by Jim Haynes
‘And, above all, we’d try to drive out of his head the cursed old popular idea that it’s hard to reform—that a man’s got to fight a hard battle with himself to get away from drink, pity drunkards can’t believe how easy it is. And we’d put it to him straight whether his few hours’ enjoyment were worth the days he had to suffer hell for it.’
‘And, likely as not,’ I said, ‘when you’d put him on his feet he’d take the nearest track to the next shanty, and go on a howling spree, and come back to Lost Souls’ in a week, raving and worse than ever. What would you do then?’
‘We’d take him in again, and build him up some more; and a third or fourth time if necessary. I believe in going right on with a thing once I take it in hand. And if he didn’t turn up after the last spree we’d look for him up the scrub and bring him in and let him die on a bed, and make his death as comfortable as possible. I’ve seen one man die on the ground, and found one dead in the Bush. We’d bury him under a gum and put ‘Sacred to the Memory of a Man who Died. Let Him R.I.P.’ over him. I’d have a nice little graveyard with gums for tombstones, and I’d have some original epitaphs, I promise you.’
‘And how much gratitude would you expect to get out of the Lost Souls’ Hotel?’ I asked.
‘None,’ said Mitchell, promptly. ‘It wouldn’t be a Gratitude Discovery Syndicate. People might say that the Lost Souls’ Hotel was a den for kidnapping women and girls to be used as decoys for the purpose of hocussing and robbing bushmen, and the law and retribution might come after me—but I’d fight the thing out. Or they might want to make a KCMG or a god of me, and worship me before they hanged me. I reckon a philanthropist or reformer is lucky if he escapes with a whole skin in the end, let alone his character. But there! Talking of gratitude: it’s the fear of ingratitude that keeps thousands from doing good. It’s just as paltry and selfish and cowardly as any other fear that curses the world; it’s rather more selfish than most fears, in fact, take the fear of being thought a coward, or being considered eccentric, or conceited, or affected, or too good, or too bad, for instance. The man that’s always canting about the world’s ingratitude has no gratitude owing to him as a rule. Generally the reverse, he ought to be grateful to the world for being let live. He broods over the world’s ingratitude until he gets to be a cynic. He sees moonlight shining on it and he passes on with a sour face, whereas, if he took the trouble to step inside he’d most likely find a room full of ruddy firelight, and sympathy and cheerfulness, and kindness, and love, and gratitude. Sometimes, when he’s right down on his uppers, and forced to go amongst people and hustle for bread, he gets a lot of surprises at the amount of kindness he keeps running against in the world, and in places where he’d never have expected to find it. But, ah, well! I’m getting maudlin.’
‘And you’ve forgot all about the Lost Souls’ Hotel,’ I said.
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Mitchell; ‘I’d fix that up all right. As soon as I’d got things going smoothly under a man I could trust, I’d tie up every penny I had for the benefit of the concern; get some “white men” for trustees, and take the track again. I’m getting too old to stay long in one place—I’m a lost soul that always got along better in another place. I’m so used to the track that if I was shut up in a house I’d get walking up and down in my room of nights and disturb the folk; and, besides, I’d feel lost and light-shouldered without the swag.’
‘So you’d put all your money in the concern?’
‘Yes, except a pound or two to go on the track with, for, who knows, I might come along there, dusty and tired, and ragged and hard-up and old, some day, and be very glad of a night’s rest at the Lost Souls’ Hotel. But I wouldn’t let on that I was old Mitchell, the millionaire who founded Lost Souls. They might be too officious, and I hate fuss . . . But it’s time to take the track, Harry.’
There came a cool breeze with sunset; we stood up stiffly, shouldered our swags and tucker bags, and pushed on, for we had to make the next water before we camped. We were out of tobacco, so we borrowed some from one of the bullock drivers.
‘QUESTION NOT’
ADAM LINDSAY GORDON
(EXCERPT FROM ‘YE WEARIE WAYFARER’)
Question not, but live and labour till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour, seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another’s trouble, courage in your own.
Courage, comrades, this is certain, all is for the best—
There are lights behind the curtain—Gentles, let us rest.