought there was sich
fine girls on the Darlin'!”
But no; she wouldn't speak.
Then Dave says: “They pitch a blanky lot about them New Englan' gals;
but I'll back the Darlin' girls to lick 'em holler as far's looks is
concerned,” says Dave.
But no; she wouldn't speak. She wouldn't even smile. Dave didn't
say nothing for awhile, and then he said: “Did you hear about that
red-headed barmaid at Stiffner's goin' to be married to the bank manager
at Bourke next month, Joe?” says Dave.
But no, not a single word out of her; she didn't even look up, or look
as if she wanted to speak.
Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin' for awhile. Then
he said: “Joe, did you hear that yarn about young Scotty and old
whatchisname's missus?”
“Yes,” I says; “but I think it was the daughter, not the wife, and young
Scotty,” I says.
But it wasn't no go; that girl wouldn't speak.
Dave shut up for a good while, but presently I says to Dave “I see that
them hoops is comin' in again, Dave. The paper says that this here Lady
Duff had one on when she landed.”
“Yes, I heard about it,” says Dave. “I'd like to see my wife in one, but
I s'pose a woman must wear what all the rest does.”
And do you think that girl would speak? Not a blanky word.
We finished our second puddin' and fourth cup of tea, and I was just
gettin' up when Dave catches holt on my arm, like that, and pulls me
down into my chair again.
“'Old on,” whispers Dave; “I'm goin' to make that blanky gal speak.”
“You won't,” I says.
“Bet you a five-pound note,” says Dave.
“All right,” I says.
So I sits down again, and Dave whistles to the girl, and he passes along
his cup and mine. She filled 'em at once, without a word, and we got
outside our fifth cup of tea each. Then Dave jingled his spoon, and
passed both cups along again. She put some hot water in the pot this
time, and, after we'd drunk another couple of cups, Dave muttered
somethin' about drownin' the miller.
“We want tea, not warm water,” he growled, lookin' sulky and passin'
along both cups again.
But she never opened her mouth; she wouldn't speak. She didn't even,
look cross. She made a fresh pot of tea, and filled our cups again.
She didn't even slam the cups down, or swamp the tea over into the
saucers--which would have been quite natural, considerin'.
“I'm about done,” I said to Dave in a low whisper. “We'll have to give
it up, I'm afraid, Dave,” I says.
“I'll make her speak, or bust myself,” says Dave.
And I'm blest if he didn't go on till I was so blanky full of tea that
it brimmed over and run out the corners of my mouth; and Dave was near
as bad. At last I couldn't drink another teaspoonful without holding
back my head, and then I couldn't keep it down, but had to let it run
back into the blanky cup again. The girl began to clear away at the
other end of the table, and now and then she'd lay her hand on the
teapot and squint round to see if we wanted any more tea. But she never
spoke. She might have thought a lot--but she never opened her lips.
I tell you, without a word of a lie, that we must have drunk about a
dozen cups each. We made her fill the teapot twice, and kept her waitin'
nearly an hour, but we couldn't make her say a word. She never said a
single word to us from the time we came in till the time we went out,
nor before nor after. She'd made up her mind from the first not to speak
to us.
We had to get up and leave our cups half full at last. We went out and
sat down on our swags in the shade against the wall, and smoked and gave
that tea time to settle, and then we got on to the track again.
THE GEOLOGICAL SPIELER
There's nothing so interesting as Geology, even to common and
ignorant people, especially when you have a bank or the side of a
cutting, studded with fossil fish and things and oysters that were
stale when Adam was fresh to illustrate by. (_Remark made by
Steelman, professional wanderer, to his pal and pupil, Smith._)
The first man that Steelman and Smith came up to on the last embankment,
where they struck the new railway line, was a heavy, gloomy, labouring
man with bowyangs on and straps round his wrists. Steelman bade him the
time of day and had a few words with him over the weather. The man of
mullock gave it as his opinion that the fine weather wouldn't last, and
seemed to take a gloomy kind of pleasure in that reflection; he said
there was more rain down yonder, pointing to the southeast, than the
moon could swallow up--the moon was in its first quarter, during which
time it is popularly believed in some parts of Maoriland that the
south-easter is most likely to be out on the wallaby and the weather
bad. Steelman regarded that quarter of the sky with an expression
of gentle remonstrance mingled as it were with a sort of fatherly
indulgence, agreed mildly with the labouring man, and seemed lost for a
moment in a reverie from which he roused himself to inquire cautiously
after the boss. There was no boss, it was a co-operative party. That
chap standing over there by the dray in the end of the cutting was their
spokesman--their representative: they called him boss, but that was only
his nickname in camp. Steelman expressed his thanks and moved on towards
the cutting, followed respectfully by Smith.
Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair of
professional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there was
a clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened, however, by an air as of
unconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge.
He carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in his
profession in more senses than one. Smith was decently dressed in sober
tweed and looked like a man of no account, who was mechanically devoted
to his employer's interests, pleasures, or whims.
The boss was a decent-looking young fellow, with a good face--rather
solemn--and a quiet manner.
“Good day, sir,” said Steelman.
“Good day, sir,” said the boss.
“Nice weather this.”
“Yes, it is, but I'm afraid it won't last.”
“I am afraid it will not by the look of the sky down there,” ventured
Steelman.
“No, I go mostly by the look of our weather prophet,” said the boss with
a quiet smile, indicating the gloomy man.
“I suppose bad weather would put you back in your work?”
“Yes, it will; we didn't want any bad weather just now.”
Steelman got the weather question satisfactorily settled; then he said:
“You seem to be getting on with the railway.”
“Oh yes, we are about over the worst of it.”
“The worst of it?” echoed Steelman, with mild surprise: “I should have
thought you were just coming into it,” and he pointed to the ridge
ahead.
“Oh, our section doesn't go any further than that pole you see sticking
up yonder. We had the worst of it back there across the swamps--working
up to our waists in water most of the time, in midwinter too--and at
eighteenpence a yard.”
“That was bad.”
“Yes, rather rough. Did you come from the terminus?”
“Yes, I sent my baggage on in the brake.”
“Commercial traveller, I suppose?” asked the boss, glancing at Smith,
who stood a little to the rear of Steelman, seeming interested in the
work.
“Oh no,” said Steelman, smiling--“I am--well--I'm a geologist; this is
my man here,” indicating Smith. “(You may put down the bag, James, and
have a smoke.) My name is Stoneleigh--you might have heard of it.”
The boss said, “Oh,” and then presently he added “indeed,” in an
undecided tone.
There was a pause--embarrassed on the part of the boss--he was silent
not knowing what to say. Meanwhile Steelman studied his man and
concluded that he would do.
“Having a look at the country, I suppose?” asked the boss presently.
“Yes,” said Steelman; then after a moment's reflection: “I am travelling
for my own amusement and improvement, and also in the interest of
science, which amounts to the same thing. I am a member of the Royal
Geological Society--vice-president in fact of a leading Australian
branch;” and then, as if conscious that he had appeared guilty of
egotism, he shifted the subject a bit. “Yes. Very interesting country
this--very interesting indeed. I should like to make a stay here for a
day or so. Your work opens right into my hands. I cannot remember seeing
a geological formation which interested me so much. Look at the face of
that cutting, for instance. Why! you can almost read the history of the
geological world from yesterday--this morning as it were--beginning
with the super-surface on top and going right down through the different
layers and stratas--through the vanished ages--right down and back
to the pre-historical--to the very primeval or fundamental geological
formations!” And Steelman studied the face of the cutting as if he could
read it like a book, with every layer or stratum a chapter, and every
streak a note of explanation. The boss seemed to be getting interested,
and Steelman gained confidence and proceeded to identify and classify
the different “stratas and layers,” and fix their ages, and describe the
conditions and politics of man in their different times, for the boss's
benefit.
“Now,” continued Steelman, turning slowly from the cutting, removing
his glasses, and letting his thoughtful eyes wander casually over the
general scenery--“now the first impression that this country would leave
on an ordinary intelligent mind--though maybe unconsciously, would be
as of a new country--new in a geological sense; with patches of an older
geological and vegetable formation cropping out here and there; as for
instance that clump of dead trees on that clear alluvial slope there,
that outcrop of limestone, or that timber yonder,” and he indicated a
dead forest which seemed alive and green because of the parasites. “But
the country is old--old; perhaps the oldest geological formation in the
world is to be seen here, the oldest vegetable formation in Australasia.
I am not using the words old and new in an ordinary sense, you
understand, but in a geological sense.”
The boss said, “I understand,” and that geology must be a very
interesting study.
Steelman ran his eye meditatively over the cutting again, and turning to
Smith said:
“Go up there, James, and fetch me a specimen of that slaty outcrop you
see there--just above the coeval strata.”
It was a stiff climb and slippery, but Smith had to do it, and he did
it.
“This,” said Steelman, breaking the rotten piece between his fingers,
“belongs probably to an older geological period than its position would
indicate--a primitive sandstone level perhaps. Its position on that
layer is no doubt due to volcanic upheavals--such disturbances, or
rather the results of such disturbances, have been and are the cause of
the greatest trouble to geologists--endless errors and controversy. You
see we must study the country, not as it appears now, but as it
would appear had the natural geological growth been left to mature
undisturbed; we must restore and reconstruct such disorganized portions
of the mineral kingdom, if you understand me.”
The boss said he understood.
Steelman found an opportunity to wink sharply and severely at Smith, who
had been careless enough to allow his features to relapse into a vacant
grin.
“It is generally known even amongst the ignorant that rock grows--grows
from the outside--but the rock here, a specimen of which I hold in
my hand, is now in the process of decomposition; to be plain it is
rotting--in an advanced stage of decomposition--so much so that you are
not able to identify it with any geological period or formation, even as
you may not be able to identify any other extremely decomposed body.”
The boss blinked and knitted his brow, but had the presence of mind to
say: “Just so.”
“Had the rock on that cutting been healthy--been alive, as it were--you
would have had your work cut out; but it is dead and has been dead
for ages perhaps. You find less trouble in working it than you would
ordinary clay or sand, or even gravel, which formations together are
really rock in embryo--before birth as it were.”
The boss's brow cleared.
“The country round here is simply rotting down--simply rotting down.”
He removed his spectacles, wiped them, and wiped his face; then his
attention seemed to be attracted by some stones at his feet. He picked
one up and examined it.
“I shouldn't wonder,” he mused, absently, “I shouldn't wonder if there
is alluvial gold in some of these creeks and gullies, perhaps tin or
even silver, quite probably antimony.”
The boss seemed interested.
“Can you tell me if there is any place in this neighbourhood where I
could get accommodation for myself and my servant for a day or two?”
asked Steelman presently. “I should very much like to break my journey
here.”
“Well, no,” said the boss. “I can't say I do--I don't know of any place
nearer than Pahiatua, and that's seven miles from here.”'
“I know that,” said Steelman reflectively, “but I fully expected to have
found a house of accommodation of some sort on the way, else I would
have gone on in the van.'
“Well,” said the boss. “If you like to camp with us for to night, at
least, and don't mind roughing it, you'll be welcome, I'm sure.”
“If I was sure that I would not be putting you to any trouble, or
interfering in any way with your domestic economy---”
“No trouble at all,” interrupted the boss. “The boys will be only too
glad, and there's an empty whare where you can sleep. Better stay. It's
going to be a rough night.”
After tea Steelman entertained the boss and a few of the more thoughtful
members of the party with short chatty lectures on geology and other
subjects.