Chapter IX: Part 9

“I'm afraid--I--I'd like to keep my few things now. I've kept them so long. It's hard to lose my few bits of things--I wouldn't care so much if I could keep the ironin' table.”

“So you could, by law--it's necessary to your living, but it would cost more'n the table. Now, don't be soft, Mrs Aspinall. You'll have the bailiff in any day, and be turned out in the end without a rag. The law knows no 'necessary.' You want your furniture more'n the landlord does. He can't do nothin'. You can trust it all to me.... I knowed Arvie.... Will you do it?”

“Yes, I will.”

At about eight o'clock that evening there came a mysterious knock at Mrs Aspinall's door. She opened, and there stood Bill. His attitude was business-like, and his manner very impressive. Three other boys stood along by the window, with their backs to the wall, deeply interested in the emptying of burnt cigarette-ends into a piece of newspaper laid in the crown of one of their hats, and a fourth stood a little way along the kerb casually rolling a cigarette, and keeping a quiet eye out for suspicious appearances. They were of different makes and sizes, but there seemed an undefined similarity between them.

“This is my push, Mrs Aspinall,” said Bill; “at least,” he added apologetically, “it's part of 'em. Here, you chaps, this is Mrs Aspinall, what I told you about.”

They elbowed the wall back, rubbed their heads with their hats, shuffled round, and seemed to take a vacant sort of interest in abstract objects, such as the pavement, the gas-lamp, and neighbouring doors and windows.

“Got the things ready?” asked Bill.

“Oh, yes.”

“Got 'em downstairs?”

“There's no upstairs. The rooms above belong to the next house.”

“And a nice house it is,” said Bill, “for rooms to belong to. I wonder,” he reflected, cocking his eye at the windows above; “I wonder how the police manage to keep an eye on the next house without keepin' an eye on yours--but they know.”

He turned towards the street end of the alley and gave a low whistle. Out under the lamp from behind the corner came a long, thin, shambling, hump-backed youth, with his hat down over his head like an extinguisher, dragging a small bony horse, which, in its turn, dragged a rickety cart of the tray variety, such as is used in the dead marine trade. Behind the cart was tied a mangy retriever. This affair was drawn up opposite the door.

“The cove with a cart” was introduced as 'Chinny'. He had no chin whatever, not even a receding chin. It seemed as though his chin had been cut clean off horizontally. When he took off his hat he showed to the mild surprise of strangers a pair of shrewd grey eyes and a broad high forehead. Chinny was in the empty bottle line.

“Now, then, hold up that horse of yours for a minute, Chinny,” said Bill briskly, “'relse he'll fall down and break the shaft again.” (It had already been broken in several places and spliced with strips of deal, clothes-line, and wire.) “Now, you chaps, fling yourselves about and get the furniture out.”

This was a great relief to the push. They ran against each other and the door-post in their eagerness to be at work. The furniture--what Mrs A. called her “few bits of things”--was carried out with elaborate care. The ironing table was the main item. It was placed top down in the cart, and the rest of the things went between the legs without bulging sufficiently to cause Chinny any anxiety.

Just then the picket gave a low, earnest whistle, and they were aware of a policeman standing statue-like under the lamp on the opposite corner, and apparently unaware of their existence. He was looking, sphinx-like, past them towards the city.

“It can't be helped; we must put on front an' go on with it now,” said Bill.

“He's all right, I think,” said Chinny. “He knows me.”

“He can't do nothin',” said Bill; “don't mind him, Mrs Aspinall. Now, then (to the push), tie up. Don't be frightened of the dorg-what are you frightened of? Why! he'd only apologize if you trod on his tail.”

The dog went under the cart, and kept his tail carefully behind him.

The policeman--he was an elderly man--stood still, looking towards the city, and over it, perhaps, and over the sea, to long years agone in Ireland when he and the boys ducked bailiffs, and resisted evictions with “shticks,” and “riz” sometimes, and gathered together at the rising of the moon, and did many things contrary to the peace of Gracious Majesty, its laws and constitutions, crown and dignity; as a reward for which he had helped to preserve the said peace for the best years of his life, without promotion; for he had a great aversion to running in “the boys”--which included nearly all mankind--and preferred to keep, and was most successful in keeping, the peace with no other assistance than that of his own rich fatherly brogue.

Bill took charge of two of the children; Mrs Aspinall carried the youngest.

“Go ahead, Chinny,” said Bill.

Chinny shambled forward, sideways, dragging the horse, with one long, bony, short-sleeved arm stretched out behind holding the rope reins; the horse stumbled out of the gutter, and the cart seemed to pause a moment, as if undecided whether to follow or not, and then, with many rickety complaints, moved slowly and painfully up on to the level out of the gutter. The dog rose with a long, weary, mangy sigh, but with a lazy sort of calculation, before his rope (which was short) grew taut--which was good judgment on his part, for his neck was sore; and his feet being tender, he felt his way carefully and painfully over the metal, as if he feared that at any step he might spring some treacherous, air-trigger trap-door which would drop and hang him.

“Nit, you chaps,” said Bill, “and wait for me.” The push rubbed its head with its hat, said “Good night, Mrs Ashpennel,” and was absent, spook-like.

When the funeral reached the street, the lonely “trap” was, somehow, two blocks away in the opposite direction, moving very slowly, and very upright, and very straight, like an automaton.

BOGG OF GEEBUNG

At the local police court, where the subject of this sketch turned up periodically amongst the drunks, he had “James” prefixed to his name for the sake of convenience and as a matter of form previous to his being fined forty shillings (which he never paid) and sentenced to “a month hard” (which he contrived to make as soft as possible). The local larrikins called him “Grog,” a very appropriate name, all things considered; but to the Geebung Times he was known until the day of his death as “a well-known character named Bogg.” The antipathy of the local paper might have been accounted for by the fact that Bogg strayed into the office one day in a muddled condition during the absence of the staff at lunch and corrected a revise proof of the next week's leader, placing bracketed “query” and “see proof” marks opposite the editor's most flowery periods and quotations, and leaving on the margin some general advice to the printers to “space better.” He also corrected a Latin quotation or two, and added a few ideas of his own in good French.

But no one, with the exception of the editor of the Times, ever dreamed that there was anything out of the common in the shaggy, unkempt head upon which poor Bogg used to “do his little time,” until a young English doctor came to practise at Geebung. One night the doctor and the manager of the local bank and one or two others wandered into the bar of the Diggers' Arms, where Bogg sat in a dark corner mumbling to himself as usual and spilling half his beer on the table and floor. Presently some drunken utterances reached the doctor's ear, and he turned round in a surprised manner and looked at Bogg. The drunkard continued to mutter for some time, and then broke out into something like the fag-end of a song. The doctor walked over to the table at which Bogg was sitting, and, seating himself on the far corner, regarded the drunkard attentively for some minutes; but the latter's voice ceased, his head fell slowly on his folded arms, and all became silent except the drip, drip of the overturned beer falling from the table to the form and from the form to the floor.

The doctor rose and walked back to his friends with a graver face.

“You seem interested in Bogg,” said the bank manager.

“Yes,” said the doctor.

“What was he mumbling about?”

“Oh, that was a passage from Homer.”

“What?”

The doctor repeated his answer.

“Then do you mean to say he understands Greek?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, sadly; “he is, or must have been, a classical scholar.”

The manager took time to digest this, and then asked:

“What was the song?”

“Oh, that was an old song we used to sing at the Dublin University,” said the doctor.

During his sober days Bogg used to fossick about among the old mullock heaps, or split palings in the bush, and just managed to keep out of debt. Strange to say, in spite of his drunken habits, his credit was as good as that of any man in the town. He was very unsociable, seldom speaking, whether drunk or sober; but a weary, hard-up sundowner was always pretty certain to get a meal and a shake-down at Bogg's lonely hut among the waste heaps. It happened one dark night that a little push of local larrikins, having nothing better to amuse them, wended their way through the old mullock heaps in the direction of the lonely little bark hut, with the object of playing off an elaborately planned ghost joke on Bogg. Prior to commencing operations, the leader of the jokers put his eye to a crack in the bark to reconnoitre. He didn't see much, but what he did see seemed to interest him, for he kept his eye there till his mates grew impatient. Bogg sat in front of his rough little table with his elbows on the same, and his hands supporting his forehead. Before him on the table lay a few articles such as lady novelists and poets use in their work, and such as bitter cynics often wear secretly next their bitter, cynical hearts.

There was the usual faded letter, a portrait of a girl, something that looked like a pressed flower, and, of course, a lock of hair. Presently Bogg folded his arms over these things, and his face sank lower and lower, till nothing was visible to the unsuspected watcher except the drunkard's rough, shaggy hair; rougher and wilder looking in the uncertain light of the slush-lamp.

The larrikin turned away, and beckoned his comrades to follow him.

“Wot is it?” asked one, when they had gone some distance. The leader said, “We're a-goin' ter let 'im alone; that's wot it is.”

There was some demur at this, and an explanation was demanded; but the boss bully unbuttoned his coat, and spat on his hands, and said:

“We're a-goin' ter let Bogg alone; that's wot it is.”

So they went away and let Bogg alone.

A few days later the following paragraph appeared in the _Geebung Times_: “A well-known character named Bogg was found drowned in the river on Sunday last, his hat and coat being found on the bank. At a late hour on Saturday night a member of our staff saw a man walking slowly along the river bank, but it was too dark to identify the person.”

We suppose it was Bogg whom the _Times_ reported, but of course we cannot be sure. The chances are that it was Bogg. It was pretty evident that he had committed suicide, and being “a well-known character,” no doubt he had reasons for his rash act. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the dark along the river bank, and thinking of those reasons when the _Times_ man saw him. Strange to say, the world knows least about the lives and sorrows of “well-known characters” of this kind, no matter what their names might be, and--well, there is no reason why we should bore a reader, or waste any more space over a well-known character named Bogg.

SHE WOULDN'T SPEAK

Well, we reached the pub about dinner-time, dropped our swags outside, had a drink, and then went into the dinin'-room. There was a lot of jackaroo swells, that had been on a visit to the squatter, or something, and they were sittin' down at dinner; and they seemed to think by their looks that we ought to have stayed outside and waited till they were done--we was only two rough shearers, you know. There was a very good-looking servant girl waitin' on 'em, and she was all smiles--laughin', and jokin', and chyackin', and barrickin' with 'em like anything.

I thought a damp expression seemed to pass across her face when me and my mate sat down, but she served us and said nothing--we was only two dusty swaggies, you see. Dave said “Good day” to her when we came in, but she didn't answer; and I could see from the first that she'd made up her mind not to speak to us.

The swells finished, and got up and went out, leaving me and Dave and the servant girl alone in the room; but she didn't open her mouth--not once. Dave winked at her once or twice as she handed his cup, but it wasn't no go. Dave was a good-lookin' chap, too; but we couldn't get her to say a word--not one.

We finished the first blanky course, and, while she was gettin' our puddin' from the side-table, Dave says to me in a loud whisper, so's she could hear: “Ain't she a stunner, Joe! I never thought there was sich fine girls on the Darlin'!”

But no; she wouldn't speak.

Then Dave says: “They pitch a blanky lot about them New Englan' gals; but I'll back the Darlin' girls to lick 'em holler as far's looks is concerned,” says Dave.

But no; she wouldn't speak. She wouldn't even smile. Dave didn't say nothing for awhile, and then he said: “Did you hear about that red-headed barmaid at Stiffner's goin' to be married to the bank manager at Bourke next month, Joe?” says Dave.

But no, not a single word out of her; she didn't even look up, or look as if she wanted to speak.

Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin' for awhile. Then he said: “Joe, did you hear that yarn about young Scotty and old whatchisname's missus?”

“Yes,” I says; “but I think it was the daughter, not the wife, and young Scotty,” I says.

But it wasn't no go; that girl wouldn't speak.

Dave shut up for a good while, but presently I says to Dave “I see that them hoops is comin' in again, Dave. The paper says that this here Lady Duff had one on when she landed.”

“Yes, I heard about it,” says Dave. “I'd like to see my wife in one, but I s'pose a woman must wear what all the rest does.”

And do you think that girl would speak? Not a blanky word.

We finished our second puddin' and fourth cup of tea, and I was just gettin' up when Dave catches holt on my arm, like that, and pulls me down into my chair again.

“'Old on,” whispers Dave; “I'm goin' to make that blanky gal speak.”

“You won't,” I says.

“Bet you a five-pound note,” says Dave.

“All right,” I says.

So I sits down again, and Dave whistles to the girl, and he passes along his cup and mine. She filled 'em at once, without a word, and we got outside our fifth cup of tea each. Then Dave jingled his spoon, and passed both cups along again. She put some hot water in the pot this time, and, after we'd drunk another couple of cups, Dave muttered somethin' about drownin' the miller.

“We want tea, not warm water,” he growled, lookin' sulky and passin' along both cups again.

But she never opened her mouth; she wouldn't speak. She didn't even, look cross. She made a fresh pot of tea, and filled our cups again. She didn't even slam the cups down, or swamp the tea over into the saucers--which would have been quite natural, considerin'.

“I'm about done,” I said to Dave in a low whisper. “We'll have to give it up, I'm afraid, Dave,” I says.

“I'll make her speak, or bust myself,” says Dave.

And I'm blest if he didn't go on till I was so blanky full of tea that it brimmed over and run out the corners of my mouth; and Dave was near as bad. At last I couldn't drink another teaspoonful without holding back my head, and then I couldn't keep it down, but had to let it run back into the blanky cup again. The girl began to clear away at the other end of the table, and now and then she'd lay her hand on the teapot and squint round to see if we wanted any more tea. But she never spoke. She might have thought a lot--but she never opened her lips.

I tell you, without a word of a lie, that we must have drunk about a dozen cups each. We made her fill the teapot twice, and kept her waitin' nearly an hour, but we couldn't make her say a word. She never said a single word to us from the time we came in till the time we went out, nor before nor after. She'd made up her mind from the first not to speak to us.

We had to get up and leave our cups half full at last. We went out and sat down on our swags in the shade against the wall, and smoked and gave that tea time to settle, and then we got on to the track again.

THE GEOLOGICAL SPIELER

There's nothing so interesting as Geology, even to common and
ignorant people, especially when you have a bank or the side of a
cutting, studded with fossil fish and things and oysters that were
stale when Adam was fresh to illustrate by. (_Remark made by
Steelman, professional wanderer, to his pal and pupil, Smith._)

The first man that Steelman and Smith came up to on the last embankment, where they struck the new railway line, was a heavy, gloomy, labouring man with bowyangs on and straps round his wrists. Steelman bade him the time of day and had a few words with him over the weather. The man of mullock gave it as his opinion that the fine weather wouldn't last, and seemed to take a gloomy kind of pleasure in that reflection; he said there was more rain down yonder, pointing to the southeast, than the moon could swallow up--the moon was in its first quarter, during which time it is popularly believed in some parts of Maoriland that the south-easter is most likely to be out on the wallaby and the weather bad. Steelman regarded that quarter of the sky with an expression of gentle remonstrance mingled as it were with a sort of fatherly indulgence, agreed mildly with the labouring man, and seemed lost for a moment in a reverie from which he roused himself to inquire cautiously after the boss. There was no boss, it was a co-operative party. That chap standing over there by the dray in the end of the cutting was their spokesman--their representative: they called him boss, but that was only his nickname in camp. Steelman expressed his thanks and moved on towards the cutting, followed respectfully by Smith.

Steelman wore a snuff-coloured sac suit, a wide-awake hat, a pair of professional-looking spectacles, and a scientific expression; there was a clerical atmosphere about him, strengthened, however, by an air as of unconscious dignity and superiority, born of intellect and knowledge. He carried a black bag, which was an indispensable article in his profession in more senses than one. Smith was decently dressed in sober tweed and looked like a man of no account, who was mechanically devoted to his employer's interests, pleasures, or whims.

The boss was a decent-looking young fellow, with a good face--rather solemn--and a quiet manner.

“Good day, sir,” said Steelman.

“Good day, sir,” said the boss.

“Nice weather this.”

“Yes, it is, but I'm afraid it won't last.”

“I am afraid it will not by the look of the sky down there,” ventured Steelman.

“No, I go mostly by the look of our weather prophet,” said the boss with a quiet smile, indicating the gloomy man.

“I suppose bad weather would put you back in your work?”

“Yes, it will; we didn't want any bad weather just now.”

Steelman got the weather question satisfactorily settled; then he said:

“You seem to be getting on with the railway.”

“Oh yes, we are about over the worst of it.”

“The worst of it?” echoed Steelman, with mild surprise: “I should have thought you were just coming into it,” and he pointed to the ridge ahead.

“Oh, our section doesn't go any further than that pole you see sticking up yonder. We had the worst of it back there across the swamps--working up to our waists in water most of the time, in midwinter too--and at eighteenpence a yard.”

“That was bad.”

“Yes, rather rough. Did you come from the terminus?”

“Yes, I sent my baggage on in the brake.”

“Commercial traveller, I suppose?” asked the boss, glancing at Smith, who stood a little to the rear of Steelman, seeming interested in the work.

“Oh no,” said Steelman, smiling--“I am--well--I'm a geologist; this is my man here,” indicating Smith. “(You may put down the bag, James, and have a smoke.) My name is Stoneleigh--you might have heard of it.”

The boss said, “Oh,” and then presently he added “indeed,” in an undecided tone.

There was a pause--embarrassed on the part of the boss--he was silent not knowing what to say. Meanwhile Steelman studied his man and concluded that he would do.

“Having a look at the country, I suppose?” asked the boss presently.

“Yes,” said Steelman; then after a moment's reflection: “I am travelling for my own amusement and improvement, and also in the interest of science, which amounts to the same thing. I am a member of the Royal Geological Society--vice-president in fact of a leading Australian branch;” and then, as if conscious that he had appeared guilty of egotism, he shifted the subject a bit. “Yes. Very interesting country this--very interesting indeed. I should like to make a stay here for a day or so. Your work opens right into my hands. I cannot remember seeing a geological formation which interested me so much. Look at the face of that cutting, for instance. Why! you can almost read the history of the geological world from yesterday--this morning as it were--beginning with the super-surface on top and going right down through the different layers and stratas--through the vanished ages--right down and back to the pre-historical--to the very primeval or fundamental geological formations!” And Steelman studied the face of the cutting as if he could read it like a book, with every layer or stratum a chapter, and every streak a note of explanation. The boss seemed to be getting interested, and Steelman gained confidence and proceeded to identify and classify the different “stratas and layers,” and fix their ages, and describe the conditions and politics of man in their different times, for the boss's benefit.

“Now,” continued Steelman, turning slowly from the cutting, removing his glasses, and letting his thoughtful eyes wander casually over the general scenery--“now the first impression that this country would leave on an ordinary intelligent mind--though maybe unconsciously, would be as of a new country--new in a geological sense; with patches of an older geological and vegetable formation cropping out here and there; as for instance that clump of dead trees on that clear alluvial slope there, that outcrop of limestone, or that timber yonder,” and he indicated a dead forest which seemed alive and green because of the parasites. “But the country is old--old; perhaps the oldest geological formation in the world is to be seen here, the oldest vegetable formation in Australasia. I am not using the words old and new in an ordinary sense, you understand, but in a geological sense.”

The boss said, “I understand,” and that geology must be a very interesting study.

Steelman ran his eye meditatively over the cutting again, and turning to Smith said:

“Go up there, James, and fetch me a specimen of that slaty outcrop you see there--just above the coeval strata.”

It was a stiff climb and slippery, but Smith had to do it, and he did it.

“This,” said Steelman, breaking the rotten piece between his fingers, “belongs probably to an older geological period than its position would indicate--a primitive sandstone level perhaps. Its position on that layer is no doubt due to volcanic upheavals--such disturbances, or rather the results of such disturbances, have been and are the cause of the greatest trouble to geologists--endless errors and controversy. You see we must study the country, not as it appears now, but as it would appear had the natural geological growth been left to mature undisturbed; we must restore and reconstruct such disorganized portions of the mineral kingdom, if you understand me.”

The boss said he understood.

Steelman found an opportunity to wink sharply and severely at Smith, who had been careless enough to allow his features to relapse into a vacant grin.

“It is generally known even amongst the ignorant that rock grows--grows from the outside--but the rock here, a specimen of which I hold in my hand, is now in the process of decomposition; to be plain it is rotting--in an advanced stage of decomposition--so much so that you are not able to identify it with any geological period or formation, even as you may not be able to identify any other extremely decomposed body.”

The boss blinked and knitted his brow, but had the presence of mind to say: “Just so.”

“Had the rock on that cutting been healthy--been alive, as it were--you would have had your work cut out; but it is dead and has been dead for ages perhaps. You find less trouble in working it than you would ordinary clay or sand, or even gravel, which formations together are really rock in embryo--before birth as it were.”

The boss's brow cleared.

“The country round here is simply rotting down--simply rotting down.”

He removed his spectacles, wiped them, and wiped his face; then his attention seemed to be attracted by some stones at his feet. He picked one up and examined it.

“I shouldn't wonder,” he mused, absently, “I shouldn't wonder if there is alluvial gold in some of these creeks and gullies, perhaps tin or even silver, quite probably antimony.”

The boss seemed interested.

“Can you tell me if there is any place in this neighbourhood where I could get accommodation for myself and my servant for a day or two?” asked Steelman presently. “I should very much like to break my journey here.”

“Well, no,” said the boss. “I can't say I do--I don't know of any place nearer than Pahiatua, and that's seven miles from here.”'

“I know that,” said Steelman reflectively, “but I fully expected to have found a house of accommodation of some sort on the way, else I would have gone on in the van.'

“Well,” said the boss. “If you like to camp with us for to night, at least, and don't mind roughing it, you'll be welcome, I'm sure.”

“If I was sure that I would not be putting you to any trouble, or interfering in any way with your domestic economy---”

“No trouble at all,” interrupted the boss. “The boys will be only too glad, and there's an empty whare where you can sleep. Better stay. It's going to be a rough night.”

After tea Steelman entertained the boss and a few of the more thoughtful members of the party with short chatty lectures on geology and other subjects.

In the meantime Smith, in another part of the camp, gave selections on a tin whistle, sang a song or two, contributed, in his turn, to the sailor yarns, and ensured his popularity for several nights at least. After several draughts of something that was poured out of a demijohn into a pint-pot, his tongue became loosened, and he expressed an opinion that geology was all bosh, and said if he had half his employer's money he'd be dashed if he would go rooting round in the mud like a blessed old ant-eater; he also irreverently referred to his learned boss as “Old Rocks” over there. He had a pretty easy billet of it though, he said, taking it all round, when the weather was fine; he got a couple of notes a week and all expenses paid, and the money was sure; he was only required to look after the luggage and arrange for accommodation, grub out a chunk of rock now and then, and (what perhaps was the most irksome of his duties) he had to appear interested in old rocks and clay.

Towards midnight Steelman and Smith retired to the unoccupied whare which had been shown them, Smith carrying a bundle of bags, blankets, and rugs, which had been placed at their disposal by their good-natured hosts. Smith lit a candle and proceeded to make the beds. Steelman sat down, removed his specs and scientific expression, placed the glasses carefully on a ledge close at hand, took a book from his bag, and commenced to read. The volume was a cheap copy of Jules Verne's _Journey to the Centre of the Earth_. A little later there was a knock at the door. Steelman hastily resumed the spectacles, together with the scientific expression, took a note-book from his pocket, opened it on the table, and said, “Come in.” One of the chaps appeared with a billy of hot coffee, two pint-pots, and some cake. He said he thought you chaps might like a drop of coffee before you turned in, and the boys had forgot to ask you to wait for it down in the camp. He also wanted to know whether Mr Stoneleigh and his man would be all right and quite comfortable for the night, and whether they had blankets enough. There was some wood at the back of the whare and they could light a fire if they liked.

Mr Stoneleigh expressed his thanks and his appreciation of the kindness shown him and his servant. He was extremely sorry to give them any trouble.

The navvy, a serious man, who respected genius or intellect in any shape or form, said that it was no trouble at all, the camp was very dull and the boys were always glad to have someone come round. Then, after a brief comparison of opinions concerning the probable duration of the weather which had arrived, they bade each other good night, and the darkness swallowed the serious man.

Steelman turned into the top bunk on one side and Smith took the lower on the other. Steelman had the candle by his bunk, as usual; he lit his pipe for a final puff before going to sleep, and held the light up for a moment so as to give Smith the full benefit of a solemn, uncompromising wink. The wink was silently applauded and dutifully returned by Smith. Then Steelman blew out the light, lay back, and puffed at his pipe for a while. Presently he chuckled, and the chuckle was echoed by Smith; by and by Steelman chuckled once more, and then Smith chuckled again. There was silence in the darkness, and after a bit Smith chuckled twice. Then Steelman said:

“For God's sake give her a rest, Smith, and give a man a show to get some sleep.”

Then the silence in the darkness remained unbroken.

The invitation was extended next day, and Steelman sent Smith on to see that his baggage was safe. Smith stayed out of sight for two or three hours, and then returned and reported all well.

They stayed on for several days. After breakfast and when the men were going to work Steelman and Smith would go out along the line with the black bag and poke round amongst the “layers and stratas” in sight of the works for a while, as an evidence of good faith; then they'd drift off casually into the bush, camp in a retired and sheltered spot, and light a fire when the weather was cold, and Steelman would lie on the grass and read and smoke and lay plans for the future and improve Smith's mind until they reckoned it was about dinner-time. And in the evening they would come home with the black bag full of stones and bits of rock, and Steelman would lecture on those minerals after tea.

On about the fourth morning Steelman had a yarn with one of the men going to work. He was a lanky young fellow with a sandy complexion, and seemingly harmless grin. In Australia he might have been regarded as a “cove” rather than a “chap,” but there was nothing of the “bloke” about him. Presently the cove said:

“What do you think of the boss, Mr Stoneleigh? He seems to have taken a great fancy for you, and he's fair gone on geology.”

“I think he is a very decent fellow indeed, a very intelligent young man. He seems very well read and well informed.”

“You wouldn't think he was a University man,” said the cove.

“No, indeed! Is he?”

“Yes. I thought you knew!”

Steelman knitted his brows. He seemed slightly disturbed for the moment. He walked on a few paces in silence and thought hard.

“What might have been his special line?” he asked the cove.

“Why, something the same as yours. I thought you knew. He was reckoned the best--what do you call it?--the best minrologist in the country. He had a first-class billet in the Mines Department, but he lost it--you know--the booze.”

“I think we will be making a move, Smith,” said Steelman, later on, when they were private. “There's a little too much intellect in this camp to suit me. But we haven't done so bad, anyway. We've had three days' good board and lodging with entertainments and refreshments thrown in.” Then he said to himself: “We'll stay for another day anyway. If those beggars are having a lark with us, we're getting the worth of it anyway, and I'm not thin-skinned. They're the mugs and not us, anyhow it goes, and I can take them down before I leave.”

But on the way home he had a talk with another man whom we might set down as a “chap.”

“I wouldn't have thought the boss was a college man,” said Steelman to the chap.

“A what?”

“A University man--University education.”

“Why! Who's been telling you that?”

“One of your mates.”

“Oh, he's been getting at you. Why, it's all the boss can do to write his own name. Now that lanky sandy cove with the birth-mark grin--it's him that's had the college education.”

“I think we'll make a start to-morrow,” said Steelman to Smith in the privacy of their where. “There's too much humour and levity in this camp to suit a serious scientific gentleman like myself.”

MACQUARIE'S MATE

The chaps in the bar of Stiffner's shanty were talking about Macquarie, an absent shearer--who seemed, from their conversation, to be better known than liked by them.

“I ain't seen Macquarie for ever so long,” remarked Box-o'-Tricks, after a pause. “Wonder where he could 'a' got to?”

“Jail, p'r'aps--or hell,” growled Barcoo. “He ain't much loss, any road.”

“My oath, yer right, Barcoo!” interposed “Sally” Thompson. “But, now I come to think of it, Old Awful Example there was a mate of his one time. Bless'd if the old soaker ain't comin' to life again!”

A shaky, rag-and-dirt-covered framework of a big man rose uncertainly from a corner of the room, and, staggering forward, brushed the staring thatch back from his forehead with one hand, reached blindly for the edge of the bar with the other, and drooped heavily.

“Well, Awful Example,” demanded the shanty-keeper. “What's up with you now?”

The drunkard lifted his head and glared wildly round with bloodshot eyes.

“Don't you--don't you talk about him! _Drop it_, I say! DROP it!”

“What the devil's the matter with you now, anyway?” growled the barman. “Got 'em again? Hey?”

“Don't you--don't you talk about Macquarie! He's a mate of mine! Here! Gimme a drink!”

“Well, what if he is a mate of yours?” sneered Barcoo. “It don't reflec' much credit on you--nor him neither.”

The logic contained in the last three words was unanswerable, and Awful Example was still fairly reasonable, even when rum oozed out of him at every pore. He gripped the edge of the bar with both hands, let his ruined head fall forward until it was on a level with his temporarily rigid arms, and stared blindly at the dirty floor; then he straightened himself up, still keeping his hold on the bar.

“Some of you chaps,” he said huskily; “one of you chaps, in this bar to-day, called Macquarie a scoundrel, and a loafer, and a blackguard, and--and a sneak and a liar.”

“Well, what if we did?” said Barcoo, defiantly. “He's all that, and a cheat into the bargain. And now, what are you going to do about it?”

The old man swung sideways to the bar, rested his elbow on it, and his head on his hand.

“Macquarie wasn't a sneak and he wasn't a liar,” he said, in a quiet, tired tone; “and Macquarie wasn't a cheat!”

“Well, old man, you needn't get your rag out about it,” said Sally Thompson, soothingly. “P'r'aps we was a bit too hard on him; and it isn't altogether right, chaps, considerin' he's not here. But, then, you know, Awful, he might have acted straight to you that was his mate. The meanest blank--if he is a man at all--will do that.”

“Oh, to blazes with the old sot!” shouted Barcoo. “I gave my opinion about Macquarie, and, what's more, I'll stand to it.”

“I've got--I've got a point for the defence,” the old man went on, without heeding the interruptions. “I've got a point or two for the defence.”

“Well, let's have it,” said Stiffner.

“In the first place--in the first place, Macquarie never talked about no man behind his back.”

There was an uneasy movement, and a painful silence. Barcoo reached for his drink and drank slowly; he needed time to think--Box-o'-Tricks studied his boots--Sally Thompson looked out at the weather--the shanty-keeper wiped the top of the bar very hard--and the rest shifted round and “s'posed they'd try a game er cards.”

Barcoo set his glass down very softly, pocketed his hands deeply and defiantly, and said:

“Well, what of that? Macquarie was as strong as a bull, and the greatest bully on the river into the bargain. He could call a man a liar to his face--and smash his face afterwards. And he did it often, too, and with smaller men than himself.”

There was a breath of relief in the bar.

“Do you want to make out that I'm talking about a man behind his back?” continued Barcoo, threateningly, to Awful Example. “You'd best take care, old man.”

“Macquarie wasn't a coward,” remonstrated the drunkard, softly, but in an injured tone.

“What's up with you, anyway?” yelled the publican. “What yer growling at? D'ye want a row? Get out if yer can't be agreeable!”

The boozer swung his back to the bar, hooked himself on by his elbows, and looked vacantly out of the door.

“I've got--another point for the defence,” he muttered. “It's always best--it's always best to keep the last point to--the last.”

“Oh, Lord! Well, out with it! _Out with it_!”

“_Macquarie's dead_! That--that's what it is!”

Everyone moved uneasily: Sally Thompson turned the other side to the bar, crossed one leg behind the other, and looked down over his hip at the sole and heel of his elastic-side--the barman rinsed the glasses vigorously--Longbones shuffled and dealt on the top of a cask, and some of the others gathered round him and got interested--Barcoo thought he heard his horse breaking away, and went out to see to it, followed by Box-o'-Tricks and a couple more, who thought that it might be one of their horses.

Someone--a tall, gaunt, determined-looking bushman, with square features and haggard grey eyes--had ridden in unnoticed through the scrub to the back of the shanty and dismounted by the window.

When Barcoo and the others re-entered the bar it soon became evident that Sally Thompson had been thinking, for presently he came to the general rescue as follows:

“There's a blessed lot of tommy-rot about dead people in this world--a lot of damned old-woman nonsense. There's more sympathy wasted over dead and rotten skunks than there is justice done to straight, honest-livin' chaps. I don't b'lieve in this gory sentiment about the dead at the expense of the living. I b'lieve in justice for the livin'--and the dead too, for that matter--but justice for the livin'. Macquarie was a bad egg, and it don't alter the case if he was dead a thousand times.”

There was another breath of relief in the bar, and presently somebody said: “Yer tight, Sally!”

“Good for you, Sally, old man!” cried Box-o'-Tricks, taking it up. “An', besides, I don't b'lieve Macquarie is dead at all. He's always dyin', or being reported dead, and then turnin' up again. Where did you hear about it, Awful?”

The Example ruefully rubbed a corner of his roof with the palm of his hand.

“There's--there's a lot in what you say, Sally Thompson,” he admitted slowly, totally ignoring Box-o'-Tricks. “But--but---'

“Oh, we've had enough of the old fool,” yelled Barcoo. “Macquarie was a spieler, and any man that ud be his mate ain't much better.”

“Here, take a drink and dry up, yer ole hass!” said the man behind the bar, pushing a bottle and glass towards the drunkard. “D'ye want a row?”

The old man took the bottle and glass in his shaking bands and painfully poured out a drink.

“There's a lot in what Sally Thompson says,” he went on, obstinately, “but--but,” he added in a strained tone, “there's another point that I near forgot, and none of you seemed to think of it--not even Sally Thompson nor--nor Box-o'-Tricks there.”

Stiffner turned his back, and Barcoo spat viciously and impatiently.

“Yes,” drivelled the drunkard, “I've got another point for--for the defence--of my mate, Macquarie--”

“Oh, out with it! Spit it out, for God's sake, or you'll bust!” roared Stiffner. “What the blazes is it?”

“HIS MATE'S ALIVE!” yelled the old man. “Macquarie's mate's alive! That's what it is!”

He reeled back from the bar, dashed his glass and hat to the boards, gave his pants, a hitch by the waistband that almost lifted him off his feet, and tore at his shirt-sleeves.

“Make a ring, boys,” he shouted. “His mate's alive! Put up your hands, Barcoo! By God, his mate's alive!”

Someone had turned his horse loose at the rear and had been standing by the back door for the last five minutes. Now he slipped quietly in.

“Keep the old fool off, or he'll get hurt,” snarled Barcoo.

Stiffner jumped the counter. There were loud, hurried words of remonstrance, then some stump-splitting oaths and a scuffle, consequent upon an attempt to chuck the old man out. Then a crash. Stiffner and Box-o'-Tricks were down, two others were holding Barcoo back, and someone had pinned Awful Example by the shoulders from behind.

“Let me go!” he yelled, too blind with passion to notice the movements of surprise among the men before him. “Let me go! I'll smash--any man--that--that says a word again' a mate of mine behind his back. Barcoo, I'll have your blood! Let me go! I'll, I'll, I'll-- Who's holdin' me? You--you---”

“It's Macquarie, old mate!” said a quiet voice.

Barcoo thought he heard his horse again, and went out in a hurry. Perhaps he thought that the horse would get impatient and break loose if he left it any longer, for he jumped into the saddle and rode off.

BALDY THOMPSON

Rough, squarish face, curly auburn wig, bushy grey eyebrows and moustache, and grizzly stubble--eyes that reminded one of Dampier the actor. He was a squatter of the old order--new chum, swagman, drover, shearer, super, pioneer, cocky, squatter, and finally bank victim. He had been through it all, and knew all about it.

He had been in parliament, and wanted too again; but the men mistrusted him as Thompson, M.P., though they swore by him as old Baldy Thompson the squatter. His hobby was politics, and his politics were badly boxed. When he wasn't cursing the banks and government he cursed the country. He cursed the Labour leaders at intervals, and seemed to think that he could run the unions better than they could. Also, he seemed to think that he could run parliament better than any premier. He was generally voted a hard case, which term is mostly used in a kindly sense out back.

He was always grumbling about the country. If a shearer or rouseabout was good at argument, and a bit of a politician, he hadn't to slave much at Thompson's shed, for Baldy would argue with him all day and pay for it.

“I can't put on any more men,” he'd say to travellers. “I can't put on a lot of men to make big cheques when there's no money in the bank to pay 'em--and I've got all I can do to get tucker for the family. I shore nothing but burrs and grass-seed last season, and it didn't pay carriage. I'm just sending away a flock of sheep now, and I won't make threepence a head on 'em. I had twenty thousand in the bank season before last, and now I can't count on one. I'll have to roll up my swag and go on the track myself next.”

“All right, Baldy,” they'd say, “git out your blooming swag and come along with us, old man; we'll stick to you and see you through.”

“I swear I'd show you round first,” he'd reply. “Go up to the store and get what rations you want. You can camp in the huts to-night, and I'll see you in the morning.”

But most likely he'd find his way over after tea, and sit on his heels in the cool outside the hut, and argue with the swagmen about unionism and politics. And he'd argue all night if he met his match.

The track by Baldy Thompson's was reckoned as a good tucker track, especially when a dissolution of parliament was threatened. Then the guileless traveller would casually let Baldy know that he'd got his name on the electoral list, and show some interest in Baldy's political opinions, and oppose them at first, and finally agree with them and see a lot in them--be led round to Baldy's way of thinking, in fact; and ultimately depart, rejoicing, with a full nose-bag, and a quiet grin for his mate.

There are many camp-fire yarns about old Baldy Thompson.

One New Year the shearers--shearing stragglers--roused him in the dead of night and told him that the shed was on fire. He came out in his shirt and without his wig. He sacked them all there and then, but of course they went to work as usual next morning. There is something sad and pathetic about that old practical joke--as indeed there is with all bush jokes. There seems a quiet sort of sadness always running through outback humour--whether alleged or otherwise.

There's the usual yarn about a jackaroo mistaking Thompson for a brother rouser, and asking him whether old Baldy was about anywhere, and Baldy said:

“Why, are you looking for a job?”

“Yes, do you think I stand any show? What sort of a boss is Baldy?”

“You'd tramp from here to Adelaide,” said Baldy, “and north to the Gulf country, and wouldn't find a worse. He's the meanest squatter in Australia. The damned old crawler! I grafted like a nigger for him for over fifty years”--Baldy was over sixty--“and now the old skunk won't even pay me the last two cheques he owes me--says the bank has got everything he had--that's an old cry of his, the damned old sneak; seems to expect me to go short to keep his wife and family and relations in comfort, and by God I've done it for the last thirty or forty years, and I might go on the track to-morrow worse off than the meanest old whaler that ever humped bluey. Don't you have anything to do with Scabby Thompson, or you'll be sorry for it. Better tramp to hell than take a job from him.”

“Well, I think I'll move on. Would I stand any show for some tucker?”

“Him! He wouldn't give a dog a crust, and like as not he'd get you run in for trespass if he caught you camping on the run. But come along to the store and I'll give you enough tucker to carry you on.”

He patronized literature and arts, too, though in an awkward, furtive way. We remember how we once turned up at the station hard up and short of tucker, and how we entertained Baldy with some of his own ideas as ours--having been posted beforehand by our mate--and how he told us to get some rations and camp in the hut and see him in the morning.

And we saw him in the morning, had another yarn with him, agreed and sympathized with him some more, were convinced on one or two questions which we had failed to see at first, cursed things in chorus with him, and casually mentioned that we expected soon to get some work on a political paper.

And at last he went inside and brought out a sovereign. “Wrap this in a piece of paper and put it in your pocket, and don't lose it,” he said.

But we learnt afterwards that the best way to get along with Baldy, and secure his good will, was to disagree with him on every possible point.

FOR AULD LANG SYNE

These were ten of us there on the wharf when our first mate left for Maoriland, he having been forced to leave Sydney because he could not get anything like regular work, nor anything like wages for the work he could get. He was a carpenter and joiner, a good tradesman and a rough diamond. He had got married and had made a hard fight for it during the last two years or so, but the result only petrified his conviction that “a lovely man could get no blessed show in this condemned country,” as he expressed it; so he gave it best at last--“chucked it up,” as he said--left his wife with her people and four pounds ten, until such time as he could send for her--and left himself with his box of tools, a pair of hands that could use them, a steerage ticket, and thirty shillings.

We turned up to see him off. There were ten of us all told and about twice as many shillings all counted. He was the first of the old push to go--we use the word push in its general sense, and we called ourselves the mountain push because we had worked in the tourist towns a good deal--he was the first of the mountain push to go; and we felt somehow, and with a vague kind of sadness or uneasiness, that this was the beginning of the end of old times and old things. We were plasterers, bricklayers, painters, a carpenter, a labourer, and a plumber, and were all suffering more or less--mostly more--and pretty equally, because of the dearth of regular graft, and the consequent frequency of the occasions on which we didn't hold it--the “it” being the price of one or more long beers. We had worked together on jobs in the city and up-country, especially in the country, and had had good times together when things were locomotive, as Jack put it; and we always managed to worry along cheerfully when things were “stationary.” On more than one big job up the country our fortnightly spree was a local institution while it lasted, a thing that was looked forward to by all parties, whether immediately concerned or otherwise (and all were concerned more or less), a thing to be looked back to and talked over until next pay-day came. It was a matter for anxiety and regret to the local business people and publicans, and loafers and spielers, when our jobs were finished and we left.