by Henry Lawson
“Remember, they’re Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotch barrack pretty well by now—if you don’t it ain’t my fault. You were born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about the town. Your father’s dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the Bobbie Burns to Sydney. Your poor old mother’s in Aberdeen now—Bruce or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now—poor old soul!—anyway, you’ll never see her again. You wish you’d never run away from home. You wish you’d been a better son to your poor old mother; you wish you’d written to her and answered her last letter. You only want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness and a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some sort to brace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this delicately.) Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a wheeze—like this; get up the nearest approach to a death-rattle that you can. Move as if you were badly hurt in your wind—like this. (If you don’t do it better’n that, I’ll stoush you.) Make your face a bit longer and keep your lips dry—don’t lick them, you damned fool!—breathe on them; make ’em dry as chips. That’s the only decent pair of breeks you’ve got, and the only ‘shoon’. You’re a Presbyterian—not a U.P., the Auld Kirk. Your mate would have come up to the house, only—well, you’ll have to use the stuffing in your head a bit; you can’t expect me to do all the brain-work. Remember it’s consumption you’ve got galloping consumption; you know all the symptoms—pain on top of your right lung, bad cough and night sweats. Something tells you that you won’t see the new year—it’s a week off Christmas now. And if you come back without anything, I’ll blessed soon put you out of your misery.”
Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much various tucker as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-off tweeds; a new pair of ’lastic-sides from the store stock; two bottles of patent medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-made consumption-cure; also a letter to a hospital committee man and three shillings to help him on his way to Palmerston. He also got about half a mile of sympathy, religious consolation, and medical advice which he didn’t remember.
“Now,” he said triumphantly, “am I a mug or not?”
Steelman kindly ignored the question. “I did have a better opinion of the Scotch,” he said, contemptuously.
Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in six months he managed that pub. Smith, who’d been away on his own account, turned up in the town one day clean-broke, and in a deplorable state. He heard of Steelman’s luck, and thought he was “all right”, so went to his old friend.
Cold type—or any other kind of type—couldn’t do justice to Steelman’s disgust. To think that this was the reward of all the time and trouble he’d spent on Smith’s education! However, when he cooled down, he said:
“Smith, you’re a young man yet, and it’s never too late to mend. There is still time for reformation. I can’t help you now; it would only demoralise you altogether. To think, after the way I trained you, you can’t battle round any better’n this! I always thought you were an irreclaimable mug, but I expected better things of you towards the end. I thought I’d make something of you. It’s enough to dishearten any man and disgust him with the world. Why! you ought to be a rich man now with the chances and training you had! To think—but I won’t talk of that; it has made me ill. I suppose I’ll have to give you something, if it’s only to get rid of the sight of you. Here’s a quid, and I’m a mug for giving it to you. It’ll do more harm than good; and it ain’t a friendly thing nor the right thing for me—who always had your welfare at heart—to give it to you under the circumstances. Now, get away out of my sight, and don’t come near me till you’ve reformed. If you do, I’ll have to stoush you out of regard for my own health and feelings.”
But Steelman came down in the world again and picked up Smith on the road, and they “battled round” together for another year or so; and at last they were in Wellington—Steelman “flush” and stopping at an hotel, and Smith stumped, as usual, and staying with a friend. One night they were drinking together at the hotel, at the expense of some mugs whom Steelman was “educating”. It was raining hard. When Smith was going home, he said:
“Look here, Steely, old man. Listen to the rain! I’ll get wringing wet going home. You might as well lend me your overcoat to-night. You won’t want it, and I won’t hurt it.”
And, Steelman’s heart being warmed by his successes, he lent the overcoat.
Smith went and pawned it, got glorious on the proceeds, and took the pawn-ticket to Steelman next day.
Smith had reformed.
“And I taught him!” Steelman would say proudly in after years. “Poor old Smith. He could battle round all right. I taught him.”
His Colonial Oath
I LATELY met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was working on his father’s farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face—and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture:
“So poor old Mr B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”
“My oath!” he replied.
“He was a good old sort.”
“My oath!”
“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn’t it?”
His oath (colonial).
“Poor old Mr B. died awfully sudden, didn’t he?”
He looked up the hill, and said: “My oath!”
Then he added: “My blooming oath!”
I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner displeased him, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: “It’s blanky hot to-day. I don’t know how you blanky blanks, stand such blank weather! It’s blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock; ain’t it?” Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter, and pretended to chew. He replied
“My oath!”
The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, he came to the rescue with:
“He finished me, yer know.”
“Finished? How? Who?”
He looked down towards the river, thought (if he did think) and said: “Finished me edyercation, yer know.”
“Oh! you mean Mr B.?”
“My oath—he finished me first-rate.”
“He turned out a good many scholars, didn’t he?”
“My oath! I’m thinkin’ about going down to the trainin’school.”
“You ought to—I would if I were you.”
“My oath!”
“Those were good old times,” I hazarded, “you remember the old bark school?”
He looked away across the siding, and was evidently getting uneasy. He shifted about, and said:
“Well, I must be goin’.”
“I suppose you’re pretty busy now?”
“My oath! So long.”
“Well, good-bye. We must have a yarn some day.”
“My oath!”
He got away as quickly as he could.
I wonder whether he was changed after all—or, was it I ? A man does seem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eight or ten years.
A Visit of Condolence
“DOES Arvie live here, old woman?”
“Why?”
“Strike me dead! carn’t yer answer a civil queschin?”
“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin? Be off! or I’ll send for a policeman.”
“Blarst the cops! D’yer think I cares for ’em? Fur two pins I’d fetch a push an’ smash yer ole shanty about yer ears—y’ole cow! I only arsked if Arvie lived here! Holy Mosis! carn’t a feller arsk a civil queschin?”
“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”
“My oath! Don’t he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my way to do him a good, turn; an’ now I’m sorry I come—damned if I ain’t—to be barracked like this an’ shoved down my own throat. (Pause). I want to tell Arvi
e that if he don’t come ter work termorrer, another bloke’ll collar his job. I wouldn’t like to see a cove collar a cove’s job an’ not tell a bloke about it. What’s up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”
“Arvie is dead!”
“Christ!! (Pause) Garn! What-yer-giv’n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Anderson wants ter see him.”
“My God! haven’t I got enough trouble without a young wretch like you coming to torment me? For God’s sake go away and leave me alone! I’m telling you the truth, my poor boy died of influenza last night.”
“My oath!!”
The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down Jones’s Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said:
“Swelp me Gord! I’m sorry, mum. I didn’t know. How was I to know you wasn’t havin’ me?”
He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head, tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear, and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole; then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately at the pavement, and said:
“Kin I see him?”
He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who’s-afraid kind of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.
He glanced round and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty—so familiar to his class—and then directed his gaze to where the body lay on the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would fit.
The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his pocket and laid the palm on Arvie’s ice-cold forehead.
“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though ashamed of his weakness, he said:
“There wasn’t no post-mortem, was there?”
“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day before—there was no post-mortem.”
“I thought there wasn’t none,” said Bill, “because a man that’s been post-mortemed always looks as if he’d been hurt. My father looked right enough at first—just as if he was restin’—but after they’d had him opened he looked as if he’d been hurt. No one else could see it, but I could. How old was Arvie?”
“Eleven.”
“I’m twelve—goin’ on for thirteen. Arvie’s father’s dead, ain’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So’s mine. Died at his work, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So’d mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”
“Yes.”
“So’d mine; ain’t it rum? You scrub offices an’ wash, don’t yer?”
“Yes.”
“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin’, don’t yer, these times?
“My God, yes! God only knows what I’ll do now my poor boy’s gone. I generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when that’s done I’ve got to start my day’s work, washing. And then I find it hard to make both ends meet.”
“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was brought home?”
“Ah, my God! Yes. I’ll never forget it till my dying day. My poor husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”
“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: ‘Yer husband’s dead, mum,’ he says; ‘he dropped off all of a suddint,’ and mother said: ‘My God! my God!’ just like that, and went off.”
“Poor soul! Poor soul! And—now my Arvie’s gone. Whatever will me and the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish I was under the turf.”
“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It’s no use frettin’ over what’s done.”
He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at Arvie again.
“You should ha’ tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.
“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”
“He wasn’t very strong.”
“No, he was not, poor boy.”
“I thought he wasn’t. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers; they didn’t give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all the time, and he didn’t have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise, lest he’d be sacked. He couldn’t fight, an’ the boys used to tease him; they’d wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I’d like to see ’em do it to me. He couldn’t fight; but then, of course, he wasn’t strong. They don’t bother me while I’m strong enough to heave a rock; but then, of course, it wasn’t Arvie’s fault. I s’pose he had pluck enough, if he hadn’t the strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a fatherly and lenient eye.
“My God!” she cried, “if I’d known this, I’d sooner have starved than have my poor boy’s life tormented out of him in such a place. He never complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poor little Arvie! poor little Arvie!”
“He never told yer?”
“No—never a word.”
“My oath! You don’t say so! P’raps he didn’t want to let you know he couldn’t hold his own; but that wasn’t his fault, I s’pose. Y’see—, he wasn’t strong.”
An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he regarded it with critical interest for a while:
“We’ve got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones’s Alley wunst—in that house over there. How d’yer like livin’ in Jones’s Alley?”
“I don’t like it at all. I don’t like having to bring my children up where there are so many bad houses; but I can’t afford to go somewhere else and pay higher rent.”
“Well, there is a good many night-shops around here. But then,” he added reflectively, “you’ll find them everywheres. An’, besides, the kids git sharp, an’ pick up a good deal in a alley like this; ’twon’t do ’em no harm; it’s no use kids bein’ green if they wanter get on in a city. You ain’t been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?”
“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”
“I thought yer was. Well, men are sich fools. I’m thinking about gittin’ a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where’s he goin’ ter be buried?”
“At Rookwood, to-morrow.”
“I carn’t come. I’ve got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin’ to bury him?”
“Yes.”
Bill looked at the body with increased respect. “Kin I do anythin’ for you? Now, don’t be frightened to arsk!”
“No. Thank you very much, all the same.”
“Well. I must be goin’; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum.”
“No trouble, my boy—mind the step.”
“It is gone. I’ll bring a piece of board round some night and mend it for you, if you like; I’m learnin’ the carpenterin’; I kin nearly make a door. Tell yer what, I’ll send the old woman round to-night to fix up Arvie and lend yer a hand.”
“No, thank you. I suppose your mother’s got work and trouble enough; I’ll manage.”
“I’ll send her round, anyway; she’s a bit rough, but she’s got a soft gizzard; an’ there’s nothin’ she enjoys better than fixin’ up a body. Good-bye, mum.”
“Good-bye, my child.”
He paused at the door, and said:
“I’m sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I’m sorry. S’long, an’ thank yer.”
An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great brimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said:
“Keep
yer pecker up, young ’un!”
In A Wet Season
IT was raining—“general rain”.
The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which seemed even more dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would be the ghost of a funeral—a city funeral with plain hearse and string of cabs—going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas, save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub indescribably dismal—everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.
Somewhere along here we saw a swagman’s camp—a square of calico stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small, hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary suburb of Byrock.
The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque season, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when the bell rang.