"What's a ship-chandler?" demanded Mosey.
"A man that supplies candles to ships," I replied.
"This uncle he'd had a saw-mill left on his hands, out somewhere south; an' he give the saw-mill to the young feller on sort o' time-payment; an' I believe he got on splendid for a couple or three year; an' his wife had one picaninny—so we come to hear—an' suddenly he balled her out with some other feller. I on'y got hearsay for it, mind, but I know it's true; for it's just what ought to happen. Anyhow, the hand of God was on him, an' he got it hot an' heavy. Accordin' to accounts, he sold out, an' give her the bulk o' the cash, an' then he travelled. Last year, out on the Namoi, a man told me he seen him bullock drivin' in the Bland country, seven year ago. It might be him, or it might n't. I don't know, an' I don't want to know; for he's done all the harm he could. I got to thank him for all my troubles. On'y for him, I'd 'a' been livin' comfortable in the ole spot still. I don't mention these things not once every three year on a average; but sometimes when you think I'm pleasant an' cheerful, I'm fair wild with thinkin' about that blasted cur; an' you chaps fetched him up fresh in my mind to-night."
"And the poor girl—is she still at home?" asked Thompson.
"No," replied Cooper hoarsely; "she's somewhere at the bottom o' the Hawkesbury river; an' there's no more home. About three or four year after her accident, I was away in Sydney one time, on some business about shares; an' when I come home, Molly was gone. She'd left a letter for me, sayin' she'd nothing to live for; an' we'd meet on the other side o' the grave; an' I must always think kind of her; an' to remember ole times, when there was on'y the two of us; an' prayin' God to bless me for always bein' good to her—Why it knocked me stiff, for I'd always been a selfish, unfeelin'"——He stopped abruptly; he had uttered the last sentences only by a strong effort.
Presently Dixon, pitying his emotion, remarked to Thompson in a gratuitously lively tone, and with diction too florid for exact reproduction,
"Say—was I tellin' you I seen that white bullock you swapped to Cartwright las' year? I think he's gittin' a cancer; mebbe it's on'y blight; I would n't say. An' that lyin' (individual), Ike Cunningham, told me he busted his self with trefile jist after Cartwright got him."
"Ah!" replied Thompson absently.
"What become o' yer place?" asked Mosey, turning to Cooper.
"I'll answer that question, but not to satisfy you," replied Cooper coldly. "Well, chaps, when pore Molly's day was fixed, I scraped up a hundred notes, an' borrered two hundred on the place, to give her a start when the thing took place. My ole dad he left everything to me, with strict orders to see Molly through. He did n't want to make her a bait for loafers. Well, when the thing was squashed—me, like a fool, I was advised to lay the money out in minin' shares for Molly; an' then I kep' risin' more money, an' buyin' more shares; an' I got sort o' muddled somehow; an' to make a long story short, the whole (adj.) thing went to (sheol). It was goin' that road when I seen the last o' pore Molly; an' when I lost her, I jist roused round an' got a team together, an' signed everything the lyin', cheatin' (financiers) told me to sign; an' then I cleared off. Must be gittin' on for—let's see—Molly was twenty-three when she got her accident, an' it was three year after when she made away with herself. That was nine year ago, so she'd be thirty-five if she was alive now. She need n't 'a' done it! O, she should n't 'a' done it!— for she'd the satisfaction o' knowin' the curse that come on that blasted dog! I told her all the particulars I got, thinkin' to satisfy her; but I believe it on'y done her harm, for the end come a week or ten days after. Seems strange, lookin' back at it, to think how simple our fam'ly's been broke up, an' my gran'father's old home gone into the hands o' strangers."
"Never got a trace of your sister?" asked Thompson.
"Not a trace. Some people would have it she was gone to America, or California, or somewhere—but why would she go? Me an' the Ryans— that was the married couple we had—we knowed most about it, an' we cared most; an' we was sure from the first, though we done everything that could be done. She went away at night, an' took nothing with her—not a single item o' clothes, but jist as she stood. Ah! I'd give what little I got, an' walk a thousand mile on to the back of it, to see her pore bones buried safe, an' then I'd be satisfied."
Cooper sighed deeply, and lit his pipe; then, for a time, the utter stillness of the bright starlight was broken only by the faint jingle of the horses' hobble-chains, and the sound of some of the nearer bullocks cropping the luxuriant grass.
"The ram-paddick's a fool to this spot," remarked Mosey, at length."Mind you, it was friendly of Number Two to lay us on. On'y decent thingI ever knowed him to do. He ain't the clean spud."
"He's ill-natured, certainly," observed Thompson; "but I can't help taking an interest in him. As a general rule, the more uncivilised a man is, till you come right down to the level of the blackfellow, the better bushman he is; but I must say this of Thingamybob, that he comes as near the blackfellow"——
"Hold on," interrupted Dixon, whose private conversation with Bum had caused him to lose step in the march of conversation—"Who the (sheol) is this Thingamybob—bar sells?"
"I wish somebody would fetch me a drink of water," replied Thompson, dropping his subject in pointed rebuke of Dixon's behaviour. "I'd rather perish than go for it myself; and I won't live two hours if I don't get it. It's Cooper's fault. When he keeps the meat fresh, it walks away; and when he packs it in salt, and then roasts it in the pan— like this evening—you can see the salt all over it like frost. Grand remedy for scurvy, and Barcoo rot, and the hundreds of natural diseases that flesh is subject to, as the poet says."
"Lis'n that (adj.) liar," growled Cooper, with a fairly successful attempt at easy good-nature. "An' I'm as bad off as him; an' there ain't a whimper out o' me."
"I'll bring a drink for you both," said I, rising and taking two pannikins from the lid of the tucker-box. "I would n't do it only that I'm famishing, myself; and I'm tired of waiting for some one else to give in."
Then, whilst helping myself to a drink from the water-bag under the rear of Thompson's wagon, and filling the pannikins for my friends, I couldn't possibly avoid overhearing the conversation which sprang into life the moment my back was turned——
"My lord Billy-be-damd," remarked Mosey. "Wonder why the (sheol) he ain't at Runnymede to-night, doin' the amiable with Mother Bodysark. Bright pair, them two."
"Would n't trust him as fur's I could sling him," said Dixon. "Too thick with the (adj.) squatters for my fancy. A man never knows what game that bloke's up to."
"Can't make him out no road," confessed Cooper. "Seems a decent, easy-goin', God-send-Sunday sort o' feller; but I'll swear there's more in his head nor a comb'll take out."
"He calls himself a philosopher," murmured Thompson; "but his philosophy mostly consists in thinking he knows everything, and other people know nothing. That's the principal point I've seen in him; and we've been acquainted since we were about that high. It was always his way."
"Who's this Mother Bodysark—if it's a fair question?" asked Cooper.
"Mrs. Beaudesart," corrected Thompson. "She's a widow woman— sort of forty-second cousin to Mrs. Montgomery, and housekeeper at the station. I never heard of anybody grudging her to Collins."
"Between ourselves, Thompson," remarked Willoughby, "his conversation this afternoon rather amused me. It recalled to my mind an excellent and most characteristic pleasantry, which you may not have heard. The story goes that Coleridge once asked Lamb, 'Did you ever hear me preach?' 'Preach!' said Lamb; 'Gad, I never heard you do anything else!' And yet, if Mr. Collins had enjoyed the advantages accruing from even the rudiments of a liberal ed"——
"He's got summick to do with Gub'ment lately," said Price cunningly."My 'pinion, he's shadderin' summedy."
"He ain't a gurl o' that sort," interposed Bum hastily. "My 'pinion, he's a spieler. No more a detective nor I am."
I returned to the group. My friends drained their pannikins; Thompson threw his at the tucker-box, and Cooper was just aiming his, when Willoughby, who had shared the frosted mutton, interposed——
"If you please, Cooper."
"Seen better days, pore (fellow)," observed Cooper sympathetically, as the ripple of the water into the pannikin indicated that the whaler was at the tap.
"Can't see much worse," mused Thompson.
"My (adj.) oath—can't he?" chuckled Mosey. "Hold on till he gits old."
"People seem to think Gawd made these here colonies for a rubbage-heap," said Bum. "That's the English idear of"——
"Stiddy, Charley," interrupted Dixon. "Everybody's got a right to live, an' that pore (fellow)'s got jist as much right as me or you. A man ought to show respect to misforcune, Charley."
"Shall I bring a pannikin of water for any of you gentlemen?" asked Willoughby, without a trace of ironical emphasis on the last word.
"Fetch me one while yer hand's in," replied Bum
Willoughby brought the drink. I fancied even an accession to the subdued suavity of his manner as he picked up and replaced on the tuckerbox the empty pannikin which Bum had thanklessly tossed on the ground at his feet. Then he resumed his place; and Thompson, palpably turning his back on Dixon and Bum, selected him as chief hearer of his recommenced discourse——
"Comes as near the blackfellow as it's possible for a white man to get. And you couldn't kill him with an axe. Then start him at any civilised work— such as splicing a loop on a wool rope, or making a yoke, or wedging a loose box in a wheel—and he has the best hands in the country. At the same time, it's plain to be seen that he has been brought up in the class of society that sticks a napkin, in a bone ring, alongside your plate at dinner." Here Thompson paused, and the recurrence of some distressing memory elicited a half-suppressed sigh.
"There is nothing unreasonable in that phenomenon," remarked Willoughby— "rather the reverse. Probably the person you speak of is a gentleman. Now, the man who is a gentleman by birth and culture—by which I mean a man of good family, who has not only gone through the curriculum of a university, but has graduated, so to speak, in society—such a one has every advantage in any conceivable situation. The records of military enterprise, exploration, pioneering, and so forth, furnish abundant evidence of this very obvious fact. You will find, I think, that high breeding and training are conditions of superiority in the human as well as in the equine and canine races; pedigree being, of course, the primary desideratum. Non generant aquilae columbas, we say."
"Don't run away with the idear that nobody knows who Columbus was," retorted Bum. "He discovered America—or else my readin's did me (adj.) little good."
"More power to yer (adj.) elbow, Bum," said Mosey approvingly. "But, gentleman or no gentleman, if a feller ain't propped up with cash, this country'll (adj.) quick fetch him to his proper (adj.) level."
"Pardon me if I differ from you, Mosey," replied Willoughby blandly. "A few months ago, I travelled the Lachlan with a man fitted by birth and culture to be a leader of society; one whose rightful place would be at least in the front rank of your Australian aristocracy. How do you account for such a man being reduced to solicit the demd pannikin of flour?"
"Easy," retorted the sansculotte: "the duke had jist settled down to his proper (adj.) level—like the bloke you'll see in the bottom of a new pannikin when you're drinkin' out of it."
"Mosey," said Cooper impressively; "if I git up off o' this blanket, I'll kick"—(I did n't catch the rest of the sentence). "Give us none o' your (adj.) Port Phillip ignorance here."
"You can git a drink o' good water in ole Vic., anyhow," sneered Mosey, with the usual flowers of speech.
"An' that's about all you can git," muttered Cooper, faithfully following the same ornate style of diction.
"Now, Mosey," said Willoughby, courteously but tenaciously, "will you permit me to enumerate a few gentlemen—gentlemen, remember— who have exhibited in a marked degree the qualities of the pioneer. Let us begin with those men of whom you Victorians are so justly proud,— Burke and Wills. Then you have——"
"Hold on, hold on," interrupted Mosey. "Don't go no furder, for Gossake. Yer knockin' yerself bad, an' you don't know it. Wills was a pore harmless weed, so he kin pass; but look'ere—there ain't a drover, nor yet a bullock driver, nor yet a stock-keeper, from 'ere to 'ell that could n't 'a' bossed that expegition straight through to the Gulf, an' back agen, an' never turned a hair—with sich a season as Burke had. Don't sicken a man with yer Burke. He burked that expegition, right enough. ''Howlt! Dis-MOUNT!' Grand style o' man for sich a contract! I tell you, that (explorer) died for want of his sherry an' biscakes. Why, the ole man, here, seen him out beyond Menindie, with his——"
"Pardon me, Mosey—was Mr. Price connected with the expedition?"
"No (adj.) fear!" growled Price resentfully. "Jist happened to be there with the (adj.) teams. Went up with stores, an' come down with wool."
Willoughby, who probably had wept over the sufferings of Burke's party on their way to Menindie, seemed badly nonplussed. He murmured acquiescence in Price's authority; and Mosey continued,
"Well, the ole man, here, seen him camped, with his carpet, an' his bedsteed, an' (sheol) knows what paravinalia; an' a man nothin' to do but wait on him; an'—look here!—a cubbard made to fit one o' the camels, with compartments for his swell toggery, an'—as true as I'm a livin' sinner!— one o' the compartments made distinctly o' purpose to hold his belltopper!"
"Quite so," replied Willoughby approvingly. "We must bear in mind that Burke had a position to uphold in the party; and that, to maintain subordination, a commander must differentiate himself by"—
"It's Gord's truth, anyhow," remarked Price, rousing his mind from a retrospect of its extensive past. And, no doubt, the old man was right; for a relic, answering to Mosey's description, was sold by auction in Melbourne, with other assets of the expedition, upon Brahe's return.
"They give him a lot o' credit for dyin' in the open," continued the practical little wretch, with masterly handling of expletive— "but I want to know what else a feller like him could do, when there was no git out? An' you'll see in Melb'n', there, a statue of him, made o' cast steel, or concrete, or somethin', standin' as bold as brass in the middle o' the street! My word! An' all the thousands o' pore beggars that's died o' thirst an' hardship in the back country—all o' them a dash sight better men nor Burke knowed how to be—where's theyre statutes? Don't talk rubbage to me. Why, there was no end to that feller's childishness. Before he leaves Bray at Cooper's Creek, he drors out—what do you think?— well, he drors out a plan o' forti—(adj.)—fications, like they got in ole wore-out countries; an' Bray had to keep his fellers workin' an' cursin' at this thing till the time come for them to clear. An' mind you, this was among the tamest blackfellers in the world. Why, Burke was dotin'. Wants a young feller, with some life in him, for to boss a expegition; an' on top o' Burke's swellishness an' uselessness, dash me if he wasn't forty!"
"Well, no; he war n't too old, Mosey," interposed Price deprecatingly. "Wants a experienced man fer sich work. Same time, you could n't best Burke fer a counterfit."
"Sing'lar thing, you'll never hear one good word o' that man," observed Cooper."Different from all the other explorers. Can't account for it, no road."
"Another singular thing is that you'll never read a word against him," added Thompson. "In conversation, you'll always learn that Burke never did a thing worth doing or said a thing worth saying; and that his management of that expedition would have disgraced a new-chum schoolboy; and old Victorian policemen will tell you that he left the force with the name of a bully and a snob, and a man of the smallest brains. Wonder why these things never get into print."
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent maxim, Thompson," remarked Willoughby.
"It is that," retorted Mosey. "Divil a fear but they'll nicely bone anythin' in the shape o' credit. Toffs is no slouches at barrickin' for theyre own push. An' I'll tell you another dash good maximum,— it's to keep off of weltin' a dyin' man."
"Did you ever read Burke's Diary, Willoughby?" asked Thompson. "It's just two or three pages of the foolishest trash that any man ever lost time in writing; and I'm afraid it's about a fair sample of Burke. I wish you could talk to some fellows that I know—Barefooted Bob, for instance. Now, there's a man that was never known to say a thing that he was n't sure of; and he's been all over the country that Burke was over, and heard all that is to be known of the expedition. And Bob's a man that goes with his eyes open. I wish you could talk to him. Lots of information in the back country that never gets down here into civilisation ."
"There is a certain justice in Mosey's contention," I remarked, addressing Willoughby. "He argues that, as Burke, by dying of hardship, earned himself a statue, so Brown, Jones, and Robinson—whose souls, we trust, are in a less torrid climate than their unburied bones—should, in bare justice, have similar post-obituary recognition. For Burke's sake, of course, the comparison in value of service had better not be entered on. Mosey would have our cities resemble ancient Athens in respect of having more public statues than living citizens."
"Your allusion to Athens is singularly happy," replied the whaler; "but you will remember that the Athenians were, in many respects, as exclusive as ourselves. The impassable chasm which separates your illustrious explorer from Brown, Jones, and Robinson, existed also in Athens, though, perhaps, not so jealously guarded. But let us change the subject."
"Yes; do," said Cooper cordially. "I hate argyin'. Fust go off, it's all friendly;—'Yes, my good man.'—'No, my dear feller.'—'Don't run away with that idear.'—'You're puttin' the boot on the wrong foot.'— 'You got the wrong pig by the tail.'—an' so on, as sweet as sugar. But by-'n'-by it's, 'To (sheol) with you for a (adj.) fool!'— 'You're a (adj.) liar!'—'Who the (adj. sheol) do you think you're talking to?'—an' one word fetchin' on another till it grows into a sort o' unpleasantness."
"Hear anything of Bob and Bat lately?" asked Thompson, after a pause.
"Both gone to have a confab with Burke; an' good enough for the likes o' them," replied Mosey. "Them sort o' varmin's the curse o' the country. I ain't a very honorable sort, myself, but I'd go on one feed every two days before I'd come as low as them. Well, couple or three year ago, you know, ole M'Gregor he sent the (adj.) skunks out with cattle to some new country, a hundred mile beyond (sheol); an' between hardship, an' bad tucker, an' bad conscience, they both pegged out. So a feller from the Diamantinar told me a fortnit ago."
"Smart fellows in their way," remarked Thompson. "I don't bear them any malice, though they rounded me up twice, and made me fork out each time."
"Boolka horse-paddick?" suggested Mosey. "They grabbed us there once, an' it was touch-an'-go another time. But the place is worth a bit o' risk."
"No; both times it was on Wo-Winya, on the Deniliquin side," replied Thompson. "First time was about nine years ago. Bob and Bat were dummying on the station at the time, and looking after the Skeleton paddock. Flash young fellers they were then. Cunningham and I worked on that paddock one night, as usual, coming up empty from the Murray. Of course, we were out in the morning at grey daylight, but it was a bit foggy, and instead of finding the bullocks, we found Bob and Bat cantering round, looking for them. Cunningham and I separated, and so did the other two; and the four of us spent the liveliest half-hour you could wish for; chasing, and crossing, and meeting one another in all directions, and not a word spoken, and not a hoof to be seen. At last the fog lifted a bit, and Cunningham spotted cattle in a timbered swamp, but Bat was between him and them; so he circled round gently, and was edging up to get a good start when Bat took the alarm, and saw the cattle; then it was neck-or-nothing with them for possession. Bob and I happened to be in sight and when we saw our mates go off on the jump, we both went for the same spot. Cunningham beat Bat by a few lengths, and got possession; but when I got within a quarter of a mile, I saw there was only part of our lot there. Just then I saw Bob turn his horse, and race straight toward me; and when I looked in the direction he was going, I saw more cattle. I went for them with a clear start of a hundred yards, and would have won easy, only that I saw they were station cattle; and at the same time I caught sight of another little lot in a hollow to the left, and Bat travelling for them. I slewed round, and gave him a gallop for it, but he won by fifty yards. However, there was only five of our lot in the little mob. There was thirteen wanted still; and Bob had possession of them among the station cattle. So they got eighteen altogether, and we only got sixteen, after running the legs off our horses."
"Port Phillip," observed Cooper pointedly.
"Another time, going on for three years ago," continued Thompson,"Bob had me as cheap as dirt for the whole twenty, while Bat snappedPotter's horses the same night. That was on Wo-Winya again—shortly beforeM'Gregor sold the station to Stoddart, and just before the two of themwere sent out to the Diamantina"——
"M'Gregor and Stoddart, of course?" I gently suggested.
"Yes, Tom; I thought I made that clear."
"So you did, Steve. I beg pardon."
"Don't mention it, Tom."
True friendship lay underneath this severity, for when Thompson got started on his reminiscences, he was apt to continue indefinitely, to the ruin of his own dignity.
"But why this solicitude and panic over being detected in trifling trespass?" asked Willoughby. "Like most things in this country, it appears to be purely a matter of £ s. d. Now, I have taken the liberty of totting up, in my own mind, some of your earnings. Will Thompson permit me to take his case as an illustration? I find, Thompson, that the tariff of your wool is exactly sevenpence half-penny per ton per mile. You have eight tons on your wagon at the present time. This will give you five shillings for each mile you travel. You have travelled ten miles to-day"——
"Sabbath day's journey," sighed Thompson.
——"that is two pounds ten. Now,—all things considered—an occasional penalty of, say, one pound, appears to me by no means ruinous. It is not to be mentioned in comparison with other losses which you have been unfortunate enough to sustain, yet it appears to be your chief grievance."
"Yes; that's one way of looking at it," muttered Thompson, after a pause. The other fellows were silently and futilely wrestling with the apparent anomaly. A metaphysical question keeps slipping away from the grasp of the bullock driver's mind like a wet melon-seed.
[Yet the solution is simple. The up-country man is decidedly openhanded; he will submit to crushing losses with cheerfulness, tempered, of course, by humility in those cases where he recognises the operation of an overhanging curse; he will subscribe to any good or bad cause with a liberality excelled only by the digger; he will pay gambling debts with the easy, careless grace which makes every P. of W. so popular in English sporting circles—in a word, the smallest of his many sins is parsimony. But the penal suggestiveness of trespass— penalty touches the sullen dignity of his nature; and the vague, but well-grounded fear of a law made and administered solely by his natural enemies makes him feel about as apprehensive as John Bunyan, though certainly more dangerous. Of course, Willoughby, born and bred a member of the governing class, could n't easily conceive the dismay with which these outlaws regarded legal seizure for trespass— or possibly prosecution in courts dominated by squatters.]
"I knows wun respectable man with two teams wot's seed the time he'd emp'y a double-barr'll gun on them two fellers jis' same's if they was wild dogs," remarked Price ominously. "I happen ter mind me o' wun time this man hed ter fetch hees las' wool right on ter Deniliquin, f'm Hay, f'r two-five hextry, 'count o' there bein' no river that season. An' that man 'e war shaddered hevery day acrost Wo-Winyar, an' hees bullicks collared hevery night with Bob or Bat; an' them bullicks har'ly fit ter crawl with fair poverty. Dirty! W'y, Chows ain't in it with them varmin f'r dirtiness." Here followed a steady torrent of red vituperation, showing that Price took a strong personal interest in the respectable man with the two teams.
"To my (adj.) knowledge, they dummied land for ole M'Gregor, an' never got a cent for it," remarked Dixon. "Same time, I got nothin' to say agen 'em, for they never got a slant to snavel my lot. Brothers—ain't they?"
"No (adj.) fear," replied Mosey. "You never seen brothers hangin' together like them chaps. I know some drovers that's been prayin' for theyre (adj.) souls every night for years, on account o' the way they used to rush travellin' stock across M'Gregor's runs. Whenever there was dirty work to be did, them two blokes was on hand to do it. An' I got it on good authority that they chanced three years chokey for perjury, when they was dummyin' for M'Gregor; an' all they got for it was the fright hangin' over them. A man should n't make a dog of his self without he's well paid for it. That's my (adj.) religion."
"So far as dummying is concerned." said I; "no one except their Maker and M'Gregor knows how the thing was worked. But if they had owned all the land they secured for M'Gregor, by perjury, and personation, and straightforward dummyism, they would have been little squatters themselves. At the same time, they were true-hearted, kindly, unselfish men, according to their uncertain light; and in all probability they're gone to heaven. Such is life, boys."
"Anyhow, they ain't goin' to trouble us no furder," rejoined Mosey complacently. "Theyre toes is turned up. Lis'n!—that's the sound I like to hear!" The sound was the deep, heavy sough of a contented bullock, as he lay down with a couple of days' rations in his capacious first stomach.
"Grass is generally a burning question with you teamsters," observed Willoughby.
"I never make no insinuations, myself," replied Dixon coldly.
"Good!" interjected Mosey. "If you was inclined that road, you might say the carrier's got as much interest in the grass as a squatter. It's the traveller as don't give a (compound expletive) if the whole country's as black as Ole Nick's soot-brush."
"Well, I s'pose that's about a fair thing for to-night," remarked Cooper; and he pulled off his boots, preparatory to wrapping himself in his blanket. "Time to vong tong cooshey, as the Frenchman says. Must n't oversleep in the mornin', if the place is ever so safe."
Then I disposed my possum rug and saddle, took off my boots, spread my coat for Pup to sleep on, lit my pipe, and lay down for the night. Thompson, Mosey, and Willoughby arranged themselves here and there, according to taste. Dixon and Methuselah retired to hammocks under the rear of their respective wagons. Bum simply lay where he was. I would do my companions what honour I can, but the stern code of the chronicler permits no quibbling with the fact that Mosey and Bum wound up the evening with a series of gestes and apothegms, such as must not tarnish these pages—Willoughby occasionally taking part, rather, I think, through courtesy than sympathy, and ably closing the service with a fescennine anecdote, beginning, 'It is related that, on one occasion, the late Marquis of Waterford'——
Willoughby had selected a smooth place near my own lair. Here he spent five minutes in spreading his exceptionally dirty blanket, and another five in tidily folding his ragged coat for a pillow. Then he removed his unmatched boots, and, unlapping from his feet the inexpensive substitute for socks known as 'prince-alberts,' he artistically spread the redolent swaths across his boots to receive the needed benefit of the night air; performing all these little offices with an unconscious elegance amusing to notice—an elegance which not another member of our party could have achieved, any more than Willoughby could have acquired the practical effectiveness of a good rough average vulgarian.
Poor shadow of departed exclusiveness!—lying there, with none so poor to do him reverence! He was a type—and, by reason of his happy temperament, an exceedingly favourable type—of the 'gentleman,' shifting for himself under normal conditions of back-country life. Urbane address, faultless syntax, even that good part which shall not be taken away, namely, the calm consciousness of inherent superiority, are of little use here. And yet your Australian novelist finds no inconsistency in placing the bookish student, or the city dandy, many degrees above the bushman, or the digger, or the pioneer, in vocations which have been the life-work of the latter. O, the wearisome nonsense of this kind which is remorselessly thrust upon a docile public! And what an opportunity for some novelist, in his rabid pursuit of originality, to merely reverse the incongruity—picturing a semi-barbarian, lassoed full-grown, and launched into polished society, there to excel the fastidious idlers of drawing-room and tennis-court in their own line! This miracle would be more reasonable than its antithesis. Without doubt, it is easier to acquire gentlemanly deportment than axe-man's muscle; easier to criticise an opera than to identify a beast seen casually twelve months before; easier to dress becomingly than to make a bee-line, straight as the sighting of a theodolite, across strange country in foggy weather; easier to recognise the various costly vintages than to live contentedly on the smell of an oil rag. When you take this back elevation of the question, the inconsistency becomes apparent. And the longa of Art, viewed in conjunction with the brevis of Life, makes it at least reasonable that when a man has faithfully served one exclusive apprenticeship, he will find it too late in the day to serve a second. Moreover, there are few advantages in training which do not, according to present social arrangements, involve corresponding penalties.
Human ignorance is, after all, more variable in character than in extent. Each sphere of life, each occupation, is burdened with its own special brand of this unhappy heritage. To remove one small section of inborn ignorance is a life-work for any man. 'Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance,' was what betrayed the great lexicographer into defining 'pastern' as 'a horse's knee.' And the Doctor was right (in his admission, of course, not in his definition). Ignorance, reader, pure ignorance is what debars you from conversing fluently and intelligibly in several dialects of the Chinese language. Yet a friend of mine, named Yabby Pelham, can do so, though the same person knows as little of book-lore as William Shakespear of Stratford knew. But if you had been brought up in a Chinese camp, on a worn-out gold-field, your own special acquirements, and corresponding ignorance, might run in grooves similar to Yabby's. Let each of us keep himself behind the spikes on this question of restricted capability.
And should some blue-blooded insect indignantly retort that, though his own ancestors have borne coat-armour for seventeen generations, and though he himself was brought up so utterly and aristocratically useless as to have been unable, at twenty years of age, to polish his own boots, yet he is now, mentally and physically, a man fit for anything— I can only reply, in the words of Portia, that I fear me my lady his mother played false with a smith. But this, again, would be claiming too much for heredity, at the expense of training. Remember, however, that our present subject is not the 'gentleman' of actual life. He is an unknown and elusive quantity, merging insensibly into saint or scoundrel, sage or fool, man or blackleg. He runs in all shapes, and in all degrees of definiteness. Our subject is that insult to common sense, that childish slap in the face of honest manhood, the 'gentleman' of fiction, and of Australian fiction pre-eminently.
Heaven knows I am no more inclined to decry social culture than moral principle; but I acknowledge no aristocracy except one of service and self-sacrifice, in which he that is chief shall be servant, and he that is greatest of all, servant of all. And it is surely time to notice the threepenny braggadocio of caste which makes the languid Captain Vemon de Vere (or words to that effect) an overmatch for half-a-dozen hard-muscled white savages, any one of whom would take his lordship by the ankles, and wipe the battlefield with his patrician visage; which makes the pale, elegant aristocrat punch Beelzebub out of Big Mick, the hod-man, who, in unpleasant reality, would feel the kick of a horse less than his antagonist would the wind of heaven, visiting his face too roughly; which makes the rosy-cheeked darling of the English rectory show the saddle-hardened specialists of the back country how to ride a buckjumper; which makes a party of resourceful bushmen stand helpless in the presence of flood or fire, till marshalled by some hero of the croquet lawn; above all, which makes the isocratic and irreverent Australian fawn on the 'gentleman,' for no imaginable reason except that the latter says 'deuced' instead of 'sanguinary,' and 'by Jove' instead of 'by sheol.' Go to; I'll no more on't; it hath made me mad.
And don't fall back upon the musty subterfuge which, by a shifting value of the term, represents 'gentleman' as simply signifying a man of honour, probity, education, and taste; for, by immemorial usage, by current application, and by every rule which gives definite meaning to words, the man with a shovel in his hand, a rule in his pocket, an axe on his shoulder, a leather apron on his abdomen, or any other badge of manual labour about him—his virtues else be they as pure as grace, as infinite as man may undergo—is carefully contradistinguished from the 'gentleman.' The 'gentleman' may be a drunkard, a gambler, a debauchee, a parasite, a helpless potterer; he may be a man of spotless life, able and honest; but he must on no account be a man with broad palms, a workman amongst workmen. The 'gentleman' is not necessarily gentle; but he is necessarily genteel. Etymology is not at fault here; gentility, and gentility alone, is the qualification of the 'gentleman.'
No doubt it is very nice to see a 'gentleman' who, when drunk, can lie in the gutter like a 'gentleman'; but will someone suggest a more pitiable sight than such a person trying to compete with an iron-sinewed miner on the goldfields, or with a hardy, nine-lifed bushman in the back country? In the back country, a penniless and friendless 'gentleman,' if sober and honest and possessed of some little ability, may aspire to the position of a station storekeeper. If destitute of these advantages—and reduced 'gentlemen' are not by any means always sober, honest, and capable—the best thing he can do, if he gets the chance, is to settle down thankfully into the innocent occupation so earnestly desired by Henry the Sixth of the play, and so thriftily pursued by the alleged father of any amateur elocutionist whose name is Norval on the Grampian Hills.
Of such reduced 'gentlemen' it is often said that their education becomes their curse. Here is another little subterfuge. This is one of those taking expressions which are repeated from parrot to magpie till they seem to acquire axiomatic force. It is such men's ignorance—their technical ignorance—that is their curse. Education of any kind never was, and never can be, a curse to its possessor; it is a curse only to the person whose interest lies in exploiting its possessor. Erudition, even in the humblest sphere of life, is the sweetest solace, the unfailing refuge, of the restless mind; but if the bearer thereof be not able to do something well enough to make a living by it, his education is simply outclassed, overborne, and crushed by his own superior ignorance.
To be sure, there are men of social culture who gallantly and conspicuously maintain an all-round superiority in the society to which I myself hereditarily belong, namely, the Lower Orders; but their appearances are like angels' visits—in the obvious, as well as in the conventional but remoter sense. I can count no less than three men of this stamp among my ten thousand acquaintances. When the twofold excellence of such ambidexters is not stultified by selfishness, you have in them a realised ideal upon which their Creator might pronounce the judgment that it is very good. Move heaven and earth, then, to multiply that ideal by the number of the population. The thing is, at least, theoretically possible; for it is in no way necessary that the manual worker should be rude and illiterate; shut out from his rightful heirship of all the ages. Nor is it any more necessary that the social aristocrat— ostentatiously useless, as he generally is—should hold virtual monopoly of the elegancies of life.
But the commonplace 'gentleman' of fiction, who, without extraneous advantage, and by mere virtue of caste-consciousness, and caste-eminence, and caste-exclusiveness, doth bestride this narrow world like a colossus——
"I am sorry to break in upon your meditations, Collins," said Willoughby deprecatingly, turning towards me on his elbow, "but you know, Necessitas non habet leges. I find myself without the requisite for my normal bedtime solace; and I am unusually wakeful. Could you spare me a pipeful of tobacco?"
"Certainly! Why did n't you mention it before? I had no idea you were a smoker. I feel really vexed at your reticence."
"Well, Mr. Thompson kindly lent me a supply this morning; but, unfortunately,I had a hole in my pocket that I was not aware of, and—Thanks.I'll just take a pipeful"——
"No, no; shove it in your pocket. I've got more in my swag.Been long in these colonies, Willoughby?"
"About a year. I spent two months in Melbourne, and nearly four in Sydney.For the last six months I have been—er—travelling in search of employment."
"You find the colonies pretty rough?"
"I do, Collins; to speak frankly, I do. Even in your cities I observe a feverish excitement, and a demnable race for what the Scriptures aptly call 'filthy lucre'; and the pastoral regions are—well—rough indeed. Your colonies are too young. In time to come, no doubt, the amenities of life will appear—for you have some magnificent private fortunes; but in the meantime one hears of nothing but work—business—and so forth. Cultivated leisure is a thing practically unknown. However, the country is merely passing through a necessary phase of development. In the near future, each of these shabby home—stations will be replaced by a noble mansion, with its spacious park; and these bare plains will reward the toil of an industrious and contented tenantry"——
"Like (sheol)!" sneered Mosey from his resting-place,— a little crestfallen notwithstanding.
"Irrigation, my dear Mosey, will meet the difficulty which very naturally arises in your mind. A scientific system of irrigation would increase the letting value of this land more than a hundred-fold. Now, if the State would carry out such a system—by Heaven! Collins, you would soon have a class of country magnates second to none in the world. You are a native of the colonies, I presume?"
"Yes; I come from the Cabbage Garden."
"Victoria, I know, is called the Cabbage Garden," rejoined Willoughby. "But—pardon me—if you are a native of Victoria, you can form no conception of what England is. Among the upper middle classes—to which I belonged— the money-making proclivity is held in very low esteem, I assure you. Our solicitude is to make ourselves mutually agreeable; and the natural result is a grace and refinement which"——
"But what the (adj. sheol) good does that do the likes o' us (fellows)?" demanded Mosey impertinently—or perhaps I should say, pertinently.
—"a grace and refinement which—if you will pardon me for saying so— you can form no conception of. Inherited wealth is the secret of it."
"Beg parding," interposed Cooper apologetically—"I was goin' to say to Collins, before I forgit, that he can easy git over bein' a Port Philliper. Friend o' mine, out on the Macquarie, name o' Mick Shanahan, he's one too; an' when anybody calls him a Port Philliper, or a Vic., or a 'Sucker, he comes out straight: 'You're a (adj.) liar,' says he; 'I'm a Cornstalk, born in New South Wales.' An' he proves it too. Born before the Separation, in the District of Port Phillip, Colony of New South Wales. That's his argyment, an' there's no gittin' over it. Good idear, ain't it?"
"It is a good idea," I replied. "I'm glad you laid me on to it.But, Willoughby, I can't help thinking you must feel the change very acutely."
"I do. But what is the use of grumbling? Ver non semper viret. No doubt you are surprised to see me in my present position. It is owing, in the first place, to a curious combination of circumstances, and in the second place, to some of my own little pranks. I am nephew to Sir Robert Brook, baronet, the present representative of the Brooks of Brookcotes, Dorsetshire—a family, sir, dating from the fourteenth century. Possibly you have heard the name?"
"Often."
"Not the Brookes of the King's Elms, Hants, pray observe. The Brookes of the King's Elms gained their enormous wealth as army contractors, during the struggle with Napoleon, and their baronetcy, Heaven knows how! The baronetcy of the Brooks of Brookcotes dates from 1615, at which time my maternal ancestor, Sir Roger Brook, knight, procured his patent by supplying thirty infantry for three years in the subjugation of Ireland. Independently of the title, our family is many centuries older than the other. We spell our name without"——
"My (adj.) fambly come all the way down from the Hark," observed Mosey, with a rudeness which reflected little credit on his ancient lineage.
——"without the final 'e.' There is a manifest breach of trust in creation of these new baronetcies. It was more than implied—it was distinctly stipulated—at the origination of the Order, by James I, that the number of baronets should not exceed two hundred, and that there should be no new creations to supply the place of such titles as might lapse through extinction of families."
"And is there no remedy for this?" I asked.
"None whatever. Not that I am personally interested in the exclusiveness of the Order, my connection with the Brooks of Brookcotes being on the distaff side. My mother was Sir Robert's only sister. My father was a military man—3rd Buffs—died when I was twelve or thirteen years of age. Sir Robert was a confirmed bachelor, and I was his only nephew. Now you see my position?"
"I think I do."
"Four years ago, demme if Sir Robert did n't marry a manufacturer's daughter— soap manufacturer—and within two years there was a lineal heir to Brookcotes!"
"You don't say so?"
"Fact, begad! Shortly afterward, I was detected—ha-ha! Sua cuique voluptas— in a liaison with a young person who resided with my uncle's wife as a companion. Whereupon my lady used her influence with the demd old dotard, and I was cut off with a shilling. However, he gave me a saloon passage to Melbourne, with an order on his agent in that city for £500. My lady's father also gave me letters of introduction to some friends in Sydney—business people. Fact was, they wanted to get rid of me."
"The £500 should have given you a fair start," I suggested.
"Pardon me—it is impossible for you to enter into the feelings of a man who has been brought up as presumptive heir to a rent-roll of £12,000. You cannot imagine how the mind of a gentleman shrinks from the petty details, the meanness, the vulgarities of trade. You are aware, I presume, that all avenues of ambition except the Church, the Army, and the Legislature, are closed to our class? You cannot imagine—pardon my repeating it— the exclusiveness, the fine sense of honour"
"Holy sailor!" I heard Thompson whisper to himself.
——"which pervades the mind and controls the actions of a gentleman. As a casual illustration of what is amusingly, though somewhat provokingly, ignored here, you have, no doubt, observed that our gentlemen cricketers will acknowledge no fellowship with professionals, though they may belong to the same team, and be paid from the same funds. However, to proceed with a story which is, perhaps, not without interest. I left Melbourne before my pittance was exhausted, and presented my credentials in Sydney. Mr. Wilcox, a relation of my lady's father, and a person of some local importance, treated me at first with consideration—in fact, there was always a knife and fork for me at his table—but I noticed, as time went on, a growing coolness on his part. I ought to mention that his sister, Mrs. Bradshaw—a widow, fat, fair, and forty— had considerable capital invested in his business; and I was paying my addresses to her, deeming my birth and education a sufficient counterpoise to her wealth. I'd have married her too, begad I would! At this time, Wilcox was establishing gelatine works; and he had the demd effron"——
"What's gelatine?" demanded Mosey. "I've of'en heard o' the (adj.) stuff.What the (sheol) is it used in?"
"In commerce, principally, Mosey," I replied.
"Neat, begad! As I was saying, Wilcox had the demd assurance to offer me a clerkship in his new establishment. We had a few words in consequence; and shortly afterward I left Sydney, and found my way here. Have you any acquaintance in Sydney—may I ask?"
[A word of explanation. Being only an official of the ninth class, I received my appointment in Hay. On that occasion, I asked the magistrate who received my securities and otherwise attended to the matter— I naturally asked him what chance I had for promotion. He told me that it would go strictly by seniority, but, as my immediate superior, the Assistant-Sub-Inspector, was not eligible for any higher grade— never having passed any examination whatever—and as I could not be advanced over his head, my only chance was to step into his place when he vacated it Now, I knew he was not likely to resign, for he had a good salary all to himself, and nothing to do but refer me to the Central Office for orders. I knew in fact, that there was only one way in which he was likely to quit his niche in the edifice of the State. So I replied to Willoughby's question]
"Well, I may say I have; and yet I'm not aware of anyone in Sydney that I would know by sight. My superior officer lives there. Remotely possible you may know him—Rudolph Winterbottom, esquire."
"Rudolph Winterbottom—did you say? Yes, by Jove! rather a happy coincidence.I remember him well. I was introduced to him on a reception dayat Government House, and met him frequently afterward; dined in his company,I think, on two occasions."
"Is he a very old man?"
"No; the old gentleman is his father—Thomas Winterbottom—hale, sturdy old boy, overflowing with vitality—came out, he told me, in the time of Sir Richard Bourke. But I scarcely think Mr. Rudolph Winterbottom holds any Government situation. His private fortune is fully sufficient for all demands of even good society. Ah! now I have it! His son Rudy—his third or fourth son— holds some appointment. That will be your man."
"Very likely. An invalid—is he not? Something wrong with his lungs?"
"So I should imagine, now that you mention it. He was away on an excursion to the mountains when his father spoke of him to me."
"Git to sleep, chaps, for Gossake," murmured Cooper. "Guarantee there'll be none o' this liveliness in the mornin', when you got to turn out."
Thus sensibly admonished, we committed ourselves to what Macbeth calls 'sore labour's bath'—the only kind of bath we were likely to have for some time.
Among the thousand natural ills, there are two to which I never have been, and probably never shall be, subject—namely, gout and insomnia. My immunity from the former might be difficult to account for, but my exemption from the latter may, I think, be attributed to the operation of a mind at peace with all below. Nevertheless, it used to be my habit to wake punctually at 2 a.m., for the purpose of remembering whether I had to listen for bells or not, and determining how long I could afford to sleep. So, at that exact hour, I opened my eyes to see the calm, splendid stars above, whilst merciful darkness half-veiled the sordid accessories of daily life below. Yet I noticed that the hammock under the rear of Dixon's wagon was empty. All the other fellows were sleeping, except Bum, who seemed to have disappeared altogether. The two were probably up to something. No business of mine. And I dropped to sleep again.
I had set myself to wake at full daylight. Just as I woke, I heard the distant patter of a galloping horse. Such a sound at such a time is ominous to duffing bullock drivers; so, as I sprang to my feet, you may be sure my companions were not much behind me. Along the track, a mile in advance of the wagons, we saw an approaching horseman. And as if this was n't enough, we heard the sound of an axe in the selection.
"Holy glory! there's somebody livin' in the hut, after all!" ejaculated Mosey.
The house stood on a very slight rise, where the clump of swamp box terminated, a quarter of a mile away; and, sure enough, we could see, through a gap in the undergrowth of old-man salt-bush, a man chopping wood at the edge of the clump. But he seemed quite unconscious of the multitude of bullocks that, scattered all over the paddock, were laying in a fresh supply of grass.
"It's Moriarty," sighed Thompson, gazing at the horseman."He's been sent to catch us. It's all up."
Then, like the sound of many waters, rose the mingled sentiments of the company, as each man dragged on his boots with a celerity beyond description.
"You keep him on a string, Collins, while we coller as many of the carrion as we"——
"What use? It's a summonsing match already. Look at the fence! And Martin lives in the hut after all. He's between us and the bullocks now— laughing at us. What business had we to travel on"——
"Demmit suggest something. Make use of me in this emergency,I beg of you. Shall I"——
"Port Phillip, all over. Jist let me deliver this (adj.) load.That's all I"——
"Comes o' young pups knowin' heverythink. I kep' misdoubtin' all the (adj.) time"——
"Are you fellows mad?" shouted the young storekeeper, as he dashed past the group, and pulled his blown horse round in a circle. "Out with those bullocks as quick as the devil'll let you! Martin's on top of you! I've just given him the slip! We were sent from the station expressly to nip you. Fly round! blast you, fly round!"
At the word, Cooper and Thompson snatched up their bridles and darted off, followed by Price and Willoughby. Dixon and Bum were not in the crowd, but no one had leisure just then to notice their absence.
"Len's yer horse, like a good feller," said Mosey hastily.
"To (sheol) with your cheek!" snapped Moriarty. "What next I wonder?"Mosey snatched up his bridle, and went off at a run. "Hello, Collins!I didn't notice you in the hurry. Bright cards, ain't they? Nothing shortof seven years'll satisfy them. You've been travelling all night?"
"No; I camped here with the teams."
"I thought when I saw the saddled horse, that you had just turned him in to get a bite."
"He's not saddled. There's my saddle."
"I thought that was your horse—that black one with the new saddle on." (I should explain that Moriarty, being mounted, could see across the old-man salt-bush, which I could not.) "But I say," he continued; "what do you mean by stopping here instead of making for the station? I've a dash good mind to tell Mrs. Beaudesart. Why, it's two months since you parted from her."
"Where's Martin?" I asked.
"I left him at the ram-paddock, trying to track his horse.I suppose you haven't heard that he lives here now?"
"Well, we heard that some one was being sent to live here. By the way,Moriarty, you better keep out of sight of that fellow at the hut"
"No odds. It's only Daddy Montague; he can't see twenty yards. But I say—Mrs. Beaudesart is sorting out her own old wedding toggery; she knows you'll never have money enough to"——
"How does Martin come to be at the ram-paddock, if he lives here?"I interrupted.
"I'll tell you the whole rigmarole," replied the genial ass. "Martin was at the station yesterday, crawling after Miss King, when up comes a sandy-whiskered hound of a contractor, name of M'Nab, to see about the specifications of the new fence between us and Nalrooka; and this (fellow)'s idea of getting on the soft side of Montgomery, about the fence, was to nearly break his neck running to tell him that Price, and Thompson, and a whole swag of other fellows, intended to work on the ram-paddock that night. That would be last night, of course. Now, Montgomery doesn't bark about a night's grass out of the ram-paddock at this time of year, in case of emergency; but he does n't believe in people\ driving expressly for it; and besides, he badly wants to catch Price and Thompson, and make an example of them. Well, it happened that he had thought out early jobs for all the rest of the fellows, so what does he do—Sunday and all—but he rouses out Martin and me, and tells us to go to the ram-paddock, and quietly round up all the bullocks, and bring them to the station. No hurry, of course, so I got playing cards with some of the shearers, and Martin got yarning with the old wool-classer; and we timed ourselves to be at the ram-paddock just before daylight. Of course, the right plan would have been to go through the ration-paddock, and in by the Quondong gate; and that was what I wanted to do. Then we could have made a circuit of the ram-paddock, inside the fence, and given it a good rough overhaul. But because I proposed this, Martin insisted on going by the main road, for better riding, and to see if we could find the wagons, as a sort of guide. Sensible to the last. Well, he would have it his own way, and I didn't give a curse, so on we went; and just as we were crossing the sort of hollow at this near corner of the ram-paddock, the God-forsaken old fool thought he heard cattle in the timber. So we tied our horses at the fence, and walked across to see. Nothing there, of course, only imagination and kangaroos. We stayed about ten minutes—me moralising about fools, and him sulking— and when we came back to where we had left our horses, mine was there by himself. Martin was dancing mad, for his horse was never known to break a bridle, and he did n't know who to blame for making away with him. However, I was n't any way interested in mustering the ram-paddock, and Martin wanted his horse, so we hunted round and round, but devil a smell of horse or saddle or bridle could we find in the dark. After a while, daylight came, and I caught sight of the wool, and tumbled to the little game. Of course, I ripped across to give the fellows the office, praying and cursing fit to break my neck. What the dickens induced them to run the risk of duffing here? Maddest thing I ever knew. Martin has been living here since this day week; and his greatest pleasure in life is prowling round when he ought to be asleep."
"Warrigal Alf laid Mosey on," I replied. "At least, he said he had stayed here the night before last, and had taken his bullocks out after they lay down."
"Ah! the treacherous beggar! I'll tell you how that came. Day before yesterday—let's see—that was Saturday—Montgomery and Martin met Alf just at the station, coming along behind some other teams. Montgomery was sorry in his own mind for a blaggarding he gave Alf last winter, for letting his bullocks get into our horse-paddock. Seems they got adrift from Bottara, while Alf was unloading, and had gone the thirty miles, right across country, with him after them full chase. Alf was too ill-natured to explain things at the time: and he never mentioned it when he loaded our first wool, a month ago. Montgomery heard the truth of it only the other day; so when he met Alf, he stopped him, and mentioned it, and told him to shove his bullocks in Martin's paddock for that night, as grass was so scarce. It must have cut Martin to the bone to see a kindly thing done, but he had to grin and bear it— treasuring up wrath against the day of wrath, as Shakespear says."
"Then Martin may be here any minute?"
"Well, I left him a little better than two mile away, trying to track his horse, and he can't track worth a dash. Certainly, he was headed toward the station the last I saw of him. But if he's got a spare saddle at home here, he's pretty certain to come for a fresh horse, to hunt up the other. I'd give five notes, if I had it, to see these (fellows) yoked up and off; for if Martin catches them, there'll be (sheol) to pay, and no pitch hot; and, by George! there's not half a second to lose. Just look at that fence! Ah! here they come! Good lads! Well, take care of yourself, Tom, and give us a call at the station as soon as you can. I'll keep out of sight till these chaps are started; then I'll have a bit of breakfast with Daddy Montague, and invent a good watertight lie, and do a skulk for an hour or two, and then dodge on to the station as slowly as possible. I want something to go wrong in the store while Montgomery has charge himself; it'll learn him to appreciate me better. I'll have to ram it down his throat that the fellows had their bullocks out before I got here."
"Wait, Moriarty—what's Martin's horse like? I might see him."
"Liver-colour; star and snip; white hind feet; bang tail. One of the best mokes on the station. Belongs to Martin himself. I hope he'll scratch the bridle off, and roll on the saddle till it's not worth a cuss. I say—if Martin should find his way here before the fellows get clear, will you just tell him I fancied I saw his horse going for the Connelly paddock, and I shot after him hell-for-leather. No message for Mrs. Beaudesart? Well, so long." And the good and faithful young servant cantered away toward an adjacent cane-grass swamp.
I was picking up my possum rug and saddle, when I heard Dixon's voice, in earnest entreaty. Looking round, I saw him sitting on the edge of his hammock.
"Say, Collins—will you fetch my (adj.) bullocks, while yer hand's in?I can't har'ly move this mornin'."
"Yes, Dixon; I won't see you beat, if I can help it. What's the matter?"
"Well, I was on top o' my load las' night, gittin'—gittin' some tobacker an' matches; an' I come a buster on top o' one o' the yokes here. It's put a (adj.) set on me, any road."
With a few words of condolence, I entered the paddock, carrying my saddle and bridle. As I came in sight of Cleopatra, I was constrained to pause and reflect. The horse was feeding composedly, saddled and bridled; a pair of hobbles hanging to the saddle. The bridle was a cheap affair, but the saddle was as good as they make them in Wagga, and quite new. During the previous afternoon, I had marked something incongruous in Bum's ownership of such a piece of furniture. But being always, I trust, superior to anything like surprise, I saddled and mounted Bunyip, took Cleopatra by the rein, and joined the Ishmaelites, who, on their bare-backed horses, were hurrying contingents of cattle from different directions toward the gap of the fence, whilst the fascination of overhanging danger bore so heavily on their personal and professional dignity that every eye kept an anxious look-out toward the ram-paddock. In a few minutes more, we were all outside the fence; and the drivers immediately began yoking. I hooked Cleopatra's rein on a wool-lever, and, still riding Bunyip, kept Thompson's and Cooper's bullocks together. Mosey's dog was performing the same office for him and Price. Willoughby had n't returned with the muster; and Bum was still absent.
"Did you count my (bullocks)?" demanded Dixon, limping slowly and painfully toward his big roan horse.
"O you sweet speciment!" retorted Mosey, as he picked up his second yoke."Why the (compound expletive) don't you rouse roun'?"
"How the (same expression) ken I rouse roun'? I got the screwmatics in my (adj.) hip."
"Somethin' like you—Stan' over, Rodney, or I'll twist the tail off o' you—You don't ketch me havin' nothin' wrong o' me when things is"——
"No, begad! no you don't!—take that!—ah! would you indeed!—on you go, dem you! s-s-s-s-s! get up there!" It was Willoughby's voice among the salt-bush; and, the next moment, half-a-dozen beasts leaped the wires and darted, capering and shying, past the wagons. "Quod petis hic est!" panted their pursuer triumphantly. "The mouse may help the lion, remember, according to the old"——
Then such a cataract of obscenity and invective from Price and Mosey, while Cooper remarked gravely:
"Them ain't our bullocks, Willerby; them's station cattle— shoved in that paddick for something partic'lar. Now they're off to (sheol); an' it's three good hours' work with a horse an' stockwhip, to git'em in here agen. An' that kangaroo dog ain't makin' matters much better. Lord stan' by us now! for we'll git (adv.) near hung if we're caught."
And, to be sure, there was Pup looping himself along the plain in hot pursuit. It was no use attempting to call him off, for Nature has not endowed the kangaroo dog with sufficient instinct to bring him in touch with his master, except when the latter offers him food. But there is always some penalty attached to the possession of anything really valuable. So, though I wasn't interested in the cattle, I was bound to follow them till I recovered my dog. Thompson's unpretentious stockwhip was in my hand at the time; and, judging it unlikely that Cleopatra had been broken in to the use of that disquieting implement, I was just turning Bunyip round, when Willoughby stepped forward——
"Permit me to redeem my unfortunate mistake by assisting you!" he exclaimed. "I have ridden to hounds in England. May I take this horse? Thanks. Pray remember that I shall be under your orders, Collins."
"Take care might he buck-lep," I remarked casually, as the whaler gatheredCleopatra's reins, and threw himself into the deep seat of the new saddle.
And, to my genuine astonishment, he did buck-lep. But he took no mean advantage of his rider; he allowed him time to find the off stirrup, and then led off with a forward spring about five feet high. Willoughby—small blame to him—was jerked clean out of the saddle, and lit fair across the horse's loins; in the impulse of self-preservation grasping the cantle with both hands. The small thigh-pads afforded a good rough hold, and the next buck jammed the poor fellow well under the seat of the saddle. The position was neither pleasant nor dignified, though certainly more secure for an amateur than the conventional style; particularly after the horse's tremendous plunges had raised the back of the saddle a foot or more by dint of fair wedging.
Price, Mosey, Thompson, and Cooper forgot the dangers of the time, and discontinued their work, drawing near the spot with a carefully preserved air of indifference and pre-occupation. Even Dixon ignored his screwmatics, and composed his demeanour to something like apathy.
Owing to the leverage of the saddle, the girth was gripping Cleopatra in a ticklish place, and the bow of the saddle was dipping into another ticklish place, whilst Willoughby's swinging feet provided for the ticklish places on the horse's thighs and flanks. Cleopatra mistook all this for deliberate provocation, and responded to the very best of his splendid ability. Early in the entertainment, Willoughby's hat was bucked off his head; presently the wellington boot was bucked off one foot, and the blucher off the other, the prince-alberts following in due course. Then the portion of attire known to one section of society as 'linen', and to another as the 'beef-bag', was bucked out of that necessary garment which we shrink from naming. The ground was cut up as if rooted by pigs; yet Cleopatra was only just warming to his work; and the whaler was still clinging to the saddle like a native bear to a branch.
"God help thee, Jack," I remarked listlessly; "thou hast a bitter breakfast on't."
"He'll tire the horse out yet," said Thompson, with an artificial yawn."Good lad, Willoughby! stick to him a bit longer."
"Got no holt," observed Dixon. "Gone goose, any time."
"He don't want no pipeclay, anyhow," said Mosey, with childish levity."Dark-complexion people ought to steer clear o' playful horses."
All eyes were turned on the young fellow's face in surprise and reprehension; and he uneasily attempted to carry off his inadvertent solecism with a sort of swagger.
"The horse can't hold out much longer at that rate," repeated Thompson, stooping to lace his boots.
"Can't he?" drawled Cooper, poking out the stem of his pipe with a stalk of grass. "He can hold out till something gives way. That's what he's in the habit o' doin', I'm thinkin'; an' he ain't goin' to break his rule this time."
"The Far-downer got at you that trip, Collins," remarked Mosey, seeking to retrieve his dignity by turning his back on the performance. "He seen you comin'. Say, ole son—how'd you like to swap back?"
"I kep' misdoubtin' that hoss all the (adj.) time," observed Nestor wisely."I felt sort o' jubious, on'y I did n't wanter say nothink."
"There goes the pore (fellow) at last; I knowed the horse would do it," said Cooper, as the stern captive spum'd his weary load, and asked the image back that heaven bestowed.
"Collar the horse quick!" suggested Dixon. "Nail him now, or you'll never ketch him."
"No great hurry," I muttered, dismounting. "However, I think I'd better have it out with him while he's warm. Or perhaps one of you fellows would like a try, while I do his yoking—just for a change?"
Cleopatra, now nibbling the scanty grass, glanced from time to time with grave sympathy at his late rider, who was occupying himself with his toilet.
"Ketch the (horse) quick!" reiterated Dixon.
"I would n't mind if I had my mare back again," I remarked, as I approached Cleopatra's head. "By Jacob's staff I swear I have no mind of trying conclusions with this fellow for a dull, sickening"——
The adjectives were shorn of their noun, for Cleopatra, accurately gauging his distance, suddenly sprung round and lashed out with both hind feet. You could have struck a match on the smoothest part of my earthly tabernacle as I dodged him by about half an inch. Then he went on cropping the grass as before, while I looked round and inquired with sickly bravado, "What noble Lucumo comes next, to taste our Roman cheer?"
But the bullock drivers silently repudiated the grim invitation, and hurried back to their work, which they now pursued with redoubled vigour and anxiety. I remounted Bunyip, and caught Cleopatra from his back. Then dismounting, I arranged the new saddle with ostentatious offhandedness, though in a prayerful frame of mind, and presently climbed on as if nothing was the matter. I certainly anticipated Westminster Abbey rather than a peerage; but the horse, with a nonchalance greater than my own, inasmuch as it was genuine, turned quietly round as I pressed the rein against his neck, and sailed away across the plain at his own inimitable canter. Then I looked back to see the bullock drivers disgustedly resume the work they had again suspended.
By this time the cattle had crossed a cane-grass swamp, and were out of sight; but before I had gone a quarter of a mile I saw Pup coming to meet me, limping and crestfallen. He had probably been kicked by one of the absconders; and as he could see no sign of civilisation except our camp, his sagacity had drawn him back. Well pleased, therefore, I returned to the wagons after a few minutes absence.