“No, by Gawd, you can’t!” affirmed his companion. “But I think youth’s just a fine name for a sort o’ piggish mess. What’s the good, one ’ud like to know, of gettin’ old, and learnin’ wisdom, and knowin’ the good from the bad, when ev’ry lousy young fathead that’s born inter the world starts out again to muddle through it for ’imself, in ’is own way. And that things ’as got to go on like this, just the same, for ever and ever—why, it makes me fair tired to think of it. My father didn’t ’old with youth: ’e knocked it out of us by thrashin’, just like lyin’ and thievin’. And it’s the best way, too.—Wot’s that you say?” he flounced round on the unoffending Tom. “Nothin’? You was only snifflin’, was you? You keep your fly-trap shut, my fine fellow, and make no mousy sounds to me, or it’ll be the worse for you, I can tell you!”
“Come, Mr. Ocock, don’t be too hard on the boy.”
“Not be ’ard on ’im? When I’ve got the nasty galoon on me ’ands again like this?—Chucks up the good post I git ’im in Kilmore, without with your leave or by your leave. Too lonely for ’is lordship it was. Missed the sound o’ wimmin’s petticoats, ’e did.” He turned fiercely on his son. “’Ere, don’t you stand starin’ there! You get ’ome, and fix up for the night. Now then, wot are you dawdlin’ for, pig-’ead?”
The boy slunk away. When he had disappeared, his father again took up the challenge of Mahony’s silent disapproval. “I can’t ’ardly bear the sight of ’im, doc.—disgracin’ me as ’e ’as done. ’Im a father, and not eighteen till June! A son o’ mine, who can’t see a wench with ’er bodice open, but wot ’e must be arter ’er. . . .No, sir, no son o’ mine! I’m a respectable man, I am!”
“Of course, of course.”
“Oh! but they’re a sore trial to me, these boys, doc. ’Enry’s the only one. . . .if it weren’t for ’Enry——Johnny, ’e can’t pass the drink, and now ’ere’s this young swine started to nose arter the wimmin.”
“There’s good stuff in the lads, I’m sure of it. They’re just sowing their wild oats.”
“They’ll sow no h’oats with me.”
“I tell you what it is, Mr. Ocock, you need a woman about your place, to make it a bit more homelike,” said Mahony, calling to mind the pigsty in which Ocock and his sons housed.
“Course I do!” agreed Ocock. “And Melia, she’ll come out to ’er daddy soon as ever th’ol’ woman kicks the bucket.—Drat ’er! It’s ’er I’ve got to thank for all the mischief.”
“Well, well!” said Mahony, and rising knocked out his pipe on the log. Did his old neighbour once get launched on the subject of his wife’s failings, there was no stopping him. “We all have our crosses.”
“That we ’ave. And I’m keepin’ you outer your bed, doc., with me blather.—By gum! and that reminds me I come ’ere special to see you to-night. Bin gettin’ a bit moonstruck, I reckon,”—and he clapped on his hat.
Drawing a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket, he selected one and offered it to Mahony. Mahony led the way indoors, and lighting a kerosene-lamp stooped to decipher the letter.
For some weeks now he had been awaiting the delivery of a load of goods, the invoice for which had long since reached him. From this communication, carried by hand, he learnt that the drayman, having got bogged just beyond Bacchus’s marsh, had decamped to the Ovens, taking with him all he could cram into a spring-cart, and disposing of the remainder for what he could get. The agent in Melbourne refused to be held responsible for the loss, and threatened to prosecute, if payment for the goods were not immediately forthcoming. Mahony, who here heard the first of the affair, was highly indignant at the tone of the letter; and before he had read to the end resolved to let everything else slide, and to leave for Melbourne early next morning.
Ocock backed him up in this decision, and with the aid of a great quill pen stiffly traced the address of his eldest son, who practised as a solicitor in the capital.
“Go you straight to ’Enry, doc. ’Enry’ll see you through.”
Brushing aside his dreams of a peaceful Sabbath Mahony made preparations for his journey. Waking his assistant, he gave the man—a stupid clodhopper, but honest and attached—instructions how to manage during his absence, then sent him to the township to order horses. Himself, he put on his hat and went out to look for Purdy.
His search led him through all the drunken revelry of a Saturday night. And it was close on twelve before, having followed the trace from bowling-alley to Chinese cook-shop, from the “Adelphi” to Mother Flannigan’s and haunts still less reputable, he finally succeeded in catching his bird.
CHAPTER THREE
He retraced his steps by the safe-conduct of a full moon, which showed up the gaping black mouths of circular shafts and silvered the water that flooded abandoned oblong holes to their brim. Tents and huts stood white and forsaken in the moonlight: their owners were either gathered on Bakery Hill, or had repaired to one of the gambling and dancing saloons that lined the main street. Arrived at the store he set his frantic dog free, and putting a match to his pipe, began to stroll up and down.
He felt annoyed with himself for having helped to swell the crowd of malcontents; and still more for his foolishness in giving the rein to a momentary irritation. As if it mattered a doit what trash these foreigners talked! No thinking person took their bombast seriously; the authorities, with great good sense, let it pass for what it was—a noisy blowing-off of steam. At heart, the diggers were as sound as good pippins.
A graver consideration was Purdy’s growing fellowship with the rebel faction. The boy was too young and still too much of a fly-by-night to have a black mark set against his name. It would be the more absurd, considering that his sincerity in espousing the diggers’ cause was far from proved. He was of a nature to ride tantivy into anything that promised excitement or adventure. With, it must regretfully be admitted, an increasing relish for the limelight, for theatrical effect—see the cunning with which he had made capital out of a bandaged ankle and dirty dress! At this rate, and with his engaging ways, he would soon stand for a little god to the rough, artless crowd. No, he must leave the diggings—and Mahony rolled various schemes in his mind. He had it! In the course of the next week or two business would make a journey to Melbourne imperative. Well, he would damn the extra expense and take the boy along with him! Purdy was at a loose end, and would no doubt rise like a fish to a fly at the chance of getting to town free of cost. After all, why be hard on him? He was not much over twenty, and, at that age, it was natural enough—especially in a place like this—for a lad to flit like a butterfly from every cup that took his restless fancy.
Restless?. . . .h’m! It was the word Purdy had flung back at him, earlier in the evening. At the time, he had rebutted the charge, with a glance at fifteen months spent behind the counter of a store. But there was a modicum of truth in it, none the less. The life one led out here was not calculated to tone down any innate restlessness of temperament: on the contrary, it directly hindered one from becoming fixed and settled. It was on a par with the houses you lived in—these flimsy tents and draught-riddled cabins you put up with, “for the time being”—was just as much of a makeshift affair as they. Its keynote was change. Fortunes were made, and lost, and made again, before you could say Jack Robinson; whole townships shot up over-night, to be deserted the moment the soil ceased to yield; the people you knew were here to-day, and gone—sold up, burnt out, or dead and buried—to-morrow. And so, whether you would or not, your whole outlook became attuned to the general unrest; you lived in a constant anticipation of what was coming next. Well, he could own to the weakness with more justification than most. If trade continued to prosper with him as it did at present, it would be no time before he could sell out and joyfully depart for the old country.
In the meantime, why complain? He had much to be thankful for. To take only a small point: was this not Saturday
night? To-morrow the store was closed, and a string of congenial occupations offered: from chopping the week’s wood—a clean and wholesome task, which he gladly performed—through the pages of an engrossing book to a botanical ramble round old Buninyong. The thought of it cheered him. He stooped to caress his two cats, which had come out to bear him the mute and pleasant company of their kind.
What a night! The great round silver moon floated serenely through space, dimming the stars as it made them, and bathing the earth in splendour. It was so light that straight black lines of smoke could be seen mounting from chimneys and open-air fires. The grass-trees which supplied the fuel for these fires spread a pleasant balsamic odour, and the live red patches contrasted oddly with the pale ardour of the moon. Lights twinkled over all the township, but were brightest in Main Street, the course of which they followed like a rope of fireflies, and at the Government Camp on the steep western slope, where no doubt, as young Purdy had impudently averred, the officials still sat over the dinner-table. It was very quiet—no grog-shops or saloons-of-entertainment in this neighbourhood, thank goodness!—and the hour was still too early for drunken roisterers to come reeling home. The only sound to be heard was that of a man’s voice singing Oft in the Stilly Night, to the yetching accompaniment of a concertina. Mahony hummed the tune.
But it was growing cold, as the nights were apt to do on this tableland once summer was past. He whistled his dog, and Pompey hurried out with a guilty air from the back of the house, where the old shaft stood that served to hold refuse. Mahony put him on the chain, and was just about to turn in when two figures rounded the corner of a tent and came towards him, pushing their shadows before them on the milk-white ground.
“’D evenin’, doc,” said the shorter of the two, a nuggetty little man who carried his arms curved out from his sides, gorilla-fashion.
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Ocock,” said Mahony, recognising a neighbour.—“Why, Tom, that you? Back already, my boy?”—this to a loutish, loose-limbed lad who followed behind.—“You don’t of course come from the meeting?”
“Not me, indeed!” gave back his visitor with gall, and turned his head to spit the juice from a plug. “I’ve got suthin’ better to do as to listen to a pack o’ jabberin’ furriners settin’ one another by th’ears.”
“Nor you, Tom?” Mahony asked the lad, who stood sheepishly shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
“Nay, nor ’im eether,” jumped in his father, before he could speak. “I’ll ’ave none o’ my boys playin’ the fool up there. And that reminds me, doc, young Smith’ll git ’imself inter the devil of a mess one o’ these days, if you don’t look after ’im a bit better’n you do. I ’eard ’im spoutin’ away as I come past—usin’ language about the Gover’ment fit to turn you sick.”
Mahony coughed. “He’s but young yet,” he said drily. “After all, youth’s youth, sir, and comes but once in a lifetime. And you can’t make lads into wiseacres between sundown and sunrise.”
“No, by Gawd, you can’t!” affirmed his companion. “But I think youth’s just a fine name for a sort o’ piggish mess. What’s the good, one ’ud like to know, of gettin’ old, and learnin’ wisdom, and knowin’ the good from the bad, when ev’ry lousy young fathead that’s born inter the world starts out again to muddle through it for ’imself, in ’is own way. And that things ’as got to go on like this, just the same, for ever and ever—why, it makes me fair tired to think of it. My father didn’t ’old with youth: ’e knocked it out of us by thrashin’, just like lyin’ and thievin’. And it’s the best way, too.—Wot’s that you say?” he flounced round on the unoffending Tom. “Nothin’? You was only snifflin’, was you? You keep your fly-trap shut, my fine fellow, and make no mousy sounds to me, or it’ll be the worse for you, I can tell you!”
“Come, Mr. Ocock, don’t be too hard on the boy.”
“Not be ’ard on ’im? When I’ve got the nasty galoon on me ’ands again like this?—Chucks up the good post I git ’im in Kilmore, without with your leave or by your leave. Too lonely for ’is lordship it was. Missed the sound o’ wimmin’s petticoats, ’e did.” He turned fiercely on his son. “’Ere, don’t you stand starin’ there! You get ’ome, and fix up for the night. Now then, wot are you dawdlin’ for, pig-’ead?”
The boy slunk away. When he had disappeared, his father again took up the challenge of Mahony’s silent disapproval. “I can’t ’ardly bear the sight of ’im, doc.—disgracin’ me as ’e ’as done. ’Im a father, and not eighteen till June! A son o’ mine, who can’t see a wench with ’er bodice open, but wot ’e must be arter ’er. . . .No, sir, no son o’ mine! I’m a respectable man, I am!”
“Of course, of course.”
“Oh! but they’re a sore trial to me, these boys, doc. ’Enry’s the only one. . . .if it weren’t for ’Enry——Johnny, ’e can’t pass the drink, and now ’ere’s this young swine started to nose arter the wimmin.”
“There’s good stuff in the lads, I’m sure of it. They’re just sowing their wild oats.”
“They’ll sow no h’oats with me.”
“I tell you what it is, Mr. Ocock, you need a woman about your place, to make it a bit more homelike,” said Mahony, calling to mind the pigsty in which Ocock and his sons housed.
“Course I do!” agreed Ocock. “And Melia, she’ll come out to ’er daddy soon as ever th’ol’ woman kicks the bucket.—Drat ’er! It’s ’er I’ve got to thank for all the mischief.”
“Well, well!” said Mahony, and rising knocked out his pipe on the log. Did his old neighbour once get launched on the subject of his wife’s failings, there was no stopping him. “We all have our crosses.”
“That we ’ave. And I’m keepin’ you outer your bed, doc., with me blather.—By gum! and that reminds me I come ’ere special to see you to-night. Bin gettin’ a bit moonstruck, I reckon,”—and he clapped on his hat.
Drawing a sheaf of papers from an inner pocket, he selected one and offered it to Mahony. Mahony led the way indoors, and lighting a kerosene-lamp stooped to decipher the letter.
For some weeks now he had been awaiting the delivery of a load of goods, the invoice for which had long since reached him. From this communication, carried by hand, he learnt that the drayman, having got bogged just beyond Bacchus’s marsh, had decamped to the Ovens, taking with him all he could cram into a spring-cart, and disposing of the remainder for what he could get. The agent in Melbourne refused to be held responsible for the loss, and threatened to prosecute, if payment for the goods were not immediately forthcoming. Mahony, who here heard the first of the affair, was highly indignant at the tone of the letter; and before he had read to the end resolved to let everything else slide, and to leave for Melbourne early next morning.
Ocock backed him up in this decision, and with the aid of a great quill pen stiffly traced the address of his eldest son, who practised as a solicitor in the capital.
“Go you straight to ’Enry, doc. ’Enry’ll see you through.”
Brushing aside his dreams of a peaceful Sabbath Mahony made preparations for his journey. Waking his assistant, he gave the man—a stupid clodhopper, but honest and attached—instructions how to manage during his absence, then sent him to the township to order horses. Himself, he put on his hat and went out to look for Purdy.
His search led him through all the drunken revelry of a Saturday night. And it was close on twelve before, having followed the trace from bowling-alley to Chinese cook-shop, from the “Adelphi” to Mother Flannigan’s and haunts still less reputable, he finally succeeded in catching his bird.
CHAPTER FOUR
The two young men took to the road betimes: it still wanted some minutes to six on the new clock in the tower of Bath’s Hotel, when they threw their legs over their saddles and rode down the steep slope by the Camp Reserve. The hoofs of the horses pounded the plank bridge that spanned the Yarrow
ee, and striking loose stones, and smacking and sucking in the mud, made a rude clatter in the Sunday quiet.
Having followed for a few hundred yards the wide, rut-riddled thoroughfare of Main Street, the riders branched off to cross rising ground. They proceeded in single file and at a footpace, for the highway had been honeycombed and rendered unsafe; it also ascended steadily. Just before they entered the bush, which was alive with the rich, strong whistling of magpies, Purdy halted to look back and wave his hat in farewell. Mahony also half-turned in the saddle. There it lay—the scattered, yet congested, unlovely wood and canvas settlement that was Ballarat. At this distance, and from this height, it resembled nothing so much as a collection of child’s bricks, tossed out at random over the ground, the low, square huts and cabins that composed it being all of a shape and size. Some threads of smoke began to mount towards the immense pale dome of the sky. The sun was catching here the panes of a window, there the tin that encased a primitive chimney.
They rode on, leaving the warmth of the early sun-rays for the cold blue shadows of the bush. Neither broke the silence. Mahony’s day had not come to an end with the finding of Purdy. Barely stretched on his palliasse he had been routed out to attend to Long Jim, who had missed his footing and pitched into a shaft. The poor old tipsy idiot hauled up—luckily for him it was a dry, shallow hole—there was a broken collar-bone to set. Mahony had installed him in his own bed, and had spent the remainder of the night dozing in a chair.
So now he was heavy-eyed, uncommunicative. As they climbed the shoulder and came to the rich, black soil that surrounded the ancient cone of Warrenheip, he mused on his personal relation to the place he had just left. And not for the first time he asked himself: what am I doing here? When he was absent from Ballarat, and could dispassionately consider the life he led there, he was so struck by the incongruity of the thing that, like the beldame in the nursery-tale, he could have pinched himself to see whether he waked or slept. Had anyone told him, three years previously, that the day was coming when he would weigh out soap and sugar, and hand them over a counter in exchange for money, he would have held the prophet ripe for Bedlam. Yet here he was, a full-blown tradesman, and as greedy of gain as any tallow-chandler. Extraordinary, aye, and distressing, too, the ease with which the human organism adapted itself; it was just a case of the green caterpillar on the green leaf. Well, he could console himself with the knowledge that his apparent submission was only an affair of the surface. He had struck no roots; and it would mean as little to his half-dozen acquaintances on Ballarat when he silently vanished from their midst, as it would to him if he never saw one of them again. Or the country either—and he let his eye roam unlovingly over the wild, sad-coloured landscape, with its skimpy, sad-coloured trees.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 5