tin whistle, sang a song or two, contributed, in his turn, to the sailor
yarns, and ensured his popularity for several nights at least. After
several draughts of something that was poured out of a demijohn into a
pint-pot, his tongue became loosened, and he expressed an opinion that
geology was all bosh, and said if he had half his employer's money he'd
be dashed if he would go rooting round in the mud like a blessed old
ant-eater; he also irreverently referred to his learned boss as “Old
Rocks” over there. He had a pretty easy billet of it though, he said,
taking it all round, when the weather was fine; he got a couple of
notes a week and all expenses paid, and the money was sure; he was only
required to look after the luggage and arrange for accommodation, grub
out a chunk of rock now and then, and (what perhaps was the most irksome
of his duties) he had to appear interested in old rocks and clay.
Towards midnight Steelman and Smith retired to the unoccupied whare
which had been shown them, Smith carrying a bundle of bags, blankets,
and rugs, which had been placed at their disposal by their good-natured
hosts. Smith lit a candle and proceeded to make the beds. Steelman sat
down, removed his specs and scientific expression, placed the glasses
carefully on a ledge close at hand, took a book from his bag, and
commenced to read. The volume was a cheap copy of Jules Verne's _Journey
to the Centre of the Earth_. A little later there was a knock at
the door. Steelman hastily resumed the spectacles, together with the
scientific expression, took a note-book from his pocket, opened it on
the table, and said, “Come in.” One of the chaps appeared with a billy
of hot coffee, two pint-pots, and some cake. He said he thought you
chaps might like a drop of coffee before you turned in, and the boys
had forgot to ask you to wait for it down in the camp. He also wanted
to know whether Mr Stoneleigh and his man would be all right and quite
comfortable for the night, and whether they had blankets enough. There
was some wood at the back of the whare and they could light a fire if
they liked.
Mr Stoneleigh expressed his thanks and his appreciation of the kindness
shown him and his servant. He was extremely sorry to give them any
trouble.
The navvy, a serious man, who respected genius or intellect in any shape
or form, said that it was no trouble at all, the camp was very dull
and the boys were always glad to have someone come round. Then, after
a brief comparison of opinions concerning the probable duration of the
weather which had arrived, they bade each other good night, and the
darkness swallowed the serious man.
Steelman turned into the top bunk on one side and Smith took the lower
on the other. Steelman had the candle by his bunk, as usual; he lit his
pipe for a final puff before going to sleep, and held the light up for a
moment so as to give Smith the full benefit of a solemn, uncompromising
wink. The wink was silently applauded and dutifully returned by Smith.
Then Steelman blew out the light, lay back, and puffed at his pipe for
a while. Presently he chuckled, and the chuckle was echoed by Smith; by
and by Steelman chuckled once more, and then Smith chuckled again. There
was silence in the darkness, and after a bit Smith chuckled twice. Then
Steelman said:
“For God's sake give her a rest, Smith, and give a man a show to get
some sleep.”
Then the silence in the darkness remained unbroken.
The invitation was extended next day, and Steelman sent Smith on to see
that his baggage was safe. Smith stayed out of sight for two or three
hours, and then returned and reported all well.
They stayed on for several days. After breakfast and when the men were
going to work Steelman and Smith would go out along the line with the
black bag and poke round amongst the “layers and stratas” in sight of
the works for a while, as an evidence of good faith; then they'd drift
off casually into the bush, camp in a retired and sheltered spot, and
light a fire when the weather was cold, and Steelman would lie on
the grass and read and smoke and lay plans for the future and improve
Smith's mind until they reckoned it was about dinner-time. And in the
evening they would come home with the black bag full of stones and bits
of rock, and Steelman would lecture on those minerals after tea.
On about the fourth morning Steelman had a yarn with one of the men
going to work. He was a lanky young fellow with a sandy complexion, and
seemingly harmless grin. In Australia he might have been regarded as a
“cove” rather than a “chap,” but there was nothing of the “bloke” about
him. Presently the cove said:
“What do you think of the boss, Mr Stoneleigh? He seems to have taken a
great fancy for you, and he's fair gone on geology.”
“I think he is a very decent fellow indeed, a very intelligent young
man. He seems very well read and well informed.”
“You wouldn't think he was a University man,” said the cove.
“No, indeed! Is he?”
“Yes. I thought you knew!”
Steelman knitted his brows. He seemed slightly disturbed for the moment.
He walked on a few paces in silence and thought hard.
“What might have been his special line?” he asked the cove.
“Why, something the same as yours. I thought you knew. He was reckoned
the best--what do you call it?--the best minrologist in the country. He
had a first-class billet in the Mines Department, but he lost it--you
know--the booze.”
“I think we will be making a move, Smith,” said Steelman, later on, when
they were private. “There's a little too much intellect in this camp to
suit me. But we haven't done so bad, anyway. We've had three days' good
board and lodging with entertainments and refreshments thrown in.” Then
he said to himself: “We'll stay for another day anyway. If those beggars
are having a lark with us, we're getting the worth of it anyway, and I'm
not thin-skinned. They're the mugs and not us, anyhow it goes, and I can
take them down before I leave.”
But on the way home he had a talk with another man whom we might set
down as a “chap.”
“I wouldn't have thought the boss was a college man,” said Steelman to
the chap.
“A what?”
“A University man--University education.”
“Why! Who's been telling you that?”
“One of your mates.”
“Oh, he's been getting at you. Why, it's all the boss can do to write
his own name. Now that lanky sandy cove with the birth-mark grin--it's
him that's had the college education.”
“I think we'll make a start to-morrow,” said Steelman to Smith in the
privacy of their where. “There's too much humour and levity in this camp
to suit a serious scientific gentleman like myself.”
MACQUARIE'S MATE
The chaps in the bar of Stiffner's shanty were talking about Macquarie,
an absent shearer--who seemed, from their conversation, to be better
known than liked by them.
“I ain't seen Macquarie for ever so long,” remarked Box-o'-Tricks, after
a pause. “Wonder where he could 'a' got to?”
“Jail, p'r'aps--or hell,” growled Barcoo. “He ain't much loss, any
road.”
“My oath, yer right, Barcoo!” interposed “Sally” Thompson. “But, now I
come to think of it, Old Awful Example there was a mate of his one time.
Bless'd if the old soaker ain't comin' to life again!”
A shaky, rag-and-dirt-covered framework of a big man rose uncertainly
from a corner of the room, and, staggering forward, brushed the staring
thatch back from his forehead with one hand, reached blindly for the
edge of the bar with the other, and drooped heavily.
“Well, Awful Example,” demanded the shanty-keeper. “What's up with you
now?”
The drunkard lifted his head and glared wildly round with bloodshot
eyes.
“Don't you--don't you talk about him! _Drop it_, I say! DROP it!”
“What the devil's the matter with you now, anyway?” growled the barman.
“Got 'em again? Hey?”
“Don't you--don't you talk about Macquarie! He's a mate of mine! Here!
Gimme a drink!”
“Well, what if he is a mate of yours?” sneered Barcoo. “It don't reflec'
much credit on you--nor him neither.”
The logic contained in the last three words was unanswerable, and Awful
Example was still fairly reasonable, even when rum oozed out of him
at every pore. He gripped the edge of the bar with both hands, let his
ruined head fall forward until it was on a level with his temporarily
rigid arms, and stared blindly at the dirty floor; then he straightened
himself up, still keeping his hold on the bar.
“Some of you chaps,” he said huskily; “one of you chaps, in this bar
to-day, called Macquarie a scoundrel, and a loafer, and a blackguard,
and--and a sneak and a liar.”
“Well, what if we did?” said Barcoo, defiantly. “He's all that, and a
cheat into the bargain. And now, what are you going to do about it?”
The old man swung sideways to the bar, rested his elbow on it, and his
head on his hand.
“Macquarie wasn't a sneak and he wasn't a liar,” he said, in a quiet,
tired tone; “and Macquarie wasn't a cheat!”
“Well, old man, you needn't get your rag out about it,” said Sally
Thompson, soothingly. “P'r'aps we was a bit too hard on him; and it
isn't altogether right, chaps, considerin' he's not here. But, then, you
know, Awful, he might have acted straight to you that was his mate. The
meanest blank--if he is a man at all--will do that.”
“Oh, to blazes with the old sot!” shouted Barcoo. “I gave my opinion
about Macquarie, and, what's more, I'll stand to it.”
“I've got--I've got a point for the defence,” the old man went on,
without heeding the interruptions. “I've got a point or two for the
defence.”
“Well, let's have it,” said Stiffner.
“In the first place--in the first place, Macquarie never talked about no
man behind his back.”
There was an uneasy movement, and a painful silence. Barcoo reached
for his drink and drank slowly; he needed time to think--Box-o'-Tricks
studied his boots--Sally Thompson looked out at the weather--the
shanty-keeper wiped the top of the bar very hard--and the rest shifted
round and “s'posed they'd try a game er cards.”
Barcoo set his glass down very softly, pocketed his hands deeply and
defiantly, and said:
“Well, what of that? Macquarie was as strong as a bull, and the greatest
bully on the river into the bargain. He could call a man a liar to his
face--and smash his face afterwards. And he did it often, too, and with
smaller men than himself.”
There was a breath of relief in the bar.
“Do you want to make out that I'm talking about a man behind his back?”
continued Barcoo, threateningly, to Awful Example. “You'd best take
care, old man.”
“Macquarie wasn't a coward,” remonstrated the drunkard, softly, but in
an injured tone.
“What's up with you, anyway?” yelled the publican. “What yer growling
at? D'ye want a row? Get out if yer can't be agreeable!”
The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows,
and looked vacantly out of the door.
“I've got--another point for the defence,” he muttered. “It's always
best--it's always best to keep the last point to--the last.”
“Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! _Out with it_!”
“_Macquarie's dead_! That--that's what it is!”
Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to the
bar, crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip at
the sole and heel of his elastic-side--the barman rinsed the glasses
vigorously--Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and some
of the others gathered round him and got interested--Barcoo thought he
heard his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed by
Box-o'-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one of
their horses.
Someone--a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square features
and haggard grey eyes--had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to the
back of the shanty and dismounted by the window.
When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evident
that Sally Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to the
general rescue as follows:
“There's a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this world--a
lot of damned old-woman nonsense. There's more sympathy wasted over dead
and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest-livin'
chaps. I don't b'lieve in this gory sentiment about the dead at the
expense of the living. I b'lieve in justice for the livin'--and the dead
too, for that matter--but justice for the livin'. Macquarie was a bad
egg, and it don't alter the case if he was dead a thousand times.”
There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebody
said: “Yer tight, Sally!”
“Good for you, Sally, old man!” cried Box-o'-Tricks, taking it up. “An',
besides, I don't b'lieve Macquarie is dead at all. He's always dyin', or
being reported dead, and then turnin' up again. Where did you hear about
it, Awful?”
The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of his
hand.
“There's--there's a lot in what you say, Sally Thompson,” he admitted
slowly, totally ignoring Box-o'-Tricks. “But--but---'
“Oh, we've had enough of the old fool,” yelled Barcoo. “Macquarie was a
spieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain't much better.”
“Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole hass!” said the man behind the
bar, pushing a bottle and glass towards the drunkard. “D'ye want a row?”
The old man took the bottle and glass in his shaking bands and painfully
poured out a drink.
“There's a lot in what Sally Thompson says,” he went on, obstinately,
“but--but,” he added in a strained tone, “there's another point that
I near forgot, and none of you seemed to think of it--not even Sally
Thompson nor--nor Box-o'-Tricks there.”
Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently.
“Yes,” drivelled the drunkard, “I've got another point for--for the
defence--of my mate, Macquarie--”
“Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for God's sake, or you'll bust!” roared
Stiffner. “What the blazes is it?”
“HIS MATE'S ALIVE!” yelled the old man. “Macquarie's mate's alive!
That's what it is!”
He reeled back from the bar, dashed his glass and hat to the boards,
gave his pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off his
feet, and tore at his shirt-sleeves.
“Make a ring, boys,” he shouted. “His mate's alive! Put up your hands,
Barcoo! By God, his mate's alive!”
Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing by
the back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in.
“Keep the old fool off, or he'll get hurt,” snarled Barcoo.
Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words of
remonstrance, then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequent
upon an attempt to chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner and
Box-o'-Tricks were down, two others were holding Barcoo back, and
someone had pinned Awful Example by the shoulders from behind.
“Let me go!” he yelled, too blind with passion to notice the movements
of surprise among the men before him. “Let me go! I'll smash--any
man--that--that says a word again' a mate of mine behind his back.
Barcoo, I'll have your blood! Let me go! I'll, I'll, I'll-- Who's
holdin' me? You--you---”
“It's Macquarie, old mate!” said a quiet voice.
Barcoo thought he heard his horse again, and went out in a hurry.
Perhaps he thought that the horse would get impatient and break loose if
he left it any longer, for he jumped into the saddle and rode off.
BALDY THOMPSON
Rough, squarish face, curly auburn wig, bushy grey eyebrows and
moustache, and grizzly stubble--eyes that reminded one of Dampier the
actor. He was a squatter of the old order--new chum, swagman, drover,
shearer, super, pioneer, cocky, squatter, and finally bank victim. He
had been through it all, and knew all about it.
He had been in parliament, and wanted too again; but the men mistrusted
him as Thompson, M.P., though they swore by him as old Baldy Thompson
the squatter. His hobby was politics, and his politics were badly boxed.
When he wasn't cursing the banks and government he cursed the country.
He cursed the Labour leaders at intervals, and seemed to think that he
could run the unions better than they could. Also, he seemed to think
that he could run parliament better than any premier. He was generally
voted a hard case, which term is mostly used in a kindly sense out back.
He was always grumbling about the country. If a shearer or rouseabout
was good at argument, and a bit of a politician, he hadn't to slave much
at Thompson's shed, for Baldy would argue with him all day and pay for
it.
“I can't put on any more men,” he'd say to travellers. “I can't put on a
lot of men to make big cheques when there's no money in the bank to pay
'em--and I've got all I can do to get tucker for the family. I shore
nothing but burrs and grass-seed last season, and it didn't pay
carriage. I'm just sending away a flock of sheep now, and I won't make
threepence a head on 'em. I had twenty thousand in the bank season
before last, and now I can't count on one. I'll have to roll up my swag
and go on the track myself next.”
“All right, Baldy,” they'd say, “git out your blooming swag and come
along with us, old man; we'll stick to you and see you through.”
“I swear I'd show you round first,” he'd reply. “Go up to the store and
get what rations you want. You can camp in the huts to-night, and I'll
see you in the morning.”
But most likely he'd find his way over after tea, and sit on his heels
in the cool outside the hut, and argue with the swagmen about unionism
and politics. And he'd argue all night if he met his match.
The track by Baldy Thompson's was reckoned as a good tucker track,
especially when a dissolution of parliament was threatened. Then the
guileless traveller would casually let Baldy know that he'd got his
name on the electoral list, and show some interest in Baldy's political
opinions, and oppose them at first, and finally agree with them and see
a lot in them--be led round to Baldy's way of thinking, in fact; and
ultimately depart, rejoicing, with a full nose-bag, and a quiet grin for
his mate.
There are many camp-fire yarns about old Baldy Thompson.
One New Year the shearers--shearing stragglers--roused him in the dead
of night and told him that the shed was on fire. He came out in his
shirt and without his wig. He sacked them all there and then, but of
course they went to work as usual next morning. There is something sad
and pathetic about that old practical joke--as indeed there is with all
bush jokes. There seems a quiet sort of sadness always running through
outback humour--whether alleged or otherwise.
There's the usual yarn about a jackaroo mistaking Thompson for a brother
rouser, and asking him whether old Baldy was about anywhere, and Baldy
said:
“Why, are you looking for a job?”
“Yes, do you think I stand any show? What sort of a boss is Baldy?”
“You'd tramp from here to Adelaide,” said Baldy, “and north to the
Gulf country, and wouldn't find a worse. He's the meanest squatter in
Australia. The damned old crawler! I grafted like a nigger for him for
over fifty years”--Baldy was over sixty--“and now the old skunk won't
even pay me the last two cheques he owes me--says the bank has got
everything he had--that's an old cry of his, the damned old sneak; seems
to expect me to go short to keep his wife and family and relations in
comfort, and by God I've done it for the last thirty or forty years, and
I might go on the track to-morrow worse off than the meanest old whaler
that ever humped bluey. Don't you have anything to do with Scabby
Thompson, or you'll be sorry for it. Better tramp to hell than take a
job from him.”
“Well, I think I'll move on. Would I stand any show for some tucker?”
“Him! He wouldn't give a dog a crust, and like as not he'd get you run
in for trespass if he caught you camping on the run. But come along to
the store and I'll give you enough tucker to carry you on.”
He patronized literature and arts, too, though in an awkward, furtive
way. We remember how we once turned up at the station hard up and short
of tucker, and how we entertained Baldy with some of his own ideas as
ours--having been posted beforehand by our mate--and how he told us to
get some rations and camp in the hut and see him in the morning.
And we saw him in the morning, had another yarn with him, agreed and
sympathized with him some more, were convinced on one or two questions
which we had failed to see at first, cursed things in chorus with him,
and casually mentioned that we expected soon to get some work on a
political paper.
And at last he went inside and brought out a sovereign. “Wrap this in a
piece of paper and put it in your pocket, and don't lose it,” he said.
But we learnt afterwards that the best way to get along with Baldy, and
secure his good will, was to disagree with him on every possible point.
FOR AULD LANG SYNE
These were ten of us there on the wharf when our first mate left for
Maoriland, he having been forced to leave Sydney because he could not
get anything like regular work, nor anything like wages for the work he
could get. He was a carpenter and joiner, a good tradesman and a rough
diamond. He had got married and had made a hard fight for it during the
last two years or so, but the result only petrified his conviction that
“a lovely man could get no blessed show in this condemned country,”
as he expressed it; so he gave it best at last--“chucked it up,” as he
said--left his wife with her people and four pounds ten, until such time
as he could send for her--and left himself with his box of tools, a pair
of hands that could use them, a steerage ticket, and thirty shillings.
We turned up to see him off. There were ten of us all told and about
twice as many shillings all counted. He was the first of the old push to
go--we use the word push in its general sense, and we called ourselves
the mountain push because we had worked in the tourist towns a good
deal--he was the first of the mountain push to go; and we felt somehow,
and with a vague kind of sadness or uneasiness, that this was the
beginning of the end of old times and old things. We were plasterers,
bricklayers, painters, a carpenter, a labourer, and a plumber, and were
all suffering more or less--mostly more--and pretty equally, because
of the dearth of regular graft, and the consequent frequency of the
occasions on which we didn't hold it--the “it” being the price of one
or more long beers. We had worked together on jobs in the city and
up-country, especially in the country, and had had good times together
when things were locomotive, as Jack put it; and we always managed to
worry along cheerfully when things were “stationary.” On more than one
big job up the country our fortnightly spree was a local institution
while it lasted, a thing that was looked forward to by all parties,
whether immediately concerned or otherwise (and all were concerned
more or less), a thing to be looked back to and talked over until
next pay-day came. It was a matter for anxiety and regret to the local
business people and publicans, and loafers and spielers, when our jobs
were finished and we left.
There were between us the bonds of graft, of old times, of poverty, of
vagabondage and sin, and in spite of all the right-thinking person may
think, say or write, there was between us that sympathy which in our
times and conditions is the strongest and perhaps the truest of all
human qualities, the sympathy of drink. We were drinking mates together.
We were wrong-thinking persons too, and that was another bond of
sympathy between us.
There were cakes of tobacco, and books, and papers, and several flasks
of “rye-buck”--our push being distantly related to a publican who
wasn't half a bad sort--to cheer and comfort our departing mate on his
uncertain way; and these tokens of mateship and the sake of auld lang
syne were placed casually in his bunk or slipped unostentatiously into
his hand or pockets, and received by him in short eloquent silence (sort
of an aside silence), and partly as a matter of course. Every now and
then there would be a surreptitious consultation between two of us and
a hurried review of finances, and then one would slip quietly ashore and
presently return supremely unconscious of a book, magazine, or parcel of
fruit bulging out of his pocket.
You may battle round with mates for many years, and share and share
alike, good times or hard, and find the said mates true and straight
through it all; but it is their little thoughtful attentions when you
are going away, that go right down to the bottom of your heart, and lift
it up and make you feel inclined--as you stand alone by the rail when
the sun goes down on the sea--to write or recite poetry and otherwise
make a fool of yourself.