by Henry Lawson
The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling away from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart enough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a low-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seemingly to keep his front paws in his master’s last footprint. The traveller’s body was bent well forward from the hips up; his long arms—about six inches through his coat sleeves—hung by his sides like the arms of a dummy, with a billy at the end of one and a bag at the end of the other; but his head was thrown back against the top end of the swag, his hatbrim rolled up in front, and we saw a ghastly, beardless face which turned neither to the right nor the left as the train passed him.
After a long while we closed our book and, looking through the window, saw a hawker’s turn-out which was too sorrowful for description.
We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw a teamster’s camp: three or four waggons covered with tarpaulins which hung down in the mud all round and suggested death. Along, narrow man, in a long, narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quickly along the road past the camp. Asort of cattle-dog glided silently and swiftly out from under a waggon, “heeled” the man, and slithered back without explaining. Here the scene vanished.
We remember stopping—for an age it seemed—at half-a-dozen straggling shanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten weatherboard pub, with a low, dripping verandah, and three wretchedly forlorn horses hanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knew that there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety bar inside—or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured water ran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty froth whenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in an overcoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over the horse’s rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him—hanging up his weary, hungry, little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar; and we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: “ ‘Ello, Tom! ’Ow are yer poppin’ up?”
The train stopped (for about a year) within a mile of the next station. Trucking-yards in the foreground, like any other trucking-yards along the line; they looked drearier than usual, because the rain had darkened the posts and rails. Small plain beyond, covered with water and tufts of grass. The inevitable, God-forgotten “timber”, black in the distance; dull, grey sky and misty rain over all. Asmall, dark-looking flock of sheep was crawling slowly in across the flat from the unknown, with three men on horseback zigzagging patiently behind. The horses just moved—that was all. One man wore an oilskin, one an old tweed overcoat, and the third had a three-bushel bag over his head and shoulders.
Had we returned an hour later, we should have seen the sheep huddled together in a corner of the yards, and the three horses hanging up outside the local shanty.
We stayed at Nyngan—which place we refrain from sketching—for a few hours, because the five trucks of cattle of which we were in charge were shunted there, to be taken on by a very subsequent goods train. The Government allows one man to every five trucks in a cattle-train. We shall pay our fare next time, even if we have not a shilling left over and above. We had haunted local influence at Comanavadrink for two long, anxious heart-breaking weeks ere we got the pass; and we had put up with all the indignities, the humiliation—in short, had suffered all that poor devils suffer whilst besieging Local Influence. We only thought of escaping from the bush.
The pass said that we were John Smith, drover, and that we were available for return by ordinary passenger-train within two days, we think—or words in that direction. Which didn’t interest us. We might have given the pass away to an unemployed in Orange, who wanted to go Out Back, and who begged for it with tears in his eyes; but we didn’t like to injure a poor fool who never injured us—who was an entire stranger to us. He didn’t know what Out Back meant.
Local Influence had given us a kind of note of introduction to be delivered to the cattle-agent at the yards that morning; but the agent was not there—only two of his satellites, a cockney colonial-experience man, and a scrub-town clerk, both of whom we kindly ignore. We got on without the note, and at Orange we amused ourself by reading it. It said:
“Dear Old Man—Please send this beggar on; and I hope he’ll be landed safely at Orange—or—or wherever the cattle go.—Yours,—”
We had been led to believe that the bullocks were going to Sydney. We took no further interest in those cattle.
After Nyngan the bush grew darker and drearier, and the plains more like ghastly oceans; and here and there the “dominant note of Australian scenery” was accentuated, as it were; by naked, white, ring-barked trees standing in the water and haunting the ghostly surroundings.
We spent that night in a passenger compartment of a van which had been originally attached to old No. 1 engine. There was only one damp cushion in the whole concern. We lent that to a lady who travelled for a few hours in the other half of the next compartment. The seats were about nine inches wide and sloped in at a sharp angle to the bare matchboard wall, with a bead on the outer edge; and the cracks having become well caulked with the grease and dirt of generations, they held several gallons of water each. We scuttled one, rolled ourself in a rug, and tried to sleep; but all night long, overcoated and comfortered bushmen would get in, let down all the windows, and then get out again at the next station. Then we would wake up frozen and shut the windows.
We dozed off again, and woke at daylight, and recognised the ridgy gum-country between Dubbo and Orange. It didn’t look any drearier than the country further west because it couldn’t. There is scarcely a part of the country out west which looks less inviting or more horrible than any other part.
The weather cleared, and we had sunlight for Orange, Bathurst, the Blue Mountains, and Sydney. They deserve it; also as much rain as they need.
“Rats”
“WHY, there’s two of them, and they’re having a fight! Come on.”
It seemed a strange place for a fight—that hot, lonely, cotton-bush plain. And yet not more than half-a-mile ahead there were apparently two men struggling together on the track.
The three travellers postponed their smoke-ho! and hurried on. They were shearers—a little man and a big man, known respectively as “Sunlight” and “Macquarie”, and a tall, thin, young jackeroo whom they called “Milky”.
“I wonder where the other man sprang from? I didn’t see him before,” said Sunlight.
“He muster bin layin’ down in the bushes,” said Macquarie. “They’re goin’ at it proper, too. Come on! Hurry up and see the fun!”
They hurried on.
“It’s a funny-lookin’ feller, the other feller,” panted Milky. “He don’t seem to have no head. Look! he’s down—they’re both down! They must ha’ clinched on the ground. No! they’re up an’ at it again…Why, good Lord! I think the other’s a woman!”
“My oath! so it is!” yelled Sunlight. “Look! the brute’s got her down again! He’s kickin’ her! Come on, chaps; come on, or he’ll do for her!”
They dropped swags, water-bags and all, and raced forward; but presently Sunlight, who had the best eyes, slackened his pace and dropped behind. His mates glanced back at his face, saw a peculiar expression there, looked ahead again, and then dropped into a walk.
They reached the scene of the trouble, and there stood a little withered old man by the track, with his arms folded close up under his chin; he was dressed mostly in calico patches; and half-a-dozen corks, suspended on bits of string from the brim of his hat, dangled before his bleared optics to scare away the flies. He was scowling malignantly at a stout, dumpy swag which lay in the middle of the track.
“Well, old Rats, what’s the trouble?” asked Sunlight.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” answered the old man, without looking round. “I fell out with my swag, that’s all. He knocked me down, but I’ve settled him.”
“But look here,” said Sunlight, winking at his mates, “we saw you jump on him when he was down. That ain’t fair, you know.”
“But you didn’t see it all,” cried Rats, getting excited. “He hit me down first! And, look here, I’ll fight him again for nothing, and you can see fair play.”
They talked awhile; then Sunlight proposed to second the swag, while his mate supported the old man, and after some persuasion Milky agreed, for the sake of the lark, to act as timekeeper and referee.
Rats entered into the spirit of the thing; he stripped to the waist, and while he was getting ready the travellers pretended to bet on the result.
Macquarie took his place behind the old man, and Sunlight up-ended the swag. Rats shaped and danced round; then he rushed, feinted, ducked, retreated, darted in once more, and suddenly went down like a shot on the broad of his back. No actor could have done it better; he went down from that imaginary blow as if a cannon-ball had struck him in the forehead.
Milky called time, and the old man came up, looking shaky. However, he got in a tremendous blow which knocked the swag into the bushes.
Several rounds followed with varying success.
The men pretended to get more and more excited, and betted freely; and Rats did his best. At last they got tired of the fun, Sunlight let the swag lie after Milky called time, and the jackeroo awarded the fight to Rats. They pretended to hand over the stakes, and then went back for their swags, while the old man put on his shirt.
Then he calmed down, carried his swag to the side of the track, sat down on it and talked rationally about bush matters for a while; but presently he grew silent and began to feel his muscles and smile idiotically.
“Can you len’ us a bit o’ meat?” said he suddenly.
They spared him half-a-pound; but he said he didn’t want it all, and cut off about an ounce, which he laid on the end of his swag. Then he took the lid off his billy and produced a fishing-line. He baited the hook, threw the line across the track, and waited for a bite. Soon he got deeply interested in the line, jerked it once or twice, and drew it in rapidly. The bait had been rubbed off in the grass. The old man regarded the hook disgustedly.
“Look at that!” he cried. “I had him, only I was in such a hurry. I should ha’ played him a little more.”
Next time he was more careful; he drew the line in warily, grabbed an imaginary fish, and laid it down on the grass. Sunlight and Co. were greatly interested by this time.
“Wot yer think o’ that?” asked Rats. “It weighs thirty pound if it weighs an ounce! Wot yer think o’ that for a cod? The hook’s half-way down his blessed gullet.”
He caught several cod and a bream while they were there, and invited them to camp and have tea with him. But they wished to reach a certain shed next day, so—after the ancient had borrowed about a pound of meat for bait—they went on, and left him fishing contentedly.
But first Sunlight went down into his pocket and came up with half-a-crown, which he gave to the old man, along with some tucker. “You’d best push on to the water before dark, old chap,” he said, kindly.
When they turned their heads again, Rats was still fishing: but when they looked back for the last time before entering the timber, he was having another row with his swag; and Sunlight reckoned that the trouble arose out of some lies which the swag had been telling about the bigger fish it caught.
Mitchell: a Character Sketch
IT was a very mean station, and Mitchell thought he had better go himself and beard the overseer for tucker. His mates were for waiting till the overseer went out on the run, and then trying their luck with the cook; but the self-assertive and diplomatic Mitchell decided to go.
“Good day,” said Mitchell.
“Good day,” said the manager.
“It’s hot,” said Mitchell.
“Yes, it’s hot.”
“I don’t suppose,” said Mitchell; “I don’t suppose it’s any use asking you for a job?”
“Naw.”
“Well, I won’t ask you,” said Mitchell, “but I don’t suppose you want any fencing done?”
“Naw.”
“Nor boundary-riding?”
“Naw.”
“You ain’t likely to want a man to knock round?”
“Naw.”
“I thought not. Things are pretty bad just now.”
“Na—yes—they are.”
“Ah, well; there’s a lot to be said on the squatter’s side as well as the men’s. I suppose I can get a bit of rations?”
“Ye-yes.” (Shortly)—“Wot dyer want?”
“Well, let’s see; we want a bit of meat and flour—I think that’s all. Got enough tea and sugar to carry us on.”
“All right. Cook! have you got any meat?”
“No!”
To Mitchell: “Can you kill a sheep?”
“Rather!”
To the cook: “Give this man a cloth and knife and steel, and let him go up to the yard and kill a sheep.” (To Mitchell): “You can take a fore-quarter and get a bit of flour.”
Half-an-hour later Mitchell came back with the carcase wrapped in the cloth.
“Here yer are; here’s your sheep,” he said to the cook.
“That’s all right; hang it in there. Did you take a fore-quarter?”
“No.”
“Well, why didn’t you? The boss told you to.”
“I didn’t want a fore-quarter. I don’t like it. I took a hindquarter.”
So he had.
The cook scratched his head; he seemed to have nothing to say. He thought about trying to think, perhaps, but gave it best. It was too hot and he was out of practice.
“Here, fill these up, will you?” said Mitchell. “That’s the tea-bag, and that’s the sugar-bag, and that’s the flour-bag.”
He had taken them from the front of his shirt.
“Don’t be frightened to stretch ’em a little, old man. I’ve got two mates to feed.”
The cook took the bags mechanically and filled them well before he knew what he was doing. Mitchell talked all the time.
“Thank you,” said he—“got a bit of baking-powder?”
“Ye—yes, here you are.”
“Thank you. Find it dull here, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, pretty dull. There’s a bit of cooked beef and some bread and cake there, if you want it!”
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, sweeping the broken victuals into an old pillow-slip which he carried on his person for such an emergency. “I s’pose you find it dull round here.”
“Yes, pretty dull.”
“No one to talk to much?”
“No, not many.”
“Tongue gets rusty?”
“Ye—es, sometimes.”
“Well, so long, and thank yer.”
“So long,” said the cook (he nearly added “thank yer”).
“Well, good day; I’ll see you agen.”
“Good day.”
Mitchell shouldered his spoil and left.
The cook scratched his head; he had a chat with the overseer afterwards, and they agreed that the traveller was a bit gone.
But Mitchell’s head wasn’t gone—not much: he was a Sydney jackeroo who had been round a bit—that was all.
The Bush Undertaker
“FIVE BOB!”
The old man shaded his eyes and peered through the dazzling glow of that broiling Christmas Day. He stood just within the door of a slab-and-bark hut situated upon the bank of a barren creek; sheep-yards lay to the right, and a low line of bare brown ridges formed a suitable background to the scene.
“Five Bob!” shouted he again; and a dusty sheep-dog rose wearily from the shaded side of the hut and looked inquiringly at his master, who pointed towards some sheep which were straggling from the flock.
“Fetch ’em back,” he said confidently.
The dog went off, and his master returned to the interior of the hut.
“We’ll yard ’em early
,” he said to himself; “the super won’t know. We’ll yard ’em early, and have the arternoon to ourselves.”
“We’ll get dinner,” he added, glancing at some pots on the fire; “I cud do a bit of doughboy, an’ that theer boggabri’ll eat like tater-marrer along of the salt meat.” He moved one of the black buckets from the blaze. “I likes to keep it jist on the sizzle,” he said in explanation to himself; “hard bilin’ makes it tough—I’ll keep it jist a-simmerin’.”
Here his soliloquy was interrupted by the return of the dog.
“All right, Five Bob,” said the hatter, “dinner’ll be ready dreckly. Jist keep yer eye on the sheep till I calls yer; keep ’em well rounded up, an’ we’ll yard ’em afterwards and have a holiday.”
This speech was accompanied by a gesture evidently intelligible, for the dog retired as though he understood English, and the cooking proceeded.
“I’ll take a pick an’ shovel with me an’ root up that old blackfellow,” mused the shepherd, evidently following up a recent train of thought; “I reckon it’ll do now. I’ll put in the spuds.”
The last sentence referred to the cooking; the first to a supposed blackfellow’s grave about which he was curious.
“The sheep’s a-campin’,” said the soliloquiser, glancing through the door. “So me an’ Five Bob’ll be able to get our dinner in peace. I wish I had just enough fat to make the pan siss; I’d treat myself to a leather-jacket; but it took three weeks’ skimmin’ to get enough for them theer doughboys.”
In due time the dinner was dished up; and the old man seated himself on a block, with the lid of a gin-case across his knees for a table. Five Bob squatted opposite with the liveliest interest and appreciation depicted on his intelligent countenance.
Dinner proceeded very quietly, except when the carver paused to ask the dog how some tasty morsel went with him, and Five Bob’s tail declared that it went very well indeed.