On Our Selection (Illustrated)

by Steele Rudd

  Dad said: “Damn it, what are y’ ’fraid o’, boy ? That’ll hold—jump on.”

  Paddy said : “Now, Dave, while I’ve ’is ’ead round.”

  Joe (just arrived with the cattle-pup) chipped in.

  He said: “Wot, is he fuf-fuf-fuf-f-rikent of him, Dad?”

  Dave heard them. A tear like a hailstone dropped out of his eye.

  “It’s all damn well t’ talk,” he fired off; “come in and ride th’—horse then, if y’ s’—game!”

  A dead silence.

  The cattle-pup broke away from Joe and strolled into the yard. It barked feebly at Callaghan, then proceeded to worry his heels. It seemed to take Callaghan for a calf. Callaghan kicked it up against the rails. It must have taken him for a cow then.

  Dave’s blood was up. He was desperate. He grabbed the reins roughly, put his foot in the stirrup, gripped the side of the pommel, and was on before you could say “Woolloongabba.”

  With equal alacrity, Paddy let the colt’s head go and made tracks, chuckling. The turn things had taken delighted him. Excitement (and pumpkin) was all that kept Paddy alive. But Callaghan didn’t budge—at least not until Dave dug both heels into him. Then he made a blind rush and knocked out a panel of the yard—and got away with Dave. Off he went, plunging, galloping, pig-jumping, breaking loose limbs and bark off trees with Dave’s legs. A wire-fence was in his way. It parted like the Red Sea when he came to it—he crashed into it and rolled over. The saddle was dangling under his belly when he got up; Dave and the bridle were under the fence. But the storm had come, and such a storm! Hailstones as big as apples nearly—first one here and there, and next moment in thousands.

  Paddy Maloney and Joe ran for the house; Dave, with an injured ankle and a cut head, limped painfully in the same direction; but Dad saw the plough-horses turning and twisting about in their chains and set out for them. He might as well have started off to cross the continent. A hailstone, large enough to kill a cow, fell with a thud a yard or two in advance of him, and he slewed like a hare and made for the house also. He was getting it hot. Now and again his hands would go up to protect his head, but he couldn’t run that way—he couldn’t run much any way.

  The others reached the house and watched Dad make from the back-door. Mother called to him to “Run, run!” Poor Dad! he was running. Paddy Maloney was joyful. He danced about and laughed vociferously at the hail bouncing off Dad. Once Dad staggered—a hail-boulder had struck him behind the ear—and he looked like dropping. Paddy hit himself on the leg, and vehemently invited Dave to “Look, look at him!” But Dad battled along to the haystack, buried his head in it, and stayed there till the storm was over—wriggling and moving his feet as though he were tramping chaff.

  Shingles were dislodged from the roof of the house, and huge hailstones pelted in and put the fire out, and split the table, and fell on the sofa and the beds.

  Rain fell also, but we didn’t catch any in the cask—the wind blew the spout away. It was a curled piece of bark. Nevertheless, the storm did good. We didn’t lose all the potatoes. We got some out of them. We had them for dinner one Sunday.

  Chapter XXIII.

  The Agricultural Reporter.

  IT had been a dull, miserable day, and a cold westerly was blowing. Dave and Joe were at the barn finishing up for the day.

  Dad was inside grunting and groaning with toothache. He had had it a week, and was nearly mad. For a while he sat by the fire, prodding the tooth with his pocket-knife; then he covered his jaw with his hand and went out and walked about the yard.

  Joe asked him if he had seen Nell’s foal anywhere that day. He didn’t answer.

  “Did y’ see the brown foal any place ter-day, Dad?”

  “Damn the brown foal!”—and Dad went inside again.

  He walked round and round the table and in and out the back room till Mother nearly cried with pity.

  “Isn’t it any easier at all, Father?” she said commiseratingly.

  “How the devil can it be easier? ... Oh-h!”

  The kangaroo-dog had coiled himself snugly on a bag before the fire. Dad kicked him savagely and told him to get out. The dog slunk sulkily to the door, his tail between his legs, and his back humped as if expecting another kick. He got it. Dad sat in the ashes then, and groaned lamentably. The dog walked in at the back door and dropped on the bag again.

  Joe came in to say that “Two coves out there wants somethink.”

  Dad paid no attention.

  The two “coves”—a pressman, in new leggings, and Canty, the storekeeper—came in. Mother brought a light. Dad moaned, but didn’t look up.

  “Well, Mr. Rudd,” the pressman commenced (he was young and fresh-looking), “I’m from the (something-or-other) office. I’m—er—after information about the crops round here. I suppose—er—”

  “Oh-h-h!” Dad groaned, opening his mouth over the fire, and pressing the tooth hard with his thumb.

  The pressman stared at him for awhile; then grinned at the storekeeper, and made a derisive face at Dad’s back.

  Then—“What have you got in this season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?”

  “I don’t know ... Oh-h—it’s awful!”

  Another silence.

  “Didn’t think toothache so bad as that,” said the man of news, airily, addressing Mother. “Never had it much myself, you see!”

  He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in an altered tone: “Whisky’s a good thing for it, old man, if you’ve got any.”

  Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in the negative.

  “Any oil of tar?”

  Mother brightened up. “There’s a little oil in the house,” she said, “but I don’t know if we’ve any tar. Is there, Joe—in that old drum?”

  “Nurh.”

  The Press looked out the window. Dad commenced to butcher his gums with the pocket-knife, and threatened to put the fire out with blood and saliva.

  “Let’s have a look at the tooth, old man,” the pressman said, approaching Dad.

  Dad submitted.

  “Pooh!—I’ll take that out in one act!” ... To Joe— “Got a good strong piece of string?”

  Joe couldn’t find a piece of string, but produced a kangaroo-tail sinew that had been tied round a calf’s neck.

  The pressman was enthusiastic. He buzzed about and talked dentistry in a most learned manner. Then he had another squint at Dad’s tooth.

  “Sit on the floor here,” he said, “and I won’t be a second. You’ll feel next to no pain.”

  Dad complied like a lamb.

  “Hold the light down here, missis—a little lower. You gentlemen” (to Canty and Dave) “look after his legs and arms.

  Now, let your head come back—right back, and open your mouth—wide as you can.” Dad obeyed, groaning the whole time. It was a bottom-tooth, and the dentist stood behind Dad and bent over him to fasten the sinew round it. Then, twisting it on his wrist, he began to “hang on” with both hands. Dad struggled and groaned—then broke into a bellow and roared like a wild beast. But the dentist only said, “Keep him down!” and the others kept him down.

  Dad’s neck was stretching like a gander’s, and it looked as if his head would come off. The dentist threw his shoulders into it like a crack oarsman—there was a crack, a rip, a tear, and, like a young tree leaving the ground, two huge, ugly old teeth left Dad’s jaw on the end of that sinew.

  “Holy!” cried the dentist, surprised, and we stared. Little Bill made for the teeth; so did Joe, and there was a fight under the table.

  Dad sat in a lump on the floor propping himself up with his hands; his head dropped forward, and he spat feebly on the floor.

  The pressman laughed and slapped Dad on the back, and asked “How do you feel, old boy?” Dad shook his head and spat and spat. But presently he wiped his eyes with his shirt-sleeve and looked up. The pressman told Mother she ought to be proud of Dad. Dad struggled to his feet then, pale but smil
ing. The pressman shook hands with him, and in no time Dad was laughing and joking over the operation. A pleased look was in Mother’s face; happiness filled the home again, and we grew quite fond of that pressman—he was so jolly and affable, and made himself so much at home, Mother said.

  “Now, sit over, and we’ll have supper,” said Dad, proud of having some fried steak to offer the visitors. We had killed a cow the evening before—one that was always getting bogged in the dam and taking up much of Dad’s time dragging her out and cutting greenstuff to keep her alive. The visitors enjoyed her. The pressman wanted salt. None was on the table. Dad told Joe to run and get some—to be quick. Joe went out, but in a while returned. He stood at the door with the hammer in his hand and said:

  “Did you shift the r-r-r-rock-salt from where S-Spotty was lickin’ it this evenin’, Dave?”

  Dave reached for the bread.

  “Don’t bother—don’t bother about it,” said the pressman. “Sit down, youngster, and finish your supper.”

  “No bother at all,” Dad said; but Joe sat down, and Dad scowled at him.

  Then Dad got talking about wheat and wallabies—when, all at once, the pressman gave a jump that rattled the things on the table.

  “Oh-h-h! ... I’ve got it now!” he said, dropping his knife and fork and clapping his Lands over his mouth. "Ooh!”

  We looked at him. “Got what?” Dad asked, a gleam of satisfaction appearing in his eyes.

  “The toothache!— the d—d toothache! … Oh-h!”

  “Ha! ha! Hoo! hoo! hoo!” Dad roared. In fact, we all roared—all but the pressman. “Oh-h!” he said, and went to the fire. Dad laughed some more.

  We ate on. The pressman continued to moan.

  Dad turned on his seat. “What paper, mister, do you say you come from?”

  “Oh-h! ... Oh-h, Lord!”

  “Well, let me see; I’ll have in altogether, I daresay, this year, about thirty-five acres of wheat—I suppose as good a wheat—”

  “Damn the wheat! ... Ooh!”

  “Eh!” said Dad, “why, I never thought toothache was thet bad! You reminds me of this old cow we be eatin’. She moaned just like thet all the time she were layin’ in the gully, afore I knocked ’er on the head.”

  Canty, the storekeeper, looked up quickly, and the pressman looked round slowly—both at Dad.

  “Here,” continued Dad—“let’s have a look at yer tooth, old man!”

  The pressman rose. His face was flushed and wild-looking. “Come on out of this—for God’s sake!” he said to Canty—“if you’re ready.”

  “What,” said Dad, hospitably, “y’re not going, surely!” But they were. “Well, then—thirty-five acres of wheat, I have, and” (putting his head out the door and calling after them) “next year—next year, all being well, please God, I’ll have sixty!”

  Chapter XXIV.

  A Lady at Shingle Hut.

  MISS RIBBONE had just arrived.

  She was the mistress of the local school, and had come to board with us a month. The parents of the score or more of youngsters attending the school had arranged to accommodate her, month about, and it was our turn. And didn’t Mother just load us up how we were to behave—particularly Joe.

  Dad lumbered in the usual log for the fire, and we all helped him throw it on—all except the schoolmistress. Poor thing! She would have injured her long, miserable, putty-looking fingers! Such a contrast between her and Sal! Then we sat down to supper—that old familiar repast, hot meat and pumpkin.

  Somehow we didn’t feel quite at home; but Dad got on well. He talked away learnedly to Miss Ribbone about everything. Told her, without swearing once, how, when at school in the old country, he fought the schoolmaster and leathered him well. A pure lie, but an old favourite of Dad’s, and one that never failed to make Joe laugh. He laughed now. And such a laugh!—a loud, mirthless, merciless noise. No one else joined in, though Miss Ribbone smiled a little. When Joe recovered he held out his plate.

  “More pumpkin, Dad.”

  “If—what, sir?” Dad was prompting him in manners.

  “If?” and Joe laughed again. “Who said ‘if’?—I never.”

  Just then Miss Ribbone sprang to her feet, knocking over the box she had been sitting on, and stood for a time as though she had seen a ghost. We stared at her. "Oh,” she murmured at last, “it was the dog! It gave me such a fright!”

  Mother sympathised with her and seated her again, and Dad fixed his eye on Joe.

  “Didn’t I tell you,” he said, “to keep that useless damned mongrel of a dog outside the house altogether—eh? —didn’t I? Go this moment and tie the brute up, you vagabond!”

  “I did tie him up, but he chewed the greenhide.”

  “Be off with you, you—” (Dad coughed suddenly and scattered fragments of meat and munched pumpkin about the table) " at once, and do as I tell you, you—”

  “That’ll do, Father—that’ll do,” Mother said gently, and Joe took Stump out to the barn and kicked him, and hit him against the corn-sheller, and threatened to put him through it if he didn’t stop squealing.

  He was a small dog, a dog that was always on the watch—for meat; a shrewd, intelligent beast that never barked at anyone until he got inside and well under the bed. Anyway, he had taken a fancy to Miss Ribbone’s stocking, which had fallen down while he was lying under the table, and commenced to worry it. Then he discovered she had a calf, and started to eat that. She didn’t tell us though—she told Mrs. Macpherson, who imparted the secret to Mother. I suppose Stump didn’t understand stockings, because neither Mother nor Sal ever wore any, except to a picnic or somebody’s funeral; and that was very seldom. The Creek wasn't much of a place for sport.

  “I hope as you’ll be comfortable, my dear,” Mother observed as she showed the young lady the back-room where she was to sleep. “It ain’t s’ nice as we should like to have it f’ y’; we hadn’t enough spare bags to line it all with, but the cracks is pretty well stuffed up with husks an’ one thing an’ ’nother, and I don’t think you ’ll find any wind kin get in. Here’s a bear-skin f’ your feet, an’ I’ve nailed a bag up so no one kin see-in in the morning. S’ now, I think you’ll be pretty snug.”

  The schoolmistress cast a distressed look at the waving bag-door and said:

  “Th-h-ank you—very much.”

  What a voice! I've heard kittens that hadn’t their eyes open make a fiercer noise.

  Mother must have put all the blessed blankets in the house on the school-teacher’s bed. I don’t know what she had on her own, but we only had the old bag-quilt and a stack of old skirts, and other remnants of the family wardrobe, on ours. In the middle of the night, the whole confounded pile of them rolled off, and we nearly froze. Do what we boys would—tie ourselves in knots and coil into each other like ropes—we couldn’t get warm. We sat up in the bed in turns, and glared into the darkness towards the schoolmistress’s room, which wasn’t more than three yards away; then we would lie back again and shiver. We were having a time. But at last we heard a noise from the young lady’s room. We listened—all we knew. Miss Ribbone was up and dressing. We could hear her teeth chattering and her knees knocking together. Then we heard her sneak back to bed again and felt disappointed and colder than ever, for we had hoped she was getting up early, and wouldn’t want the bed any longer that night. Then we too crawled out and dressed and tried it that way.

  In answer to Mother at breakfast, next morning, Miss Ribbone said she had “slept very well indeed.”

  We didn’t say anything.

  She wasn’t much of an eater. School-teachers aren’t as a rule. They pick, and paw, and fiddle round a meal in a way that gives a healthy-appetited person the jim-jams. She didn’t touch the fried pumpkin. And the way she sat there at the table in her watch-chain and ribbons made poor old Dave, who sat opposite her in a ragged shirt without a shirt-button, feel quite miserable and awkward.

  For a whole week she didn’t take anything but bread and tea
—though there was always plenty good pumpkin and all that. Mother used to speak to Dad about it, and wonder if she ate the little pumpkin-tarts she put up for her lunch. Dad couldn’t understand anyone not eating pumpkin, and said he’d tackle grass before he’d starve.

  “And did ever y’ see such a object?” Mother went on. “The hands an’ arms on her! Dear me! why, I do believe if our Sal was to give her one squeeze she’d kill her. Oh, but the finery and clothes! Y’ never see the like! Just look at her!” And Dad, the great oaf, with Joe at his heels, followed her into the young lady’s bedroom.

  “Look at that!” said Mother, pointing to a couple of dresses hanging on a nail—“she wears them on week-days, no less; and here” (raising the lid of a trunk and exposing a pile of clean and neatly-folded clothing that might have been anything, and drawing the articles forth one by one)—“look at them! There’s that—and that—and this—and—”

  “I say, what’s this, Mother?” interrupted Joe, holding up something he had discovered.

  “And that—an’—”

  “Mother!”

  “And this ”

  “Eh, Mother?”

  “Don’t bother me, boy, it’s her tooth-brush,” and Mother pitched the clothes back into the trunk and glared round. Meanwhile, Joe was hard at his teeth with the brush.

  “Oh, here!” and she dived at the bed and drew a nightgown from beneath the pillow, unfolded it, and held it up by the neck for inspection.

  Dad, with his huge, ungainly, hairy paws behind him, stood mute, like the great pitiful elephant he was, and looked at the tucks and the rest—stupidly. “Where before did y’ ever see such tucks and frills and lace on a night-shirt? Why, you’d think ’twere for goin’ to picnics in, ’stead o’ goin’ to bed with. Here, too! here’s a pair of brand new stays, besides the ones she’s on her back. Clothes!—she’s nothin’ else but clothes.”