Such Is Life

by Tom Collins

  As the half-caste lounged out of the front door of the hut, the cook went out by the back door, and gathered an armful of firewood. Toby turned, and glided back into the hut, and, a moment later, the cook also re-entered, at the opposite side. Then the prince bounded out through the front door, with a triumphant grin on his brown face, and an enormous cockroach, of black sugar in his hand. The next moment, a piece of firewood whizzed through the open door, smote H.R.H. full on Love of Approbation, ricochetted from his gun-metal skull, and banged against the weatherboard wall of an out-house.

  “Will yo ever go home, I dunno?” laughed the prince, picking up his hat, while the baffled cook recovered his stick, and. returned to the hut.

  “Now what’s the use of arguing that a blackfellow belongs to the human race?” queried Moriarty—the last ripple of trouble having vanished from the serene shallowness of his mind. “That welt would have laid one of us out. And did you ever notice that a blackfellow or a half-caste can always clear himself when his horse comes down? The first thing a whitefellow thinks about, when he feels his horse gone, is to get out of the way of what’s coming; but it’s an even wager that he’s pinned. Never so with the inferior race. Now, last Boxing Day, when we had races here, we could see that the main event rested between Admiral Rodney—a big chestnut, belonging to a cove on a visit to the boss—with Toby in the saddle; and that grey of M’Murdo’s, Admiral Crichton, with”—

  “Repeat that last name, please?”

  “Admiral Cry-ton. That slews you! Didn’t I tell you you’d be cutting yourself? It’s M’Murdo’s own pronunciation; and if he doesn’t know the proper twang, I’m dash well sure you don’t; for he owns the horse. But wasn’t it a curious coincidence of name— considering that neither the owners nor the horses had ever met before? Well, Young Jack was to ride Admiral Crichton; and I had such faith in the horse, with Jack up, that I plunged thundering heavy on him. So did Nelson. But, by jingo, the more we saw of Admiral Rodney, the more frightened we got—in fact, we could see there was nothing for it but to stiffen Toby. Toby was to get a note if he won the big event, and nothing if he lost; but it paid us to give him two notes to run cronk”—

  “One moment,” I interrupted—“just oblige me with the name and address of that horse’s owner?”

  “Shut-up. It’s blown over now. But as I was telling you, the chestnut had been a few times round the course, under the owner’s eye, and he knew the road; and to make matters better, you might break the reins, but you couldn’t get a give out of his mouth; and he could travel like a rifle-bullet; so when Toby tried to get him inside the posts, he pulled and reefed like fury, and bolted altogether; and came flying into the straight, a dozen lengths to the good. Of course, losing the race made a difference of a note to Toby; so he caught the horse’s shoulder with his spur, and turned him upside down, going at that bat. Then, to keep himself out of a row, he gammoned dead till we poured a pint of beer down his throat; and he lay groaning for two solid hours, winking now and then at Nelson and me. But that’ll just tell you the difference. Neither you nor I would be game to do a thing like that; we couldn’t be trained to it; simply because we belong to a superior race. I say, Toby!”—for the half-caste had seated himself near Pawsome’s bench, and was there enjoying his cockroach—”off you go, like a good chap, and fetch Collins’s horses.”

  “Impidence ain’t worth a d—n, if it ain’t properly carried out,” replied the inferior creation. “Think you git a note a week jist for eatin’ your (adj.) tucker an’ orderin’ people about? I done my day’s work. Fork over that plug o’ tobacker you’re owin’ me about the lenth o’ that snake. Otherways, shut up. We ain’t on equal terms while that stick o’ tobacker’s between us.”

  “I’ll straighten you some of these times,” replied Moriarty darkly. “It’s coming, Toby!”

  “No catchee, no havee, ole son!” laughed the prince. “The divil resave ye, Paddy! Macushla, mavourneen, tare-an’-ouns! whirroo! Bloody ind to the Pope!”

  “Toby,” said Moriarty, with a calmness intended to seem ominous; “if I had a gun in my hand, I’d shoot you like a wild-dog. But I suppose I’d get into trouble for it,” he continued scornfully.

  “Jist the same’s for layin’ out a whitefeller,” assented the prince, still rasping at his cockroach, like Ugolini at the living skull of Ruggieri, in Dante’s airy conception of the place where wrongs are rectified. (That unhappy mannerism again, you see.)

  “Permit me to suggest,” said Moriarty, after a pause, “that if you contemplated your own origin and antecedents, it would assist you to approximate your relative position on this station. Don’t you think a trifle of subordination would be appropriate to”—

  “A servile and halting imitation of Mrs. B.; and imitation is the sincerest flattery,” I commented. “I’ll tell Miss K.”

  “Manners, please!—Appropriate, I was saying, to a blasted varmin like you? Permit me to remind you that Mrs. Montgomery, senior, gave a blanket for you when you were little.”

  “I know she did,” replied the prince, with just a suspicion of vain-glory. “Nobody would be fool enough to give a blanket for you when you was little. Soolim!”

  “Come on, Moriarty,” said I, rising; “I must take a bit off the near end of my journey to-night.”

  “Howld your howlt, chaps,” interposed the good-natured half-caste. “I’ll run up your horses for you. I was on’y takin’ a rise out o’ Mr. Mori-(adj.)-arty, Esquire; jist to learn him not to be quite so suddent.” And in another minute, he was striding down the paddock, with his bridle and stockwhip.

  Half an hour later, my horses were equipped; and, all the Levites being absent, four or five tribesmen slowly collected under Pawsome’s shed, waiting to see what would happen. Cleopatra was not without reputation.

  “Tell you what you better do,” said Moriarty to me—“better hang your socks on Nosey Alf’s crook to-night. His place is fifteen-mile from here, and very little out of your way. Ill-natured, cranky beggar, Alf is—been on the pea—but there’s no end of grass in his paddock. And I say—get him to give you a tune or two on his fiddle. Something splendid, I believe. He’s always getting music by post from Sydney. Montgomery had heard him sing and play, some time or other; and when old Mooney was here, just before last shearing, he sent Toby to tell Alf to come to the house in the evening, and bring his fiddle; and Alf came, very much against his grain. Young Mooney was asked into the house, on account of his dad being there; and he swears he never heard anything like Alf’s style; though the stubborn devil wouldn’t sing a word; nothing but play. And he was just as good on the piano as on the fiddle, though his hand must have been badly out. Mooney thinks he jibbed on singing because the women were there. Alf’s a mis—mis—mis—dash it”—

  “Mischief-maker?” I suggested.

  “No.—Mis—mis”—

  “Mysterious character ?”

  “No, no.—Mis—mis”—

  “Try a synonym.”

  “Is that is? I think it is. Well Alf’s a misasynonym—woman-hater—among other things. When he comes to the station, he dodges the women like a criminal. And the unsociable dog begged of Montgomery not to ask him to perform again. One night, Nelson was going past his place, and heard a concert going on, so he left his horse, and sneaked up to the wall; but the music suddenly stopped, and before Nelson knew, Nosey’s dog had the seat out of his pants. Nosey came out and apologised for the dog, and brought Nelson in to have some supper; and Nelson stayed till about twelve; but devil a squeak of the fiddle, or a line of a song, could he get out of Alf. But, as the boss says, Alf’s only mad enough to know the difference between an eagle-hawk and a saw—foolish expression, it seems to me. Best boundary man on the station, Alf is. Been in the Round Swamp Paddock five years now; and he’s likely a fixture for life. Boundary riding for some years in the Bland country before he came here. Now I’ll show you how you’ll fetch his place”—Moriarty began drawing a diagram on the ground with a stick—“
You go through the Red Gate—we’ll call this the gate. The track branches there; and you follow this branch. It’s the Nalrooka track; and it takes you along here—mind, you’re going due east now”—

  “Wait, Moriarty,” I interrupted—“don’t you see that you’re reversing everything? A man would have to stand on his head to understand that map. There is the north, and here is the south.”

  “Don’t matter a beggar which is the real north and south. I’m showing you the way you’ve got to go. We’ll start afresh to please you. Through here—along here—and follow the same line from end to end of the pine-ridge, with the fence on your right all the way”—

  “Hold on, hold on,” I again interrupted—“you’re at right angles now. Don’t you see that your line’s north and south?—and did you ever see a pine-ridge running north and south? Begin again. Say the Red Gate is here; and I turn along here. Now go ahead.”

  “No, I’m dashed if I do! I’m no hand at directing; but, by gosh, you’re all there at understanding.”

  “Jack,” said I, turning to the primeval t’other-sider—“can you direct me to Nosey Alf’s?”

  “I’ll try,” replied the veteran; and he slowly drew a diagram, true to the points of the compass. “’Ere’s the Red Gate—mind you shet it—then along ’ere, arf a mile. Through this gate—an’ mind ’ow you leave ’er, f’r the wire hinclines to slip hover. Then straight along ’ere, through the pine-ridge, f’m hend to hend. You’re hon the Nalrookar track, mind, t’ wot time you see a gate hin the fence as you’re a-kerryin’ hon yer right shoulder. Gate’s sebm mile f’m ‘ere. Nalrookar track goes through that gate; b’t neb’ you mind; you keep straight ahead pas’ the gate, hon a pad you’ll ’ar’ly see; han jist hat the fur hend o’ the pine-ridge you’ll strike hanuther gate; an’ you mus’ be very p’tic’lar shettin’ ’er. Then take a hangle o’ fo’ty-five, with the pine-ridge hon yer back; an’ hin fo’ mile you’ll strike yer las’ gate—’ere, hin the co’ner. Take this fence hon yer right shoulder, an’ run ’er down. B’t you’ll spot Half’s place, fur ahead, w’en you git to the gate, ef it ain’t night.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” I replied, and then imprudently continued—“It would suit some of these young pups to take a lesson from you.”

  “You hain’t fur wrong,” replied the good old chronicle, that had so long walked hand in hand with Time, “Las’ year, hit war hall the cry, ‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt o’ Cunnigam’s mongreals!’—‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt o’ Thompson’s mongreals!’—‘We’ll make hit ’ot f’r ’em!’ Han wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy!’ ses Hi—‘w’e’s y’ proofs?’ ‘Proof be dam!’ ses they—‘don’t we know?’ They know a ’ell of a lot! Has the sayin’ his:—‘Onct boys was boys, an’ men was men; but now boys his men, an’ men ‘s”— (I didn’t catch the rest of the sentence). “Han what were the hupshot? W’y, fact was Cunnigam an’ Thompson ’ad bin workin’ hon hour ram-paddick wun night; an’ six Wogger steers got away, an’ a stag amongst ’em; makin’ f’r home; an’ they left a whaler mindin’ the wagons; an’ the two o’ them hover’auled the steers way down hin hour Sedan Paddick. Well, heverybody—Muster Magomery his self, no less—heverybody ses, ‘Ole hon t’ we gits a holt of ’em fellers’ mongreals!—bin leavin’ three o’ hour gates hopen; an’ the yowes an’ weaners is boxed; an’ puttin a file through Nosey Half’s ’oss-paddick, an’ workin’ hon it with ’er steers!’ ‘Stiddy!’ ses Hi—’w’e’s y’r proofs?’ Way it war, Collings; ’ere come a dose o’ raro jis’ harter, an’ yer couldn’t track. Well, wot war the hupshot? W’y, Warrigal Half war hunloadin’ hat Boottara; an’ a yaller bullick ’e ’d got, Pilot by name”—

  “Yes,” I gently interposed. “Well, I’ll have to be”—

  “’Is Pilot starts by night f’m Boottara ration-paddick, an’ does ’is thirty mile to hour ’oss-paddick; an’ the hull menagerie tailin’harter. ‘Shove ’em in ’e yaad, Toby,’ ses Muster Magomery. Presinkly, up comes Half, an’ ’is ’oss hall of a lather. ‘Take yer demmongreals,’ ses Muster Magomery; ‘an’ don’ hoversleep y’self agin.’ Think Half war goin’ ter flog ’is hanimals thirty mile back? Not ’im”—

  “It would hardly be right,” I agreed. “Well, I must be jogging”—

  “Not ’im,” pursued Jack. “’E turns horf o’ the main track t’ other side the ram-paddick; through the Patagoniar; leaves hall gates hopen; fetches Nosey’s place harter dark; houts file, an’ hin with ’is mob, an’ gives ’m a g—tful. Course, ’e clears befo’ mo’nin’; an’ through hour Sedan Paddick, an’ back to Boottara that road. ’Ow do Hi know hall this?—ses you?”

  “Ah!” said I wisely. “Well, I must be”—

  “No; you’re in for it,” chuckled Moriarty.

  “Tole me ’is hown self, not three weeks agone. Camped hat hour ram-paddick, shiftin’ Stewart’s things to Queensland. An’ wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy, now,’ ses Hi—’w’e’s y’ proofs?’ ‘Some o’ these young pups horter take a lessing horf o’ you, Jack,’ ses you, jist now. You’re right, Collings. Did n’ Hi say, las’ lamb in’—did n’ Hi say we war a-gwain ter hev sich anuther year as sixty-hate? Mostly kettle wot we hed then, afore the wool rose; an’ wild dogs bein’ plentiful them times; an’ we ’d a sort o’ ’ead stock-keeper, name o’ Bob Selkirk; an’ this feller ’e started f’m ’ere withhate ’underd an’ fo’ty sebm ’ead”—

  “And he would have his work cut out for him,” I remarked, in cordial assent. “You’ve seen some changes on this station, Jack. Well, I must be going.”

  Leaving the old fellow talking, I threw the reins over Cleopatra’s head, and drew the near one a little the tightest. He stood motionless as a statue, and beautiful as a poet’s dream.

  “Wouldn’t think that horse had a devil in him as big as a bulldog,” observed the horse-driver. “Shake the soul-bolt out of a man, s’posen you do stick to him.”

  “And yet Collins can’t ride worth a cuss,” contributed Moriarty confidentially, “He’s just dropped to this fellow’s style. Boss wanted to see him on our Satan, but Collins knew a thundering sight better.”

  A slight, loose-built lad, with a spur trailing at his right heel, advanced from the group.

  “Would you mind lettin’ me take the feather-edge off o’ this feller?” he asked modestly. “If he slings me, you can git on-to him while he’s warm, an’ no harm done. I’d like to try that saddle,” he added, by way of excuse. “Minds me o’ one I got shook, five months ago, with a red-headed galoot I’d bin treatin’ like a brother, on account of him bein’ fly-blowed, an’ the both of us travellin’ the same road. Best shape saddle I ever had a leg over, that was. Will I have a try?”

  “Not worth while, Jack,” I replied. “He might prop a little, certainly; but it’s only playfulness.” So I swung into the deep seat of the stolen saddle, and lightly touched the lotus-loving Memphian with both spurs.

  First, a reeling, dancing, uncertain panorama of buildings, fences, and spectators; then a mechanical response to the surging, jerking, concussive saddle, and a guarded strain on the dragging reins. Also a tranquil cognisance of favourable comment, exchanged by competent judges—no excitement, no admiration, remember; not a trace of new-chum interest, but a certain dignified and judicious approbation, honourable alike to critic and artist. Fools admire, but men of wit approve.

  “You see, it’s—only playfulness—” I remarked indifferently; the words being punctuated by necessity, rather than by choice. “Magnificent, but—not war. There’s not a—shadow of vice in his com—position. As the poet says:—

  This is mere—madness,

  And thus awhile the—fit will work—on him.

  Anon as patient as the female—dove,

  When that her—golden couplets have dis—closed,

  His silence will—sit drooping.

  There you are!” And Cleopatra stood still; slightly panting, it is true, but with lamb-like guilelessness in his madonna face.

  Then
, as the toilers of the station slowly dispersed to see about getting up an appetite for supper, Moriarty advanced, and laid both hands on Cleopatra’s mane.

  “Collins!” he exclaimed; “I’m better pleased than if I had won ten bob. What do you think?—that verse you quoted from Shakespear brought the question to my mind like a shot of a gun; the very question I wanted to ask you a couple of hours ago. I know it’s been asked before; in fact, I met with it in an English magazine, where the writer uses the very words you quoted just now. I thought perhaps you had never met with the question, and it might interest you—Was Hamlet mad?”

  Of some few amiable qualities with which it has pleased heaven to endow me beyond the majority of my fellows, a Marlborough-temper is by no means the least in importance. I looked down in the ingenuous face of the searcher after wisdom, quenching, like Malvolio, my familiar smile with an austere regard to control.

  “Semper felix,” I observed hopelessly. “You’re right in saying that the question has been asked before. It has been asked. But daylight in the morning is the right time to enter on that inquiry. For the present, we must leave the world-wearied prince to rest in his ancestral vault, where he was laid by the pious hands of Horatio and Fortinbras—where, each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of The Hamlet sleep.”

  “Quotation—ain’t it?” suggested Moriarty critically.

  “No,” I sighed.

  “Well then, I’m beggared if I can see anything in that sort of an answer,” remarked the young fellow resentfully.

  “Dear boy,” I replied; “I never imagined that you could. I would you had but the wit; ’twere better than your dukedom. By-the-way—what is Jack’s other name?”

  “Which Jack? Old Jack, or Young Jack, or Jack the Shellback, or Fog-a-bolla Jack?”

  “Young Jack; the chap that offered to ride Cleopatra.”

  “Jack Frost.”

  “Right. Good-bye. And remember our arrangement.”

  “Good-bye, ole man. Depend your life on my straightness.”