by Steele Rudd
Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though he never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, swear with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through the whole afternoon without repeating himself.
Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive He hadn’t gone once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that had been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot heavily upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It clung to him. He hopped along on one leg, trying to kick it off; still it clung to him. He fell down. The horses and the tree got mixed up, and everything was confusion.
Dave abused Joe remorselessly. “Go on!” he howled, waving in the air a fistful of grass and weeds which he had pulled from the nose of the plough; “clear out of this altogether!—you’re only a damn nuisance.”
Joe’s eyes rested on the fistful of grass. They lit up suddenly.
"L-l-look out, Dave,” he stuttered; “y’-y’ got a s-s-snake.”
Dave dropped the grass promptly. A deaf-adder crawled out of it. Joe killed it. Dave looked closely at his hand, which was all scratches and scars. He looked at it again; then he sat on the beam of the plough, pale and miserable-looking.
“D-d-did it bite y’, Dave?” No answer.
Joe saw a chance to distinguish himself, and took it. He ran home, glad to be the bearer of the news, and told Mother that “Dave’s got bit by a adder—a sudden-death adder—right on top o’ th’ finger.”
How Mother screamed! “My God! whatever shall we do? Run quick,” she said, “and bring Mr. Maloney. Dear! oh dear! oh dear!”
Joe had not calculated on this injunction. He dropped his head and said sullenly: “Wot, walk all the way over there?”
Before he could say another word a tin-dish left a dinge on the back of his skull that will accompany him to his grave if he lives to be a thousand.
“You wretch, you! Why don’t you run when I tell you?”
Joe sprang in the air like a shot wallaby.
“I’ll not go at all now—y’ see!” he answered, starting to cry. Then Sal put on her hat and ran for Maloney.
Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill.
Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about frantically and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and tried to think what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and ran for the carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes.
He motioned her with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away.
Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind his man—Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children.
“Phwat’s th’ thrubble?” cried Maloney. “Bit be a dif-adher? O, be the tares of war!” Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to be got out of him.
Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then— " Hould up yer hand!” he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his arm violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, and kicked wickedly.
“The pison's wurrkin’,” whispered Maloney quite loud.
“Oh, my gracious!” groaned Mother.
“The poor crathur,” said Mrs. Maloney.
There was a pause.
“Phwhat finger’s bit?” asked Maloney. Joe thought it was the littlest one of the lot.
He approached the sofa again, knife in hand.
“Show me yer finger,” he said to Dave.
For the first time Dave spoke. He said:
“Damn y’—what the devil do y’ want? Clear out and lea’ me ’lone.”
Maloney hesitated. There was a long silence. Dave commenced breathing heavily.
“It’s maikin’ ’m slape,” whispered Maloney, glancing over his shoulder at the women.
“Don’t let him! Don’t let him!” Mother wailed.
“Salvation to ’s all!” muttered Mrs. Maloney, piously crossing herself.
Maloney put away the knife and beckoned to his man, who was looking on from the door. They both took a firm hold of Dave and stood him upon his feet. He looked hard and contemptuously at Maloney for some seconds. Then with gravity and deliberation Dave said: “Now wot ’n th’ devil are y’ up t’? Are y’ mad?”
“Walk'm along, Jaimes—walk’m along,” was all Maloney had to say. And out into the yard they marched him. How Dave did struggle to get away!—swearing and cursing Maloney for a cranky Irishman till he foamed at the mouth, all of which the other put to snake-poison. Round and round the yard and up and down it they trotted him till long after dark, until there wasn’t a struggle left in him.
They placed him on the sofa again, Maloney keeping him awake with a strap. How Dave ground his teeth and kicked and swore whenever he felt that strap! And they sat and watched him.
It was late in the night when Dad came from town. He staggered in with the neck of a bottle showing out of his pocket. In his hand was a piece of paper wrapped round the end of some yards of sausage. The dog outside carried the other end.
“An’ ’e ishn’t dead?” Dad said after hearing what had befallen Dave. “Don’ b’leevsh id—wuzhn’t bit. Die ’fore shun’own ifsh desh ad’er bish’m.”
“Bit!” Dave said bitterly, turning round to the surprise of everyone. “I never said I was bit. No one said I was—only those snivelling idiots and that pumpkin-headed Irish pig there.”
Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes.
“Zhackly. Did’n’ I (hic) shayzo, ’Loney? Did’n’ I, eh, ol’ wom’n!” Dad mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest.
Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading question to Joe.
“He muster been bit,” Joe answered, “’cuz he had the d-death-adder in his hand.”
More silence.
“Mush die ’fore shun’own,” Dad murmured.
Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke. “Bridgy!” he cried, “where’s th’ childer?” Mrs. Maloney gathered them up.
Just then Dad seemed to be dreaming. He swayed about. His head hung lower, and he muttered: “Shen’l’m’n, yoush disharged wish shanksh y’cun’ry.”
The Maloneys left.
Dave is still alive and well, and silent as ever; and if any one question is more intolerable and irritating to him than another, it is to be asked if he remembers the time he was bitten by a deaf-adder.
Chapter X.
Dad and the Donovans.
A SWELTERING summer’s afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the very weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal ironing, mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how hot it was. The dog stretched across the doorway. A child’s bonnet on the floor—the child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the slip-rails.
Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days. The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to keep the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut green stuff for him— which the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly refused to drink; and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up and go on with the ploughing. I don’t know if Dad knew anything of mesmerism, but he used to stand for long intervals dumbly staring the old horse full in the eyes till in a commanding voice he would bid him “Get up!” But Farmer lacked the patriotism of the back-block poets. He was obdurate, and not once did he "awake,” not to mention “arise.” This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put down the bucket of water wh
ich he was carrying and ran, shouting angrily. A flock of crows flew away from Farmer and “cawed” from a tree close by.
Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the animal’s eyes was gone and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he sat down and hid his face in his big rough hands.
“Caw, caw!” came from the tree.
Dad rose and looked up. “Curse you!” he hissed—“you black wretches of hell!”
“Caw, caw, caw!”
He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and away flew the crows.
Joe arrived.
“W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?”
Dad turned on him, trembling with rage.
“Oh, you son of the Devil!” he commenced. “You worthless pup, you! Look there! Do you see that?” (He pointed to the horse.) “Didn’t I tell you to mind him ? Didn---”
“Yes,” snivelled Joe; “but Anderson’s dog had a k-k-kangaroo bailed up.”
“Damn you, be off out of this!” And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe which struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two broken legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the corn like an emu into a scrub.
Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that he was wanted. He went in reluctantly.
Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican, butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be well-in, though some said that if everybody had their own he wouldn’t be worth much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything—or fondly imagined he did—from the law to horse-surgery. There was money to be made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how to make it—the majority, he proclaimed, didn’t know enough to get under a tree when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never giving more than a “tenner” for a £20 beast, or selling a £10 one for less than £20. And few knew Donovan better than did Dad, or had been taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion Dad was in no easy or benevolent frame of mind.
He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about the bush until Donovan said:
“Have you any fat steers to sell?”
Dad hadn’t. “But,” he added, “I can sell you a horse.” “Which one?” asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad did—perhaps better.
“The bay—Farmer.”
“How much?”
“Seven pounds.” Now, Farmer was worth £14, if worth a shilling—that is, before he took sick—and Donovan knew it well.
“Seven,” he repeated, ponderingly. “Give you six.”
Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the horse for nothing.
“Split the difference, then—make it six-ten?”
Dad rose and looked out the window.
“There he is now,” he remarked, sadly, “in the gully there.”
“Well, what’s it to be—six-ten or nothing?” renewed Donovan.
“All right, then,” Dad replied, demurely, “take him!”
The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the Donovans left.
Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. He wasn’t dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. “There he is,” said Dad, grinning.
Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at Farmer, then at Dad.
“Well?” Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.
“You swindling old crawler!” he said, and galloped away. It was well for him he got a good start.
For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little paddock at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go out in his shirt.
We put them back into the big paddock again, and the first night they were there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans—we knew it was the Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad’s mind; for the Donovans got into “trouble,” and were reported to be “doing time.” That pleased Dad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie himself.
Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy and disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted on roosting on the cross-beam.
Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have husked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was dark. He bade the dogs “Lie down.” They barked louder. “Damn you—lie down!” he roared. They shut up. Then a voice from the darkness said:
“Is that you, Mr. Rudd?”
Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor was. He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he returned, and said it was young Donovan.
“Donovan! Mick Donovan?” exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. Maloney and Joe echoed “Mick Donovan?” They were surprised.
“He’s none too welcome,” said Anderson, thinking of his horses and cows. Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over again that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in gaol along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There was something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then consulted with Dave.
They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a low voice: “He’s come a hundred mile to-day, ’n’ his horse is dead-beat, ’n’ he wants one t’ take him t’ Back Creek t’-morrer ’n’ leave this one in his place... Wot d’ y’ think?” Dave seemed to think a great deal, for he said nothing.
“Now,” continued Dad, “it’s me opinion the horse isn’t his; it’s one he’s shook—an’ I’ve an idea.” Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in the idea. A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea.
That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad was very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as he must see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the paddock together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. Dad stood and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without speaking.
“Why, damn it!” he exclaimed, at last, “that’s my own horse... You don’t mean... S’ help me! Old Bess’s foal!” Donovan told him he was making a mistake.
“Mistake be hanged!” replied Dad, walking round the animal. “Not much of a mistake about him!”
Just here Dave appeared, as was proper.
“Do you know this horse?” Dad asked him. “Yes, of course,” he answered, surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, “Bess’s foal!—of course it is.”
“There you are!” said Dad, grinning triumphantly.
Donovan seemed uneasy.
Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course Joe knew Bess’s foal—“the one that got stole.”
There was a silence.
"Now,” said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y’ got t’ say? Who’d y’ get him off, and show’s y’r receipt.”
Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.
“Then,” Dad went on, " clear out of this as fast as you can go, an’ think y’self lucky.”
He cleared, but on foot.
Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:
; “One too many f’ y’ that time, Mick Donovan!” Then to Dave, who was still looking at the horse: “He’s a stolen one right enough, but he’s a beauty, and we’ll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well—if he is the owner—he can have him, that’s all.”
We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. “Orright”—Dad said—“take him.” The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer got Dad off; but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad didn’t grudge them, for he reckoned we’d had value. Besides, he was even with the Donovans for the two cows.
Chapter XI.
A Splendid Year for Corn.
WE had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched at the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad’s. Bill and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the fat-lamp into burning order by poking it with a table fork.
Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the roof. He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or counting the stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he wasn’t—there was no such sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long years of toil and worry had been rewarded again and again by disappointment— wondering if ever there would be a turn in his luck, and how he was going to get enough out of the land that season to pay interest and keep Mother and us in bread and meat.