by Steele Rudd
Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully up and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a turn at the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan’s company.
A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but didn’t walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and talked to Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan used to forget to talk at all—he would be asleep—and Dad would wonder if he was unwell. Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a good camp. Dan went. He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and spat on the floor and played the concertina—an old one he won in a raffle.
Dan didn’t go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, and drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he would leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch Dad tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he’d yawn, and wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like that on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening when Dad knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out and watched him unharnessing them.
A month passed. Dad wasn’t so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked of going away. One day Anderson’s cows wandered into our yard and surrounded the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, and shouted for those at the house to drive them away. They didn’t hear him. Dad left the plough and ran up and pelted Anderson’s cows with stones and glass-bottles, and pursued them with a pitch-fork till, in a mad rush to get out, half the brutes fell over the fence and made havoc with the wire. Dad spent an hour mending it; then went to the verandah and savagely asked Mother if she had lost her ears. Mother said she hadn’t. “Then why the devil couldn’t y’ hear me singin’ out?” Mother thought it must have been because Dan was playing the concertina. “Oh! damn his concertina!” Dad squealed, and kicked Joe’s little kitten, that was rubbing itself fondly against his leg, clean through the house.
Dan found the selection pretty slow—so he told Mother—and thought he would knock about a bit. He went to the store and bought a supply of ammunition, which he booked to Dad, and started shooting. He stood at the door and put twenty bullets into the barn; then he shot two bears near the stock-yard with twenty more bullets, and dragged both bears down to the house and left them at the back-door. They stayed at the back-door until they went very bad; then Dad hooked himself to them and dragged them down the gully.
Somehow, Dad began to hate Dan! He scarcely ever spoke to him now, and at meal-times never spoke to any of us.
Dad was a hard man to understand. We couldn’t understand him. “And with Dan at home, too!” Sal used to whine. Sal verily idolised Dan. Hero-worship was strong in Sal.
One night Dad came in for supper rather later than usual. He’d had a hard day, and was done up. To make matters worse, when he was taking the collar off Captain the brute tramped heavily on his toe, and took the nail off. Supper wasn’t ready. The dining-room was engaged. Dan was showing Sal how the Prince of Wales schottische was danced in the huts Out Back. For music Sal was humming, and the two were flying about the room. Dad stood at the door and looked on, with blood in his eye.
“Look here!” he thundered suddenly, interrupting Dan—“I’ve had enough of you!” The couple stopped, astonished, and Sal cried, “Dad!” But Dad was hot. “Out of this!” (placing his hand on Dan, and shoving him). “You’ve loafed long enough on me! Off y’ go t’ th’ devil!”
Dan went over to Anderson’s, and Anderson took him in and kept him a week. Then Dan took Anderson down at a new game of cards, and went away West again.
CHAPTER XV.
Our Circus.
DAVE had been to town and came home full of circus. He sat on the ground beside the tubs while Mother and Sal were washing, and raved about the riding and the tumbling he had seen. He talked enthusiastically to Joe about it every day for three weeks. Dave rose very high in Joe’s estimation.
Raining. All of us inside. Sal on the sofa playing the concertina; Dad squatting on the edge of a flat stone at the corner of the fireplace; Dave on another opposite; both gazing into the fire, which was almost out, and listening intently to the music; the dog, dripping wet, coiled at their feet, shivering; Mother sitting dreamily at the table, her palm pressed against her cheek, also enjoying the music.
Sal played on until the concertina broke. Then there was a silence.
For a while Dave played with a piece of charcoal. At last he spoke.
“Well,” he said, looking at Dad, “what about this circus?”
Dad chuckled.
“But what d’ y’ think?”
“Well” (Dad paused), “yes” (chuckled again)—“very well.”
“A circus!” Sal put in—“a pretty circus yous’d have!”
Dave fired up.
“You go and ride the red heifer, strad-legs, same as y’ did yesterday,” he snarled, “an’ let all th’ country see y’.”
Sal blushed.
Then to Dad:
“I’m certain, with Paddy Maloney in it, we could do it right enough, and make it pay, too.”
“Very well, then,” said Dad, “very well. There's th’ tarpaulin there, and plenty bales and old bags whenever you’re ready.”
Dave was delighted, and he and Dad and Joe ran out to see where the tent could be pitched, and ran in again wetter than the dog.
One day a circus-tent went up in our yard. It attracted a lot of notice. Two of the Johnsons and old Anderson and others rode in on draught-horses and inspected it. And Smith’s spring-cart horse, that used to be driven by every day, stopped in the middle of the lane and stared at it; and, when Smith stood up and belted him with the double of the reins, he bolted and upset the cart over a stump. It wasn’t a very white tent. It was made of bags and green bushes, and Dad and Dave and Paddy Maloney were two days putting it up.
We all assisted in the preparations for the circus. Dad built seats out of forked sticks and slabs, and Joe gathered jam-tins which Mother filled with fat and moleskin wicks to light up with.
Everyone in the district knew about our circus, and longed for the opening night. It came. A large fire near the slip-rails, shining across the lane and lighting up a corner of the wheat-paddock, showed the way in.
Dad stood at the door to take the money. The Andersons—eleven of them—arrived first. They didn’t walk straight in. They hung about for a while. Then Anderson sidled up to Dad and talked into his ear. “Oh! that’s all right,” Dad said, and passed them all in without taking any money.
Next came the Maloneys, and, as Paddy belonged to the circus, they also walked in without paying, and secured front seats.
Then Jim Brown and Sam Holmes, and Walter Nutt, and Steve Burton, and eight others strolled along. Dad owed all of them money for binding, which they happened to remember. “In yous go,” Dad said, and in the lot went. The tent filled quickly, and the crowd awaited the opening act.
Paddy Maloney came forward with his hair oiled and combed, and rang the cow-bell.
Dave, bare-footed and bare-headed, in snow-white moles and red shirt, entered standing majestically upon old Ned’s back. He got a great reception. But Ned was tired and refused to canter. He jogged lazily round the ring. Dave shouted at him and rocked about. He was very unsteady. Paddy Maloney flogged Ned with the leg-rope. But Ned had been flogged often before. He got slower and slower. Suddenly, he stood and cocked his tail, and, to prevent himself falling, Dave jumped off. Then the audience yelled while Dave dragged Ned into the dressing-room and punched him on the nose.
Paddy Maloney made a speech. He said: “Well, the next item on the programme’ll knock y’ bandy. Keep quiet, you fellows, now, an’ y’ll see somethin’.”
They saw Joe. He stepped backwards into the ring, pulling at a string. There was something on the string “Come on!” Joe said, tugging. The “something” wouldn’t come. “Chuck ’im in!” Joe called out. Then the pet kangaroo
was heaved in through the doorway, and fell on its head and raised the dust. A great many ugly dogs rushed for it savagely. The kangaroo jumped up and bounded round the ring. The dogs pursued him noisily. “Gerrout!” Joe shouted, and the crowd stood up and became very enthusiastic. The dogs caught the kangaroo, and were dragging him to earth when Dad rushed in and kicked them in twos to the top of the tent. Then, while Johnson expostulated with Dad for laming his brindle slut, the kangaroo dived through a hole in the tent and rushed into the house and into the bedroom, and sprang on the bed among a lot of babies and women’s hats.
When the commotion subsided Paddy Maloney rang the cow-bell again, and Dave and “Podgy,” the pet sheep, rode out on Nugget. Podgy sat with hind-legs astride the horse and his head leaning back against Dave’s chest. Dave (standing up) bent over him with a pair of shears in his hand. He was to shear Podgy as the horse cantered round.
Paddy Maloney touched Nugget with the whip, and off he went—“rump-ti-dee, dump-ti-dee.” Dave rolled about a lot the first time round, but soon got his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and plunged the points of them into Podgy’s belly-wool—also into Podgy’s skin. “Bur-ur-r!” Podgy blurted and struggled violently. Dave began to topple about. He dropped the shears. The audience guffawed. Then Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns got caught in his clothes and made trouble. Dave hung on one side of the horse and the sheep dangled on the other. Dave sang out, so did Podgy. And the horse stopped and snorted, then swung furiously round and round until five or six pair of hands seized his head and held him.
Dave didn’t repeat the act. He ran away holding his clothes together.
It was a very successful circus. Everyone enjoyed it and wished to see it again—everyone but the Maloneys. They said it was a swindle, and ran Dad down because he didn’t divide with Paddy the 3s. 6d. he took at the door.
Chapter XVI.
When Joe was in Charge.
JOE was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time—time that Dad considered should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes—in ear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them go without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. They belonged to Joe.
Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good one he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or Dad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish.
One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and lithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close to his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe understood the ways of a reptile.
There was no cage—Dad had burnt the last one—so Joe walked round the room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She didn’t go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe giggled and wondered how long the cat would live.
The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen McKenzie’s baby, called in for a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe’s health.
“Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then,” Joe said, handing the parson the reptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, “an’ I’ll gug-gug-get y’ one.” But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back and fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey grabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for his horse—followed by Bluey. Joe cried, “Kum, ’ere!” then turned inside.
Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup of tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing with the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, but the snake caught him—by the finger.
“He’s bit me!” Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal bolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard.
Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. He examined Joe’s finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm when Dad rushed in.
“Where is he?” he said. “Oh, you d---d whelp! You wretch of a boy! My God!”
“’Twasn’ my fault.” And Joe began to blubber.
But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost barneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for Sweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation for curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean, and turned her head for Sweeney’s. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and wouldn’t go further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down and ran back.
“The boy’ll be dead, Anderson,” he cried, rushing inside again.
“Come on then,” Anderson said, “we’ll take off his finger.”
Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.
“No, Dad, no!” he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal’s assistance held his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the hammer down. It didn’t sever the finger—it only scraped the nail off—but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and got away.
Anderson couldn’t run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe had disappeared in the corn.
“Quick!” Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night came. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the grass-paddock.
At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, and looked distracted.
While they sat, “Whisky,” a blackfellow from Billson’s station, dropped in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave’s bed; Dave slept on the sofa.
" If Joe ain’t dead, and wuz t’ come in before mornin’,” Dave said, “there won’t be room for us all.”
And before morning Joe did come in. He entered stealthily by the back-door, and crawled quietly into bed.
At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate, and said:
“Dave, the cocks has crowed!” No answer. He nudged him again.
“Dave, the hens is all off the roost!” Still no reply.
Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up—he was at the back—and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and chuckled and said:
"Who’s been blackenin’ y’, Dave?”
He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his trousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into them when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot of the bed. He stared at them and the black face again—then plunged for the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of the bed at him.
"Wot makit you so fritent like that?” he said, grinning more.
Joe ran into Mother’s room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore, and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying:
“My Gawd! You devil of a feller, how (kick) dare you (kick) run (kick) run (kick, kick, kick) away yesterday, eh?” (kick).
But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle Hut would not have been the same place at all without Joe.
It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo- scalps that Joe was most appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man in the house—even if it was only Joe.
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p; Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection, minded the corn, kept Anderson’s and Dwyer’s and Brown’s and old Mother Murphy’s cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door the same as Dad used to do—for Joe felt that he was in Dad’s place, and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas.
It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. A starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, talkative, ragged and grey; and he walked with a bend in his back (not a hump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him before. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not exactly a “traveller;” he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair of boots much too large. He seemed to have been “well brought up”—he took off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were sitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying at Mother’s feet, rose and growled. Bluey wasn’t used to the ways of people well brought up.
The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother’s heart. “God buless y’,” he said when she told him he could have some dinner; “but I’ll cut y’ wood for it; oh, I’ll cut y’ wood!” and he went to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; but it didn’t matter to Casey. He worked hard, and didn’t stare about, and didn’t reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called him to dinner he couldn’t hear—he was too busy. Joe had to go and bring him away.
Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through which the sun was shining.
“Ought t’ be a cool house,” he remarked.
Mother said it was.
“Quite a bush house.”
“Oh, yes,” Mother said—“we 're right in the bush here.”
He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and crops and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle. Casey was a versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the sofa and asked Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and said, “Twelve.” He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and said that his mother, when he left home, had twenty-one—all girls but him. That was forty years ago, and he didn’t know how many she had since. Mother and Sal smiled. They began to like old Casey.