Selected Stories By Henry Lawson Part 36

"Very seldom," said Andy, "and then only when he has to, on business. When he finishes his business with the stock agents, he takes a run out to Waverley Cemetery perhaps, and comes home by the next train."

After a while I said, "He told me about the drink, Andy-about his being on the spree when the children were lost."

"Well, Jack," said Andy, "that's the thing that's been killing him ever since; and it happened over ten years ago."

A Bush Dance.

"TAP, tap, tap, tap."

The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub was lighted brightly in the midst of the "close", solid blackness of that moonless December night, when the sky and stars were smothered and suffocated by drought haze.

It was the evening of the school children's "Feast". That is to say that the children had been sent, and "let go", and the younger ones "fetched" through the blazing heat to the school, one day early in the holidays, and raced-sometimes in couples tied together by the legs-and caked, and bunned, and finally improved upon by the local Chadband, and got rid of. The schoolroom had been cleared for dancing, the maps rolled and tied, the desks and blackboards stacked against the wall outside. Tea was over, and the trestles and boards, whereon had been spread better things than had been provided for the unfortunate youngsters, had been taken outside to keep the desks and blackboards company.

On stools running end to end along one side of the room sat about twenty more or less blooming country girls of from fifteen to twenty odd.

On the rest of the stools, running end to end along the other wall; sat about twenty more or less blooming chaps.

It was evident that something was seriously wrong. None of the girls spoke above a hushed whisper. None of the men spoke above a hushed oath. Now and again two or three sidled out, and if you had followed them you would have found that they went outside to listen hard into the darkness and to swear.

"Tap, tap, tap."

The rows moved uneasily, and some of the girls turned paled faces nervously towards the side-door, in the direction of the sound.

"Tap-tap."

The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of the teacher's residence, and was uncomfortably suggestive of a coffin being made: it was also accompanied by a sickly, indescribable odour-more like that of warm cheap glue than anything else.

In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained listening. Whenever one of the men returned from outside, or put his head in the door, all eyes were fastened on him in the flash of a single eye, and then withdrawn hopelessly. At the sound of a horse's step all eyes and ears were on the door, till someone muttered, "It's only the horses in the paddock."

Some of the girls' eyes began to glisten suspiciously, and at last the belle of the party-a great, dark-haired, pink-and-white Blue Mountain girl, who had been sitting for a full minute staring before her, with blue eyes unnaturally bright, suddenly covered her face with her hands, rose, and started blindly from the room, from which she was steered in a hurry by two sympathetic and rather "upset" girl friends, and as she pa.s.sed out she was, heard sobbing hysterically: "Oh, I can't help it! I did want to dance! It's a sh-shame! I can't help it! I-I want to dance! I rode twenty miles to dance-and-and I want to dance!"

Atall, strapping young Bushman rose, without disguise, and followed the girl out. The rest began to talk loudly of stock, dogs, and horses, and other Bush things; but above their voices rang out that of the girl from the outside-being man comforted: "I can't help it, Jack! I did want to dance! I-I had such-such-a job-to get mother-and-and father to let me come-and-and now!"

The two girl friends came back. "He sez to leave her to him," they whispered, in reply to an interrogatory glance from the schoolmistress.

"It's-it's no use, Jack!" came the voice of grief. "You don't know what-what father and mother-is. I-I won't-be able to ge-get away-again-for-for-not till I'm married, perhaps."

The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls. "I'll take her into my room and make her lie down," she whispered to her sister, who was staying with her. "She'll start some of the other girls presently-it's just the weather for it," and she pa.s.sed out quietly. That schoolmistress was a woman of penetration.

Afinal "tap-tap" from the kitchen; then a sound like the squawk of a hurt or frightened child, and the faces in the room turned quickly in that direction and brightened. But there came a bang and a sound like "d.a.m.n!" and hopelessness settled down.

Ashout from the outer darkness, and most of the men and some of the girls rose and hurried out. Fragments of conversation heard in the darkness: "It's two horses, I tell you!"

"It's three, you--!"

"Lay you--!"

"Put the stuff up!"

Aclack of gate thrown open.

"Who is it, Tom?"

Voices from gatewards, yelling, "Johnny Mears! They've got Johnny Mears!"

Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrublands.

Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the table, where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, which he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make airtight; and holding it out towards the backdoor, between his palms, as a football is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe of his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick; the concertina shot out into the blackness, from which was projected, in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by an enormous brickcoloured hand, and a voice that wanted to know who shot "that lurid loaf of bread"?

But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, M.C.: "Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny Mears with his fiddle!"

Telling Mrs Baker.

MOST Bushmen who hadn't "known Bob Baker to speak to", had "heard tell of him". He'd been a squatter, not many years before, on the Macquarie River in New South Wales, and had made money in the good seasons, and had gone in for horse-racing and racehorse-breeding, and long trips to Sydney, where he put up at swell hotels and went the pace. So after a pretty severe drought, when the sheep died by thousands on his runs, Bob Baker went under, and the bank took over his station and put a manager in charge.

He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that he'd been a selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned, for they had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity is often born of vanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It's very nice to hear the chaps sing "For he's a jolly good fellow", but you've mostly got to pay for it twice-first in company, and afterwards alone. I once heard the chaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow, when I was leaving a place and they were giving me a send-off. It thrilled me, and brought a warm gush to my eyes; but, all the same, I wished I had half the money I'd lent them, and spent on 'em, and I wished I'd used the time I'd wasted to be a jolly good fellow.

When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss drover on the great north-western route, and his wife lived at the towns.h.i.+p of Solong on the Sydney side. He was going North to new country round by the Gulf of Carpentaria with a big mob of cattle, on a two years' trip; and I and my mate, Andy M'Culloch, engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look at the Gulf Country.

After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me that the Boss was too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs. Andy had been with him on another trip, and he told me that the Boss was only going this way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well, and seemed to think a deal of her. "She's a good little woman," said Andy. "One of the right stuff. I worked on their station for a while when I was a nipper, and I know. She was always a d.a.m.ned sight too good for the Boss, but she believed in him. When I was coming away this time she says to me, 'Look here, Andy, I'm afraid Robert is drinking again. Now I want you to look after him for me, as much as you can-you seem to have as much influence with him as anyone. I want you to promise me that you'll never have a drink with him.'

"And I promised," said Andy, "and I'll keep my word." Andy was a chap who could keep his word, and nothing else. And, no matter how the Boss persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him, Andy would never drink with him.

It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at a shanty, and sometimes he'd be days behind us; and when he'd catch up to us his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last he went on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles north of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow with a flash barmaid there-one of those girls who are engaged, by the publicans up country, as baits for chequemen.

He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque from the stockowner's agent there, and knocked that down; then he raised some more money somehow, and spent that-mostly on the girl.

We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple of stages, and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night and went back.

We had two other men with us, but had the devil's own bother on account of the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round. You see, it was all big runs round there, and we had to keep the bullocks moving along the route all the time, or else get into trouble for trespa.s.s. The agent wasn't going to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock until the Boss sobered up; there was very little gra.s.s on the route or the travelling-stock reserves or camps, so we had to keep travelling for gra.s.s.

The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle have to go through-that's the law of the stock-routes. So the agent wired to the owners, and, when he got their reply, he sacked the Boss and sent the cattle on in charge of another man. The new Boss was a drover coming south after a trip; he had his two brothers with him, so he didn't want me and Andy; but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged, between the agent and the new Boss, to get most of the wages due to us-the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.

We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober, mad or sane, good or bad, it isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole; and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him.

We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp with us as much as possible, and did all we could for him.

"How could I face his wife if I went home without him?" asked Andy, "or any of his old mates?"

The Boss got himself turned out of the pub where the barmaid was, and then he'd hang round the other pubs, and get drink somehow, and fight, and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time, wild-eyed and gaunt, and he hadn't washed or shaved for days.

Andy got the constable in charge of the police station to lock him up for a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back to the camp next morning, and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes he slipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started to hang himself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope. We got to him just in time.

Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who was fighting the drought, the rabbit pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border. Andy reckoned it was about time to do, something.

Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his head before he started drinking-he had acted queer some time, now we came to think of it; maybe he'd got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his troubles-anyway he died in the horrors within the week.

His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought he was the devil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us to hold the Boss down sometimes.

Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for a few minutes and talk about his "poor wife and children"; and immediately afterwards he'd fall a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils. He cursed everything; he cursed his wife and children, and yelled that they were dragging him down to h.e.l.l. He died raving mad. It was the worst case of death in the horrors of drink that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush.

Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to be buried quick who die out there in the hot weather-especially men who die in the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-house where the barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperate fight: the publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man; but Ned was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who will carry a thing through to death when they make up their minds. He gave that publican nearly as good a thras.h.i.+ng as he deserved. The constable in charge of the station backed Ned, while another policeman picked up the publican. Sounds queer to you city people, doesn't it?

Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days at Ned Baker's station on the border, and then started on our three-hundred-mile ride down-country. The weather was still very hot, so we decided to travel at night for a while, and left Ned's place at dusk. He parted from us at the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet, done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained Bob's pocket-book, letters, and papers. We looked back, after we'd gone a piece along the dusty road, and saw Ned still standing by the gate; and a very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a bachelor. "Poor old Ned," said Andy to me. "He was in love with Mrs Bob Baker before she got married, but she picked the wrong man-girls mostly do. Ned and Bob were together on the Macquarie, but Ned left when his brother married, and he's been up in these G.o.d-forsaken scrubs ever since. Look, I want to tell you something, Jack: Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob died of fever, and everything was done for him that could be done, and that he died easy-and all that sort of thing. Ned sent her some money, and she is to think it was the money due to Bob when he died. Now I'll have to go and see her when we get to Solong; there's no getting out of it, I'll have to face her-and you'll have to come with me."

"d.a.m.ned if I will!" I said.

"But you'll have to," said Andy. "You'll have to stick to me; you're surely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this? I'll have to lie like h.e.l.l-I'll have to lie as I never lied to a woman before; and you'll have to back me and corroborate every lie."

I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion.

"There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn," said Andy. He said no more about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss's name casually, until we were within about a day's ride of Solong; then Andy told me the yarn he'd made up about the Boss's death.

"And I want you to listen, Jack," he said, "and remember every word-and if you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards. Now it was like this: the Boss wasn't too well when he crossed the border. He complained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain in the back of his neck, and he had dysentery bad-but that doesn't matter; it's lucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms. The Boss stuck to the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle and made it as easy as we could for him. He'd just take it easy, and ride on from camp to camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town off the route (or you did, if you like) and got some medicine for him; that made him better for a while, but at last, a day or two this side of Mulgatown, he had to give up. Asquatter there drove him into town in his buggy and put him up at the best hotel. The publican knew the Boss and did all he could for him-put him in the best room and wired for another doctor. We wired for Ned as soon as we saw how bad the Boss was, and Ned rode night and day and got there three days before the Boss died. The Boss was a bit off his head some of the time with the fever, but was calm and quiet towards the end and died easy. He talked a lot about his wife and children, and told us to tell the wife not to fret but to cheer up for the children's sake. How does that sound?"

I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me.

"Why not let her know the truth?" I asked. "She's sure to hear of it sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard she might get over it all the sooner."

"You don't know women, Jack," said Andy quietly. "And, anyway, even if she is a sensible woman, we've got a dead mate to consider as well as a living woman."

"But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later," I said, "the Boss was so well known."

"And that's just the reason why the truth might be kept from her," said Andy. "If he wasn't well known-and n.o.body could help liking him, after all, when he was straight-if he wasn't so well known the truth might leak out unawares. She won't know if I can help it, or at least not yet a while. If I see any chaps that come from the North, I'll put them up to it. I'll tell M'Grath, the publican at Solong, too: he's a straight man-he'll keep his ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker's sisters is staying with her, and I'll give her a hint so that she can warn off any women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure to go and live in Sydney, where all her people are-she was a Sydney girl; and she's not likely to meet anyone there that will tell her the truth. I can tell her that it was the last wish of the Boss that she should s.h.i.+ft to Sydney."

We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called a "happy thought". He went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvas packet that Ned had given him: it was sewn up with packing-thread, and Andy ripped it open with his pocket-knife.

"What are you doing, Andy?" I asked.

"Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is, concerned," said Andy. "I guess he hasn't looked through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going to see that there's nothing here that will make liars of us."

He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. There were some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of her and the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other letters from barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same street with the Boss's wife; and there were portraits-one or two flash ones. There were two letters from other men's wives too.

"And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!" said Andy; in a tone of disgust.

He threw the lot into the fire; then he went through the Boss's pocket-book and tore out some leaves that had notes and addresses on them, and burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet again and put it away in his saddle-bag.

"Such is life!" said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh.

We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our horses out in a paddock, and put up at M'Grath's pub until such time as we made up our minds as to what we'd do or where we'd go. We had an idea of waiting until the shearing season started and then making out back to the big sheds.

Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs Baker. "We'll go after dinner," said Andy at first; then after dinner we had a drink, and felt sleepy-we weren't used to big dinners of roast-beef and vegetables and pudding, and, besides, it was drowsy weather-so we decided to have a snooze and then go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon, so we thought we'd put it off till after tea. "It wouldn't be manners to walk in while they're at tea," said Andy-"it would look as if we only came for some grub."

But while we were at tea a little girl came with a message that Mrs Baker wanted to see us, and would be very much obliged if we'd call up as soon as possible. You see, in those small towns you can't move without the thing getting round inside of half an hour.

"We'll have to face the music now!" said Andy, "and no get out of it." He seemed to hang back more than I did. There was another pub opposite where Mrs Baker lived, and when we got up the street a bit I said to Andy: "Suppose we go and have another drink first, Andy? We might be kept in there an hour or two."

"You don't want another drink," said Andy, rather short. "Why, you seem to be going the same way as the Boss!" But it was Andy that edged off towards the pub when we got near Mrs Baker's place. "All right!" he said. "Come on! We'll have this other drink, since you want it so bad."

We had the drink, then we b.u.t.toned up our coats and started across the road-we'd bought new s.h.i.+rts and collars, and spruced up a bit. Half-way across Andy grabbed my arm and asked: "How do you feel now, Jack?"

"Oh, I'm all right," I said.

"For G.o.d's sake!" said Andy, "don't put your foot in it and make a mess of it."

"I won't, if you don't."

Mrs Baker's cottage was a little weather-board box affair back in a garden. When we went in through the gate Andy gripped my arm again and whispered: "For G.o.d's sake stick to me now, Jack!"

"I'll stick all right," I said-"you've been having too much beer, Andy."

I had seen Mrs Baker before, and remembered her as a cheerful, contented sort of woman, bustling about the house and getting the Boss's s.h.i.+rts and things ready when we started North. Just the sort of woman that is contented with housework and the children, and with nothing particular about her in the way of brains. But now she sat by the fire looking like the ghost of herself. I wouldn't have recognised her at first. I never saw such a change in a woman, and it came like a shock to me.

Her sister let us in, and after a first glance at Mrs Baker I had eyes for the sister and no one else. She was a Sydney girl, about twenty-four or twenty-five, and fresh and fair-not like the sun-browned women we were used to see. She was a pretty, bright-eyed girl, and seemed quick to understand, and very sympathetic. She had been educated, Andy had told me, and wrote stories for the Sydney Bulletin and other Sydney papers. She had her hair done and was dressed in the city style, and that took us back a bit at first.

"It's very good of you to come," said Mrs Baker in a weak, weary voice, when we first went in. "I heard you were in town."

"We were just coming when we got your message," said Andy. "We'd have come before, only we had to see to the horses."

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Mrs. Baker.

They wanted us to have tea, but we said we'd just had it. Then Miss Standish (the sister) wanted us to have tea and cake; but we didn't feel as if we could handle cups and saucers and pieces of cake successfully just then.

There was something the matter with one of the children in a back room, and the sister went to see to it. Mrs Baker cried a little quietly.

"You mustn't mind me," she said. "I'll be all right presently, and then I want you to tell me all about poor Bob. It's seeing you, that saw the last of him, that set me off."

Andy and I sat stiff and straight, on two chairs against the wall, and held our hats tight, and stared at a picture of Wellington meeting Blucher on the opposite wall. I thought it was lucky that that picture was there.

The child was calling "mumma", and Mrs Baker went in to it, and her sister came out. "Best tell her all about it and get it over," she whispered to Andy. "She'll never be content until she hears all about poor Bob from someone who was with him when he died. Let me take your hats. Make yourselves comfortable."

She took the hats and put them on the sewing-machine. I wished she'd let us keep them, for now we had nothing to hold on to, and nothing to do with our hands; and as for being comfortable, we were just about as comfortable as two cats on wet bricks.

When Mrs Baker came into the room she brought little Bobby Baker, about four years old; he wanted to see Andy. He ran to Andy at once, and Andy took him up on his knee. He was a pretty child, but he reminded me too much of his father.

"I'm so glad you've come, Andy!" said Bobby.