The Penguin Henry Lawson Short Stories

by Henry Lawson

  ‘Oh, that’s as simple as striking matches. I’m up to all those dodges. Why, where there wasn’t a window, I’ve fixed up a piece of looking-glass to see if a girl was taking any notice of me when she thought I wasn’t looking.’

  He went away, and presently Mary was at the window again, and this time she had a tray with cups of tea and a plate of cake and bread-and-butter. I was prising off the strips that held the sash, very carefully, and my heart suddenly commenced to gallop, without any reference to me. I’d never felt like that before, except once or twice. It was just as if I’d swallowed some clock-work arrangement, unconsciously, and it had started to go, without warning. I reckon it was all on account of that blarsted Jack working me up. He had a quiet way of working you up to a thing that made you want to hit him sometimes – after you’d made an ass of yourself.

  I didn’t hear Mary at first. I hoped Jack would come round and help me out of the fix, but he didn’t.

  ‘Mr – Mr Wilson!’ said Mary. She had a sweet voice.

  I turned around.

  ‘I thought you and Mr Barnes might like a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ I said, and I made a dive for the window, as if hurry would help it. I trod on an old cask-hoop; it sprang up and dinted my shin and I stumbled – and that didn’t help matters much.

  ‘Oh! did you hurt yourself, Mr Wilson? cried Mary.

  ‘Hurt myself! Oh no, not at all, thank you,’ I blurted out. ‘It takes more than that to hurt me.’

  I was about the reddest shy lanky fool of a Bushman that ever was taken at a disadvantage on foot, and when I took the tray my hands shook so that a lot of the tea was spilt into the saucers. I embarrassed her too, like the damned fool I was, till she must have been as red as I was, and it’s a wonder we didn’t spill the whole lot between us. I got away from the window in as much of a hurry as if Jack had cut his leg with a chisel and fainted, and I was running with whisky for him. I blundered round to where he was, feeling like a man feels when he has just made an ass of himself in public. The memory of that sort of thing hurts you worse and makes you jerk your head more impatiently than the thought of a past crime would, I think.

  I pulled myself together when I got to where Jack was.

  ‘Here, Jack!’ I said. ‘I’ve struck something all right; here’s some tea and brownie – we’ll hang out here all right.’

  Jack took a cup of tea and a piece of cake and sat down to enjoy it, just as if he’d paid for it and ordered it to be sent out about that time.

  He was silent for a while, with the sort of silence that always made me wild at him. Presently he said, as if he’d just thought of it:

  ‘That’s a very pretty little girl, ’Possum, isn’t she, Joe? Do you notice how she dresses? – always fresh and trim. But she’s got on her best bib-and-tuc ker to-day, and a pinafore with frills to it. And it’s ironing-day, too. It can’t be on your account. If it was Saturday or Sunday afternoon, or some holiday, I could understand it. But perhaps one of her admirers is going to take her to the church bazaar in Solong to-night. That’s what it is.’

  He gave me time to think over that.

  ‘But yet she seems interested in you, Joe,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you offer to take her to the bazaar instead of letting another chap get in ahead of you? You miss all your chances, Joe.’

  Then a thought struck me. I ought to have known Jack well enough to have thought of it before.

  ‘Look here, Jack,’ I said. ‘What have you been saying to that girl about me?’

  ‘Oh, not much,’ said Jack. ‘There isn’t much to say about you.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular. She’d heard all about you before.’

  ‘She hadn’t heard much good, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Well, that’s true, as far as I could make out. But you’ve only got yourself to blame. I didn’t have the breeding and rearing of you. I smoothed over matters with her as much as I could.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ I said. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t tell her anything much. I only answered questions.’

  ‘And what questions did she ask?’

  ‘Well, in the first place, she asked if your name wasn’t Joe Wilson, and I said it was, as far as I knew. Then she said she heard that you wrote poetry, and I had to admit that that was true.’

  ‘Look here, Jack,’ I said, ‘I’ve two minds to punch your head.’

  ‘And she asked me if it was true that you were wild,’ said Jack, ‘and I said you was, a bit. She said it seemed a pity. She asked me if it was true that you drank, and I drew a long face and said that I was sorry to say it was true. She asked me if you had any friends, and I said none that I knew of, except me. I said that you’d lost all your friends; they stuck to you as long as they could, but they had to give you best, one after the other.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘She asked me if you were delicate, and I said no, you were as tough as fencing-wire. She said you looked rather pale and thin, and asked me if you’d had an illness lately. And I said no – it was all on account of the wild, dissipated life you’d led. She said it was a pity you hadn’t a mother or a sister to look after you – it was a pity that something couldn’t be done for you, and I said it was, but I was afraid that nothing could be done. I told her that I was doing all I could to keep you straight.’

  I knew enough of Jack to know that most of this was true. And so she only pitied me after all. I felt as if I’d been courting her for six months and she’d thrown me over – but I didn’t know anything about women yet.

  ‘Did you tell her I was in jail?’ I growled.

  ‘No, by gum! I forgot that. But never mind, I’ll fix that up all right. I’ll tell her that you got two years’ hard for horse-stealing. That ought to make her interested in you, if she isn’t already.’

  We smoked a while.

  ‘And was that all she said?’ I asked.

  ‘Who? – Oh! ’Possum,’ said Jack, rousing himself. ‘Well – no; let me think – We got chatting of other things – you know a married man’s privileged, and can say a lot more to a girl than a single man can. I got talking nonsense about sweethearts, and one thing led to another till at last she said, ‘I suppose Mr Wilson’s got a sweetheart, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘And what did you say?’ I growled.

  ‘Oh, I told her that you were a holy terror amongst the girls,’ said Jack. ‘You’d better take back that tray, Joe, and let us get to work.’

  I wouldn’t take back the tray – but that didn’t mend matters, for Jack took it back himself.

  I didn’t see Mary’s reflection in the window again, so I took the window out. I reckoned that she was just a big-hearted, impulsive little thing, as many Australian girls are, and I reckoned that I was a fool for thinking for a moment that she might give me a second thought, except by way of kindness. Why! young Black and half a dozen better men than me were sweet on her, and young Black was to get his father’s station and the money – or rather his mother’s money, for she held the stuff (she kept it close, too, by all accounts). Young Black was away at the time, and his mother was dead against him about Mary, but that didn’t make any difference, as far as I could see. I reckoned that it was only just going to be a hopeless, heart-breaking, stand-far-off-and-worship affair, as far as I was concerned – like my first love affair, that I haven’t told you about yet. I was tired of being pitied by good girls. You see, I didn’t know women then. If I had known, I think I might have made more than one mess of my life.

  Jack rode home to Solong every night. I was staying at a pub some distance out of town, between Solong and Haviland. There were three or four wet days, and we didn’t get on with the work. I fought shy of Mary till one day she was hanging out clothes and the line broke. It was the old-style sixpenny clothes-line. The clothes were all down, but it was clean grass, so it didn’t matter much. I looked at Jack.


  ‘Go and help her, you capital idiot!’ he said, and I made the plunge.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson!’ said Mary, when I came to help. She had the broken end of the line, and was trying to hold some of the clothes off the ground, as if she could pull it an inch with the heavy wet sheets and table-cloths and things on it, or as if it would do any good if she did. But that’s the way with women – especially little women – some of ’em would try to pull a store bullock if they got the end of the rope on the right side of the fence. I took the line from Mary, and accidentally touched her soft, plump little hand as I did so: it sent a thrill right through me. She seemed a lot cooler than I was.

  Now, in cases like this, especially if you lose your head a bit, you get hold of the loose end of the rope that’s hanging from the post with one hand, and the end of the line with the clothes on with the other, and try to pull ’em far enough together to make a knot. And that’s about all you do for the present, except look like a fool. Then I took off the post end, spliced the line, took it over the fork, and pulled, while Mary helped me with the prop. I thought Jack might have come and taken the prop from her, but he didn’t; he just went on with his work as if nothing was happening inside the horizon.

  She’d got the line about two-thirds full of clothes; it was a bit short now, so she had to jump and catch it with one hand and hold it down while she pegged a sheet she’d thrown over. I’d made the plunge now, so I volunteered to help her. I held down the line while she threw the things over and pegged out. As we got near the post and higher I straightened out some ends and pegged myself. Bushmen are handy at most things. We laughed, and now and again Mary would say, ‘No, that’s not the way, Mr Wilson; that’s not right; the sheet isn’t far enough over; wait till I fix it.’ I’d a reckless idea once of holding her up while she pegged, and I was glad afterwards that I hadn’t made such a fool of myself.

  ‘There’s only a few more things in the basket, Miss Brand,’ I said. ‘You can’t reach – I’ll fix ’em up.’

  She seemed to give a little gasp.

  ‘Oh, those things are not ready yet,’ she said, ‘they’re not rinsed,’ and she grabbed the basket and held it away from me. The things looked the same to me as the rest on the line; they looked rinsed enough and blued too. I reckoned that she didn’t want me to take the trouble, or thought that I mightn’t like to be seen hanging out clothes, and was only doing it out of kindness.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ I said, ‘let me hang ’em out. I like it. I’ve hung out clothes at home on a windy day,’ and I made a reach into the basket. But she flushed red, with temper I thought, and snatched the basket away.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Wilson,’ she said, ‘but those things are not ready yet!’ and she marched into the wash-house.

  ‘Ah well! you’ve got a little temper of your own,’ I thought to myself.

  When I told Jack, he said that I’d made another fool of myself. He said I’d both disappointed and offended her. He said that my line was to stand off a bit and be serious and melancholy in the background.

  That evening when we’d started home, we stopped some time yarning with a chap we met at the gate; and I happened to look back and saw Mary hanging out the rest of the things – she thought that we were out of sight. Then I understood why those things weren’t ready while we were round.

  For the next day or two Mary didn’t take the slightest notice of me, and I kept out of her way. Jack said I’d disillusioned her – and hurt her dignity – which was a thousand times worse. He said I’d spoilt the thing altogether. He said that she’d got an idea that I was shy and poetic, and I’d only shown myself the usual sort of Bush-whacker.

  I noticed her talking and chatting with other fellows once or twice, and it made me miserable. I got drunk two evenings running, and then, as it appeared afterwards, Mary consulted Jack, and at last she said to him, when we were together:

  ‘Do you play draughts, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘No,’ said Jack.

  ‘Do you, Mr Wilson?’ she asked, suddenly turning her big bright eyes on me, and speaking to me for the first time since last washing-day.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I do a little.’ Then there was a silence, and I had to say something else.

  ‘Do you play draughts, Miss Brand?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but I can’t get anyone to play with me here of an evening, the men are generally playing cards or reading.’ Then she said, ‘It’s very dull these long winter evenings when you’ve got nothing to do. Young Mr Black used to play draughts, but he’s away.’

  I saw Jack winking at me urgently.

  ‘I’ll play a game with you, if you like,’ I said, ‘but I ain’t much of a player.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson! When shall you have an evening to spare?’

  We fixed it for that same evening. We got chummy over the draughts. I had a suspicion even then that it was a put-up job to keep me away from the pub.

  Perhaps she found a way of giving a hint to old Black without committing herself. Women have ways – or perhaps Jack did it. Anyway, next day the Boss came round and said to me:

  ‘Look here, Joe, you’ve got no occasion to stay at the pub. Bring along your blankets and camp in one of the spare rooms of the old house. You can have your tucker here.’

  He was a good sort, was Black the squatter: a squatter of the old school, who’d shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn’t see why he should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old times with any of his old station-hands that happened to come along. But he’d married an Englishwoman after the hardships were over, and she’d never got any Australian notions.

  Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixed up for me. I’m not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed that good-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint. After tea I had a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap. I don’t remember exactly how we came to be there, or who sat down first. There was about two feet between us. We got very chummy and confidential. She told me about her childhood and her father.

  He’d been an old mate of Black’s, a younger son of a well-to-do English family (with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australia with a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are, with more or less. They think they’re hard done by; they blue their thousand pounds in Melbourne or Sydney, and they don’t make any more nowadays, for the Roarin’ Days have been dead these thirty years. I wish I’d had a thousand pounds to start on!

  Mary’s mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selected up there in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I could understand, and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary’s father made money, and lost it, and drank – and died. Mary remembered him sitting on the veranda one evening with his hand on her head, and singing a German song (the ‘Lorelei’, I think it was) softly, as if to himself. Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept out of the room; and, when he died, the children were adopted round (there was a little money coming from England).

  Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live with a sort of cousin in town, in a house where they took cards in on a tray, and then she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first. I’d had no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas on what the world ought to be, and she seemed interested.

  Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky until I remembered that I’d told her I had no one to care for me; then I suspected pity again.

  But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers were dead, and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black, and things went on very satisfactorily.

  And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover and a looking-glass.

  I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was round, but Mary didn’t seem aware of it.

  We got very chummy. Mary wasn’t c
omfortable at Haviland. Old Black was very fond of her and always took her part, but she wanted to be independent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney and getting into the hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney, but she had no money. There was a little money coming to her when she was twenty – one – a few pounds – and she was going to try and get it before that time.

  ‘Look here, Miss Brand,’ I said, after we’d watched the moon rise. ‘I’ll lend you the money. I’ve got plenty – more than I know what to do with.’

  But I saw I’d hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while, looking before her; then she said it was time to go in, and said, ‘Good night, Mr Wilson.’

  I reckoned I’d done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards that she was only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money might have been taken for a hint. She didn’t understand me yet, and I didn’t know human nature. I didn’t say anything to Jack – in fact, about this time I left off telling him about things. He didn’t seem hurt; he worked hard and seemed happy.

  I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good nature. I’d be a happier man now, I think, and a richer man perhaps, if I’d never grown more selfish than I was that night on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her – but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it. One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl, named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah’s because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it, and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts with a drover that she’d chummed up with. I pretended to be interested in Sarah’s talk, but it didn’t seem to work.

  A few days later a Sydney jackeroo visited the station. He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy. I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you. I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro. The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called ‘Mr Wilson’ to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking. If it hadn’t been a blooming jackeroo I wouldn’t have minded so much.