by Steele Rudd
We mooched around from fire to fire, hour after hour, and when we wearied of heaving fire-sticks at the enemy we sat on our heels and cursed the wind, and the winter, and the night-birds alternately. It was a lonely, wretched occupation.
Now and again Dad would leave his fire to ask us if we could hear a noise. We couldn’t, except that of wallabies and mopokes. Then he would go back and listen again. He was restless, and, somehow, his heart wasn’t in the wallabies at all. Dave couldn’t make him out.
The night wore on. By-and-by there was a sharp rattle of wires, then a rustling noise, and Sal appeared in the glare of the fire. “Dad!” she said. That was all. Without a word, Dad bounced up and went back to the house along with her.
“Something’s up!” Dave said, and, half-anxious, half- afraid, we gazed into the fire and thought and thought. Then we stared, nervously, into the night, and listened for Dad’s return, hut heard only the wind and the mopoke.
At dawn he appeared again, with a broad smile on his face, and told us that mother had got another baby—a fine little chap. Then we knew why Mrs. Brown had been staying at our place.
Chapter VI.
Good Old Bess.
SUPPER was over at Shingle Hut, and we were all seated round the fire—all except Joe. He was mousing. He stood on the sofa with one ear to the wall in a listening attitude, and brandished a table-fork. There were mice—mobs of them—between the slabs and the paper—layers of newspapers that had been pasted one on the other for years until they were an inch thick; and whenever Joe located a mouse he drove the fork into the wall and pinned it—or reckoned he did.
Dad sat pensively at one corner of the fire-place—Dave at the other with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms.
“Think you could ride a race, Dave?” asked Dad. “Yairs,” answered Dave, without taking his eyes off the fire, or his chin from his palms—“could, I suppose, if I’d a pair o’ lighter boots ’n these.”
Again they reflected.
Joe triumphantly held up the mutilated form of a murdered mouse and invited the household to “Look!” No one heeded him.
“Would your Mother’s go on you?”
“Might,” and Dave spat into the fire.
“Anyway,” Dad went on, "we must have a go at this handicap with the old mare; it’s worth trying for, and, believe me, now! she’ll surprise a few of their flash hacks, will Bess.”
“Yairs, she can go all right.” And Dave spat again into the fire.
“Go! I’ve never known anything to keep up with her. Why, bless my soul, seventeen years ago, when old Redwood owned her, there wasn’t a horse in the district could come within coo-ee of her. All she wants is a few feeds of corn and a gallop or two, and mark my words she’ll show some of them the way.”
Some horse-races were being prompted by the shanty- keeper at the Overhaul—seven miles from our selection. They were the first of the kind held in the district, and the stake for the principal event was £5. It wasn’t because Dad was a racing man or subject to turf hallucinations in any way that he thought of preparing Bess for the meeting. We sadly needed those five pounds, and, as Dad put it, if the mare could only win, it would be an easier and much quicker way of making a bit of money than waiting for a crop to grow.
Bess was hobbled and put into a two-acre paddock near the house. We put her there because of her wisdom. She was a chestnut, full of villainy, an absolutely incorrigible old rogue. If at any time she was wanted when in the grass paddock, it required the lot of us from Dad down to yard her, as well as the dogs, and every other dog in the neighbourhood. Not that she had any brumby element in her—she would have been easier to yard if she had—but she would drive steadily enough, alone or with other horses, until she saw the yard, when she would turn and deliberately walk away. If we walked to head her she beat us by half a length; if we ran she ran, and stopped when we stopped. That was the aggravating part of her! When it was only to go to the store or the post-office that we wanted her, we could have walked there and back a dozen times before we could run her down; but, somehow, we generally preferred to work hard catching her rather than walk.
When we had spent half the day hunting for the currycomb, which we didn’t find, Dad began to rub Bess down with a corn-cob—a shelled one—and trim her up a bit. He pulled her tail and cut the hair off her heels with a knife; then he gave her some corn to eat, and told Joe he was to have a bundle of thistles cut for her every night. Now and again, while grooming her, Dad would step back a few paces and look upon her with pride.
“There’s great breeding in the old mare,” he would say, “great breeding; look at the shoulder on her, and the loin she has; and where did ever you see a horse with the same nostril? Believe me, she’ll surprise a few of them!”
We began to regard Bess with profound respect; hitherto we had been accustomed to pelt her with potatoes and blue- metal.
The only thing likely to prejudice her chance in the race, Dad reckoned, was a small sore on her back about the size of a foal’s foot. She had had that sore for upwards of ten years to our knowledge, but Dad hoped to have it cured before the race came off with a never-failing remedy he had discovered — burnt-leather and fat.
Every day, along with Dad, we would stand on the fence near the house to watch Dave gallop Bess from the bottom of the lane to the barn—about a mile. We could always see him start, but immediately after he would disappear down a big gully, and we would see nothing more of the gallop till he came within a hundred yards of us. And wouldn’t Bess bend to it once she got up the hill, and fly past with Dave in the stirrups watching her shadow!—when there was one: she was a little too fine to throw a shadow always. And when Dave and Bess had got back and Joe had led her round the yard a few times, Dad would rub the corn-cob over her again and apply more burnt-leather and fat to her back.
On the morning preceding the race Dad decided to send Boss over three miles to improve her wind. Dave took her to the crossing at the creek—supposed to be three miles from Shingle Hut, but it might have been four or it might have been five, and there was a stony ridge on the way.
We mounted the fence and waited. Tommy Wilkie came along riding a plough-horse. He waited too.
“Ought to be coming now,” Dad observed, and Wilkie got excited. He said he would go and wait in the gully and race Dave home. “Race him home!” Dad chuckled, as Tommy cantered off, “he’ll never see the way Bess goes.” Then we all laughed.
Just as someone cried “Here he is!” Dave turned the comer into the lane, and Joe fell off the fence and pulled Dad with him. Dad damned him and scrambled up again as fast as he could. After a while Tommy Wilkie hove in sight amid a cloud of dust. Then came Dave, scarcely faster than a trot, and flogging all he knew with a piece of greenhide plough-rein. Bess was all-out and floundering. There was about two hundred yards yet to cover. Dave kept at her—thud! thud! Slower and slower she came. “Damn the fellow!” Dad said; “what’s he beating her for ?” “Stop it, you fool!” he shouted. But Dave sat down on her for the final effort and applied the hide faster and faster. Dad crunched his teeth. Once—twice—three times Bess changed her stride; then struck a branch-root of a tree that projected a few inches above ground, and over she went—crash! Dave fell on his head and lay spread out, motionless. We picked him up and carried him inside, and when Mother saw blood on him she fainted straight off without waiting to know if it were his own or not. Both looked as good as dead; but Dad, with a bucket of water, soon brought them round again.
It was scarcely dawn when we began preparing for a start to the races. Dave, after spending fully an hour trying in vain to pull on Mother’s elastic-side boots, decided to ride in his own heavy bluchers. We went with Dad in the dray. Mother wouldn’t go; she said she didn’t want to see her son get killed, and warned Dad that if anything happened the blame would for ever be on his head.
We arrived at the Overhaul in good time. Dad took the horse out of the dray and tied him to a tree. Dav
e led Bess about, and we stood and watched the shanty-keeper unpacking gingerbeer. Joe asked Dad for sixpence to buy some, but Dad hadn’t any small change. We remained in front of the booth through most of the day, and ran after any corks that popped out and handed them in again to the shanty-keeper. He didn't offer us anything—not a thing!
“Saddle up for the Overhaul Handicap!” was at last sung out, and Dad, saddle on arm, advanced to where Dave was walking Bess about. They saddled up and Dave mounted, looking as pale as death.
“I don't like ridin’ in these boots a bit,” he said, with a quiver in his voice.
“Wot's up with ’em ?” Dad asked.
“They 're too big altogether.”
“Well, take ’em off, then!”
Dave jumped down and pulled them off—leaving his socks on.
More than a dozen horses went out, and when the starter said “Off!” didn’t they go! Our eyes at once followed Bess. Dave was at her right from the jump—the very opposite to what Dad had told him. In the first furlong she put fully twenty yards of daylight between herself and the field—she came after the field. At the back of the course you could see the whole of Kyle’s selection and two of Jerry Keefe’s haystacks between her and the others. We didn’t follow her any farther.
After the race was won and they had cheered the winner, Dad wasn’t to be found anywhere.
Dave sat on the grass quite exhausted. “Ain’t y’ goin’ to pull the saddle off?” Joe asked.
“No,” he said; “I ain’t. You don’t want everyone to see her back, do you?”
Joe wished he had sixpence.
About an hour afterwards Dad came staggering along arm-in-arm with another man—an old fencing-mate of his, so he made out.
“Thur yar,” he said, taking off his hat and striking Bess on the rump with it; “besh bred mare in the worl’.”
The fencing-mate looked at her, but didn’t say anything; he couldn’t.
“Eh?” Dad went on; “say sh’ ain’t? L’ere—ever y’ name is—betcher pound sh’ is.”
Then a jeering and laughing crowd gathered round, and Dave wished he hadn’t come to the races.
“She ain’t well,” said a tall man to Dad—“short in her gallops.” Then a short, bulky individual without whiskers shoved his face up into Dad’s and asked him if Bess was a mare or a cow. Dad became excited, and only that old Anderson came forward and took him away there must have been a row.
Anderson put him in the dray and drove it home to Shingle Hut.
Dad reckons now that there is nothing in horse-racing, and declares it a fraud. He says, further, that an honest man, by training and racing a horse, is only helping to feed and fatten the rogues and vagabonds that live on the sport.
Chapter VII.
Cranky Jack.
IT was early in the day. Traveller after traveller was trudging by Shingle Hut. One who carried no swag halted at the rails and came in. He asked Dad for a job. “I dunno," Dad answered—“what wages would you want?” The man said he wouldn’t want any. Dad engaged him at once.
And such a man! Tall, bony, heavy-jawed, shaven with a reaping-hook, apparently. He had a thick crop of black hair—shaggy, unkempt, and full of grease, grass, and fragments of dry gum-leaves. On his head were two old felt hats—one sewn inside the other. On his back a shirt made from a piece of blue blanket, with white cotton stitches striding up and down it like lines of fencing. His trousers were gloom itself; they were a problem, and bore reliable evidence of his industry. No ordinary person would consider himself out of work while in them. And the new-comer was no ordinary person. He seemed to have all the woe of the world upon him; he was as sad and weird-looking as a widow out in the wet.
In the yard was a large heap of firewood—remarkable truth!—which Dad told him to chop up. He began. And how he worked! The axe rang again—particularly when it left the handle—and pieces of wood scattered everywhere. Dad watched him chopping for awhile, then went with Dave to pull corn.
For hours the man chopped away without once looking at the sun. Mother came out. Joy! She had never seen so much wood cut before. She was delighted. She made a cup of tea and took it to the man, and apologised for having no sugar to put in it. He paid no attention to her; he worked harder. Mother waited, holding the tea in her hand. A lump of wood nearly as big as a shingle flew up and shaved her left ear. She put the tea on the ground and went in search of eggs for dinner. (We were out of meat—the kangaroo-dog was lame. He had got “ripped” the last time we killed.)
The tea remained on the ground. Chips fell into it. The dog saw it. He limped towards it eagerly, and dipped the point of his nose in it. It burnt him. An aged rooster strutted along and looked sideways at it. He distrusted it and went away. It attracted the pig—a sow with nine young ones. She waddled up, and poked the cup over with her nose; then she sat down on it, while the family joyously gathered round the saucer. Still the man chopped on.
Mother returned—without any eggs. She rescued the crockery from the pigs and turned curiously to the man. She said, “Why, you’ve let them take the tea!” No answer. She wondered.
Suddenly, and for the fiftieth time, the axe flew off. The man held the handle and stared at the woodheap.
Mother watched him.
He removed his hats, and looked inside them.
He remained looking inside them.
Mother watched him more closely. His lips moved. He said, “Listen to them! They’re coming! I knew they’d follow!”
“Who?” asked mother, trembling slightly.
“They’re in the wood!” he went on. “Ha, ha! I’ve got them. They ’ll never get out; never get out!”
Mother fled, screaming. She ran inside and called the children. Sal assisted her. They trooped in like wallabies—all but Joe. He was away earning money. He was getting a shilling a week from Maloney, for chasing cockatoos from the corn.
They closed and barricaded the doors, and Sal took down the gun, which Mother made her hide beneath the bed. They sat listening, anxiously and intently. The wind began to rise. A lump of soot fell from the chimney into the fireplace—where there was no fire. Mother shuddered. Some more fell. Mother jumped to her feet. So did Sal. They looked at each other in dismay. The children began to cry. The chain for hanging the kettle on started swinging to and fro. Mother’s knees gave way. The chain continued swinging. A pair of bare legs came down into the fireplace—they were curled round the chain. Mother collapsed. Sal screamed, and ran to the door, but couldn’t open it. The legs left the chain and dangled in the air. Sal called “Murder!”
Her cry was answered. It was Joe, who had been over at Maloney’s making his fortune. He came to the rescue. He dropped out of the chimney and shook himself. Sal stared at him. He was calm and covered from head to foot with soot and dirt. He looked round and said, “Thought yuz could keep me out, did’n’ y’?” Sal could only look at him. “I saw yuz all run in,” he was saying, when Sal thought of Mother, and sprang to her. Sal shook her, and slapped her, and threw water on her till she sat up and stared about. Then Joe stared.
Dad came in for dinner—which, of course, wasn’t ready. Mother began to cry, and asked him what he meant by keeping a madman on the place, and told him she knew he wanted to have them all murdered. Dad didn’t understand. Sal explained. Then he went out and told the man to “Clear!” The man simply said “No.”
“Go on, now!” Dad said, pointing to the rails. The man smiled at the wood-heap, as he worked. Dad waited. "Ain’t y’ going?” he repeated.
“Leave me alone when I’m chopping wood for the missus,” the man answered; then smiled and muttered to himself. Dad left him alone and went inside wondering.
Next day Mother and Dad were talking at the barn. Mother, bare-headed, was holding some eggs in her apron. Dad was leaning on a hoe.
“I am afraid of him,” Mother said; it’s not right you should keep him about the place. No one’s safe with such a man. Some day he’ll take it in his head to
kill us all, and then---”
“Tut, tut, woman; poor old Jack! he’s harmless as a baby.”
“All right” (sullenly); “you’ll see!”
Dad laughed and went away with the hoe on his shoulder to cut burr.
Middle of summer. Dad and Dave in the paddock mowing lucerne. Jack sinking post-holes for a milking-yard close to the house. Joe at intervals stealing behind him to prick him with straws through a rent in the rear of his patched moleskins. Little Bill—in readiness to run—standing off, enjoying the sport.
Inside the house sat Mother and Sal, sewing and talking of Maloney’s new baby.
“Dear me,” said Mother; it’s the tiniest mite of a thing I ever saw; why, bless me, anyone of y’ at its age would have made three of----”
“Mind, Mother!” Sal shrieked, jumping up on the sofa. Mother screamed and mounted the table. Both gasped for breath, and leaning cautiously over peeped down at a big black snake which had glided in at the front door. Then, pale and scared-looking, they stared across at each other.
The snake crawled over to the safe and drank up some millr which had been spilt on the floor. Mother saw its full length and groaned. The snake wriggled to the leg of the table.
“Look out!” cried Sal, gathering up her skirts and dancing about on the sofa.
Mother squealed hysterically.
Joe appeared. He laughed.
“You wretch!” Mother yelled. “Run!—run and fetch your father!”
Joe went and brought Jack.
“Oh-h, my God!”—Mother moaned, as Jack stood at the door, staring strangely at her. “Kill it!—why don’t he kill it!”
Jack didn’t move, but talked to himself. Mother shuddered.
The reptile crawled to the bedroom door. Then for the first time the man’s eyes rested upon it. It glided into the bedroom, and Mother and Sal ran off for Dad.