by Steele Rudd
Jack fixed his eyes on the snake and continued muttering to himself. Several times it made an attempt to mount the dressing-table. Finally it succeeded. Suddenly Jack’s demeanour changed. He threw off his ragged hat and talked wildly. A fearful expression filled his ugly features. His voice altered.
“You’re the Devil!” he said; “the Devil! THE DEVIL! The missus brought you—ah-h-h!”
The snake’s head passed behind the looking-glass. Jack drew nearer, clenching his fists and gesticulating. As he did he came full before the looking-glass and saw, perhaps for the first time in his life, his own image. An unearthly howl came from him. “Me father!” he shouted, and bolted from the house.
Dad came in with the long-handled shovel, swung it about the room, and smashed pieces off the cradle, and tore the bed-curtains down, and made a great noise altogether. Finally, he killed the snake and put it on the fire; and Joe and the cat watched it wriggle on the hot coals.
Meanwhile, Jack, bare-headed, rushed across the yard. He ran over little Bill, and tumbled through the wire-fence on to the broad of his back. He roared like a wild beast, clutched at space, and spat, and kicked his heels in the air.
“Let me up!—ah-h-h!—let go me throat!” he hissed.
The dog ran over and barked at him. He found his feet again, and, making off, ran though the wheat, glancing back over his shoulder as he tore along. He crossed into the grass paddock, and running to a big tree dodged round and round it. Then from tree to tree he went, and that evening at sundown, when Joe was bringing the cows home, Jack was still flying from “his father.”
After supper.
“I wonder now what the old fool saw in that snake to send him off his head like that?” Dad said, gazing wonderingly into the fire. “He sees plenty of them, goodness knows.”
“That wasn’t it. It wasn’t the snake at all,” Mother said; “there was madness in the man’s eyes all the while. I saw it the moment he came to the door.” She appealed to Sal.
“Nonsense!” said Dad; “nonsense!” and he tried to laugh.
“Oh, of course it’s nonsense,” Mother went on; “everything I say is nonsense. It won’t be nonsense when you come home some day and find us all on the floor with our throats cut.”
“Pshaw!” Dad answered; “what’s the use of talking like that?” Then to Dave: “Go out and see if he’s in the barn!”
Dave fidgetted. He didn’t like the idea. Joe giggled.
“Surely you’re not frightened?” Dad shouted.
Dave coloured up.
“No—don’t think so,” he said; and, after a pause, “You go and see.”
It was Dad’s turn to feel uneasy. He pretended to straighten the fire, and coughed several times. “Perhaps it’s just as well,” he said, “to let him be to-night.”
Of course, Dad wasn’t afraid; he said he wasn’t, but he drove the pegs in the doors and windows before going to bed that night.
Next morning, Dad said to Dave and Joe, “Come ’long, and we’ll see where he’s got to.”
In a gully at the back of the grass-paddock they found him. He was ploughing—sitting astride the highest limb of a fallen tree, and, in a hoarse voice and strange, calling out —“Gee, Captain!—come here, Tidy!—wa-ay!”
“Blowed if I know,” Dad muttered, coming to a standstill. “Wonder if he is clean mad?”
Dave was speechless, and Joe began to tremble.
They listened. And as the man’s voice rang out in the quiet gully and the echoes rumbled round the ridge and the affrighted birds flew up, the place felt eerie somehow.
“It’s no use bein’ afraid of him,” Dad went on. “We must go and bounce him, that’s all.” But there was a tremor in Dad’s voice which Dave didn’t like.
“See if he knows us, anyway”—and Dad shouted, “Hey-y!”
Jack looked up and immediately scrambled from the limb. That was enough for Dave. He turned and made tracks. So did Dad and Joe. They ran. No one could have run harder. Terror overcame Joe. He squealed and grabbed hold of Dad’s shirt, which was ballooning in the wind.
“Let go!” Dad gasped. “Damn y’, let me go!”—trying to shake him off. But Joe had great faith in his parent, and clung to him closely.
When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and seeing that Jack wasn’t pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the others.
“Eh?” Dad said, completely winded—“Eh?” Then to Dave, when he got some breath:
“Well, you are an ass of a fellow. (Puff!) What th’ devil did y’ run f’?”
“Wot did I run f’? Wot did you run f’?”
“Bah!” and Dad boldly led the way back.
“Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don’t you come catching hold of me again, or if y’ do I’ll knock y’r d----d head off! ... Clear home altogether, and get under the bed if y’r as frightened as that.”
Joe slunk behind.
But when Dad did approach Jack, which wasn’t until he had talked a great deal to him across a big log, the latter didn’t show any desire to take life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the barn quietly enough.
Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone approached the door or the cracks he would ask:
“Is me father there yet?”
“Your father’s dead and buried long ago, man,” Dad used to tell him.
“Yes,” he would say, “but he’s alive again. The missus keeps him in there”—indicating the house.
And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack and say:
“Here’s y’r father, Jack!” Then, like a caged beast, the man would howl and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while Joe would bolt inside and tell Mother that “Jack’s getting out,” and nearly send her to her grave.
But one day Jack did get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing, came to the door with the axe on his shoulder.
They dropped the irons, and shrank into a corner and cowered piteously—too scared even to cry out.
He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tiptoes, approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to grip the axe with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered the room and shattered the looking-glass into fragments.
He bent down and looked closely at the pieces
“He’s dead now,” he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.
Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut. He's the best horse Dad ever had. He slaves from daylight till dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages. His name we never knew. We call him “Jack.” The neighbours call him “Cranky Jack.”
Chapter VIII.
A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut.
WE always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it, and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger.
A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the marsupial; and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular Sabbath. Of course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo every Sunday, but “on their own,” and always on foot, which had its fatigues. This was to be a raid en masse and on horseback. The whole country-side was to assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It assembled; and what a collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame lot of horses! and such a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame kangaroo-dogs!
We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one with a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk of the brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open the safe.
Dad loosed o
ur three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. They had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. Dad didn’t believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in dogs and coursing at “home” on his grandfather’s large estates, and always found them fleetest when empty. Ours ought to have been fleet as locomotives.
Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing beside his mount—Farmer, the plough-horse, who was arrayed in winkers with green-hide reins, and an old saddle with only one flap. He was holding an earnest argument with Joe … Still the crowd waited. Still Dad and Joe argued the point … There was a murmur and a movement and much merriment. Dad was coming; so was Joe—perched behind him, “double bank,” rapidly wiping the tears from his eyes with his knuckles.
Hooray! They were off. Paddy Maloney and Dave took the lead, heading for kangaroo country along the foot of Dead Man’s Mountain and through Smith’s paddock, where there was a low wire fence to negotiate. Paddy spread his coat over it and jumped his mare across. He was a horseman, was Pat. The others twisted a stick in the wires, and proceeded carefully to lead their horses over. When it came to Farmer’s turn he hesitated. Dad coaxed him. Slowly he put one leg across, as if feeling his way, and paused again. Joe was on his back behind the saddle. Dad tugged hard at the winkers. Farmer was inclined to withdraw his leg. Dad was determined not to let him. Farmer’s heel got caught against the wire, and he began to pull back and grunt—so did Dad. Both pulled hard. Anderson and old Brown ran to Dad’s assistance. The trio planted their heels in the ground and leaned back.
Joe became afraid. He clutched at the saddle and cried “Let me off!” “Stick to him!” said Paddy Maloney, hopping over the fence, “Stick to him!” He kicked Farmer what he afterwards called “a sollicker on the tail.” Again he kicked him. Still Farmer strained and hung back. Once more he let him have it. Then—off flew the winkers, and over went Dad and Anderson and old Brown, and down rolled Joe and Farmer on the other side of the fence. The others leant against their horses and laughed the laugh of their lives. “Worse ’n a lot of d----d jackasses,” Dad was heard to say. They caught Farmer and led him to the fence again. He jumped it, and rose feet higher than he had any need to, and had not old Brown dodged him just when he did he would be a dead man now.
A little further on the huntsmen sighted a mob of kangaroos. Joy and excitement. A mob? It was a swarm! Away they hopped. Off scrambled the dogs, and off flew Paddy Maloney and Dave—the rest followed anyhow, and at various rates of speed.
That all those dogs should have selected and followed the same kangaroo was sad and humiliating. And such a waif of a thing, too! Still, they stuck to it. For more than a mile, down a slope, the weedy marsupial outpaced them, but when it came to the hill the daylight between rapidly began to lessen. A few seconds more and all would have been over, but a straggling, stupid old ewe, belonging to an unneighbourly squatter, darted up from the shade of a tree right in the way of Maloney’s Brindle, who was leading. Brindle always preferred mutton to marsupial, so he let the latter slide and secured the ewe. The death-scene was most imposing. The ground around was strewn with small tufts of white wool. There was a complete circle of eager, wriggling dogs—all jammed together, heads down, and tails elevated. Not a scrap of the ewe was visible. Paddy Maloney jumped down and proceeded to batter the brutes vigorously with a waddy. As the others arrived, they joined him. The dogs were hungry, and fought for every inch of the sheep. Those not laid out were pulled away, and when old Brown had dragged the last one off by the hind legs, all that was left of that ewe was four feet and some skin.
Dad shook his head and looked grave—so did Anderson. After a short rest they decided to divide into parties and work the ridges. A start was made. Dad’s contingent—consisting of himself and Joe, Paddy Maloney, Anderson, old Brown, and several others—started a mob. This time the dogs separated and scampered off in all directions. In quick time Brown’s black slut bailed up an “old man” full of fight. Nothing was more desirable. He was a monster, a king kangaroo; and as he raised himself to his full height on his toes and tail he looked formidable—a grand and majestic demon of the bush. The slut made no attempt to tackle him; she stood off with her tongue out. Several small dogs belonging to Anderson barked energetically at him, even venturing occasionally to run behind and bite his tail. But, further than grabbing them in his arms and embracing them, he took no notice. There he towered, his head back and chest well out, awaiting the horsemen. They came, shouting and hooraying. He faced them defiantly. Anderson, aglow with excitement, dismounted and aimed a lump of rock at his head, which laid out one of the little dogs. They pelted him with sticks and stones till their arms were tired, but they might just as well have pelted a dead cow. Paddy Maloney took out his stirrup. “Look out!” he cried. They looked out. Then, galloping up, he swung the iron at the marsupial, and nearly knocked his horse’s eye out.
Dad was disgusted. He and Joe approached the enemy on Farmer. Dad carried a short stick. The “old man” looked him straight in the face. Dad poked the stick at him. He promptly grabbed hold of it, and a piece of Dad’s hand as well. Farmer had not been in many battles—no Defence Force man ever owned him. He threw up his head and snorted, and commenced a retreat. The kangaroo followed him up and seized Dad by the shirt. Joe evinced signs of timidity. He lost faith in Dad, and half jumping, half falling, he landed on the ground, and set out speedily for a tree. Dad lost the stick, and in attempting to brain the brute with his fist he overbalanced and fell out of the saddle. He struggled to his feet, and clutched his antagonist affectionately by both paws—standing well away. Backwards and forwards, and round and round they moved. “Use your knife!” Anderson called out, getting further away himself. But Dad dared not relax his grip. Paddy Maloney ran behind the brute several times to lay him out with a waddy, but each time he turned and fled before striking the blow. Dad thought to force matters, and began kicking his assailant vigorously in the stomach. Such dull, heavy thuds! The kangaroo retaliated, putting Dad on the defensive. Dad displayed remarkable suppleness about the hips. At last the brute fixed his deadly toe in Dad’s belt.
It was an anxious moment, but the belt broke, and Dad breathed freely again. He was acting entirely on the defensive, but an awful consciousness of impending misfortune assailed him. His belt was gone, and—his trousers began to slip—slip—slip! He called wildly to the others for God’s sake to do something. They helped with advice. He yelled “Curs!” and “Cowards!” back at them. Still, as he danced around with his strange and ungainly partner, his trousers kept slipping—slipping! For the fiftieth time and more he glanced eagerly over his shoulder for some haven of safety. None was near. And then—oh, horror!—down they slid calmly and noiselessly. Poor Dad! He was at a disadvantage; his leg-work was hampered. He was hobbled. Could he only get free of them altogether! But he couldn’t—his feet were large. He took a lesson from the foe and jumped—jumped this way and that way, and round about, while large drops of perspiration rolled off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and ridiculous ferocity, often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad became exhausted—there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went down. Twice he tripped. He staggered again—down he was going—down, down—and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on the “old man.” The rest may be imagined.
Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer again and silently turned for home, Paddy Maloney was triumphantly seated on the carcase of the fallen enemy, exultingly explaining how he missed the brute’s head with the stirrup-iron, and claiming the tail.
Chapter IX.
Dave’s Snakebite.
ONE hot day, as we were finishing dinner, a sheriff’s bailiff rode up to the door. Norah saw him first. She was dressed up ready to go over to Mrs. Anderson’s to tea. Sometimes young Harr
ison had tea at Anderson’s—Thursdays, usually. This was Thursday; and Norah was starting early, because it was “a good step of a way.” She reported the visitor. Dad left the table, munching some bread, and went out to him. Mother looked out of the door; Sal went to the window; little Bill and Tom peeped through a crack; Dave remained at his dinner; and Joe knavishly seized the opportunity of exploring the table for leavings, finally seating himself in Dad’s place, and commencing where Dad had left off.
“Jury-summons,” said the meek bailiff, extracting a paper from his breast-pocket, and reading, “Murtagh Joseph Rudd, selector, Shingle Hut ... Correct?”
Dad nodded assent.
“Got any water?”
There wasn’t a drop in the cask, so Dad came in and asked Mother if there was any tea left. She pulled a long, solemn, Sunday-school face, and looked at Joe, who was holding the teapot upside-down, shaking the tea-leaves into his cup.
“Tea, Dad?” he chuckled—“by golly!”
Dad didn’t think it worth while going out to the bailiff again. He sent Joe.
“Not any at all?”
“Nothink,” said Joe.
“H’m! Nulla bona, eh?” And the Law smiled at its own joke and went off thirsty.
Thus it was that Dad came to be away one day when his great presence of mind and ability as a bush doctor was most required at Shingle Hut.
Dave took Dad’s place at the plough. One of the horses—a colt that Dad bought with the money he got for helping with Anderson’s crop—had only just been broken. He was bad at starting. When touched with the rein he would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few steps; then plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a swingle-tree or something else didn't break, and Dave kept the plough in, he ripped and tore along in style, bearing in and bearing out, and knocking the old horse about till that much-enduring animal became as cranky as himself, and the pace terrible. Down would go the plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull on the reins, Dave would haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would rush up and kick the colt on the root of the tail; and if that didn’t make him put his leg over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his heel and lamed himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and fall back on the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was not a stitch left on him but the winkers.