Children of the Bush Part 11

Brummy and Swampy went apart to talk it over.

"Look here! Brum, old man," said Swampy, with great heartiness, "we've been mates for a long while now, an' shared an' shared alike. You've allers acted straight to me an' I want to do the fair thing by you.

_I_ don't want to stand in _your_ light. You take the job an' I'll be satisfied with a pair of pants out of it and a bit o' tobacco now an'

agen. There yer are! I can't say no fairer than that."

"Yes," said Brummy, resentfully, "an' you'll always be thrown' it up to me afterwards that I done you out of a job!"

"I'll swear I won't," said Swampy, hurriedly. "But since you're so blasted touchy and suspicious about it, _you_ take this job an' I'll take the next that turns up. How'll that suit you?"

Brummy thought resentfully.

"Look here!" he said presently, "let's settle it and have done with this d.a.m.ned sentimental tommy-rot. I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll give you the job and take my chance. The boss might want another man to-morrow.

Now, are you satisfied?"

But Swampy didn't look grateful or happy.

"Well," growled Brummy, "of all the ---- I ever travelled with you're the ----. What do you want anyway? What'll satisfy you? That's all I want to know. Hey?--can't yer speak?"

"Let's toss up for it," said Swampy, sulkily.

"All right," said Brummy, with a big oath, and he felt in his pocket for two old pennies he had. But Swampy had got a suspicion somehow that one of those pennies had two heads on it, and he wasn't sure that the other hadn't two tails--also, he suspected Brummy of some skill in "palming,"

so he picked up a chip from the wood-heap, spat on it, and spun it into the air. "Sing out!" he cried, "wet or dry?"

"Dry," said Brummy, promptly. He had a theory that the wet side of the chip, being presumably heaviest, was more likely to fall downwards; but this time it was "wet" up three times in succession. Brummy ignored Swampy's hand thrown out in hearty congratulation; and next morning he went to work in the shed. Swampy camped down the river, and Brummy supplied him with a cheap pair of moleskin trousers, tucker and tobacco.

The shed cut out within three weeks and the two sundowners took the track again, Brummy with two pounds odd in his pocket--he having negotiated his cheque at the shed.

But now there was suspicion, envy, and distrust in the hearts of those two wayfarers. Brummy was now a bloated capitalist, and proud, and anxious to get rid of Swampy--at least Swampy thought so. He thought that the least that Brummy might have done was to have shared the "stuff" with him.

"Look here, Brummy," he said reproachfully, "we've shared and shared alike, and----"

"We never shared money," said Brummy, decidedly.

"Do you think I want yer blasted money?" retorted Swampy, indignantly.

"When did I ever ask yer for a sprat? Tell me that!"

"You wouldn't have got it if you had asked," said Brummy, uncompromisingly. "Look here!" with vehemence. "Didn't I keep yer in tobacco and buy yer gory pants? What are you naggin' about anyway?"

"Well," said Swampy, "all I was goin' to say was that yer might let me carry one of them quids in case you lost one--yer know you're careless and lose things; or in case anything happened to you."

"I ain't going to lose it--if that's all that's fretting you," said Brummy, "and there ain't nothing going to happen to me--and don't you forget it."

"That's all the thanks I get for givin' yer my gory job," said Swampy, savagely. "I won't be sick a soft fool agen, I can tell yer."

Brummy was silent, and Swampy dropped behind. He brooded darkly, and it's a bad thing for a man to brood in the bush. He was reg'lar disgusted with Brummy. He'd allers acted straight to him, and Brummy had acted like a "cow." He'd stand it no longer; but he'd have some satisfaction. He wouldn't be a fool. If Brummy was mean skunk enough to act to a mate like that, Swampy would be even with him; he would wait till Brummy was asleep, collar the stuff, and clear. It was his job, anyway, and the money was his by rights. He'd have his rights.

Brummy, who carried the billy, gave Swampy a long tramp before he camped and made a fire. They had tea in silence, and smoked moodily apart until Brummy turned in. They usually slept on the ground, with a few leaves under them, or on the sand where there was any, each wrapped in his own blankets, and with their spare clothes, or rags rather, for pillows.

Presently Swampy turned in and pretended to sleep, but he lay awake watching, and listening to Brummy's breathing. When he thought it was safe he moved cautiously and slipped his hand under Brummy's head, but Brummy's old pocket-book--in which he carried some dirty old letters in a woman's handwriting--was not there. All next day Swampy watched Brummy sharply every time he put his hands into his pockets, to try and find out in which pocket he kept his money. Brummy seemed very cheerful and sociable, even considerate, to his mate all day, and Swampy pretended to be happy. They yarned more than they had done for many a day. Brummy was a heavy sleeper, and that night Swampy went over him carefully and felt all his pockets, but without success. Next day Brummy seemed in high spirits--they were nearing Bourke, where they intended to loaf round the pubs for a week or two. On the third night Swampy waited till about midnight, and then searched Brummy, every inch of him he could get at, and tickled him, with a straw of gra.s.s till he turned over, and ran his hands over the other side of him, and over his feet (Brummy slept with his socks on), and looked in his boots, and in the billy and in the tucker-bags, and felt in every tuft of gra.s.s round the camp, and under every bush, and down a hollow stump, and up a hollow log: but there was no pocket-book. Brummy couldn't have lost the money and kept it dark--he'd have gone back to look for it at once. Perhaps he'd thrown away the book and sewn the money in his clothes somewhere. Swampy crept back to him and felt the lining of his hat, and was running his hand over Brummy's chest when Brummy suddenly started to snore, and Swampy desisted without loss of time. He crept back to bed, breathing short, and thought hard. It struck him that there was something aggressive about that snore. He began to suspect that Brummy was up to his little game, and it pained him.

Next morning Brummy was decidedly frivolous. At any other time Swampy would have put it down to a "touch o' the sun," but now he felt a growing conviction that Brummy knew what he'd been up to the last three nights, and the more he thought of it the more it pained him--till at last he could stand it no longer.

"Look here, Brummy," he said frankly, "where the h.e.l.l do you keep that flamin' stuff o' yourn? I been tryin' to git at it ever since we left West-o'-Sunday."

"I know you have, Swampy," said Brummy, affectionately--as if he considered that Swampy had done his best in the interests of mates.h.i.+p.

"I _knowed_ yer knowed!" exclaimed Swampy, triumphantly. "But where the blazes did yer put it?"

"Under _your_ head, Swampy, old man," said Brummy, cheerfully.

Swampy was hurt now. He commented in the language that used to be used by the bullock-punchers of the good days as they pranced up and down by their teams and lammed into the bullocks with saplings and crow-bars, and called on them to lift a heavy load out of a bog in the bed of a muddy creek.

"Never mind, Swampy!" said Brummy, soothingly, as his mate paused and tried to remember worse oaths. "It wasn't your fault."

But they parted at Bourke. Swampy had allers acted straight ter Brummy--share 'n' share alike. He'd do as much for a mate as any other man, an' put up with as much from a mate. He had put up with a lot from Brummy: he'd picked him up on the track and learned him all he knowed; Brummy would have starved many a time if it hadn't been for Swampy; Swampy had learned him how to "battle." He'd stick to Brummy yet, but he couldn't stand ingrat.i.tude. He hated low cunnin' an' suspicion, and when a gory mate got suspicious of his own old mate and wouldn't trust him, an' took to plantin' his crimson money--it was time to leave him.

A SKETCH OF MATEs.h.i.+P

Bill and Jim, professional shearers, were coming into Bourke from the Queensland side. They were hors.e.m.e.n and had two packhorses. At the last camp before Bourke Jim's packhorse got disgusted and home-sick during the night and started back for the place where he was foaled. Jim was little more than a new-chum jackaroo; he was no bushman and generally got lost when he went down the next gully. Bill was a bushman, so it was decided that he should go back to look for the horse.

Now Bill was going to sell his packhorse, a well-bred mare, in Bourke, and he was anxious to get her into the yards before the horse sales were over; this was to be the last day of the sales. Jim was the best "barracker" of the two; he had great imagination; he was a very entertaining story-teller and conversationalist in social life, and a glib and a most impressive liar in business, so it was decided that he should hurry on into Bourke with the mare and sell her for Bill. Seven pounds, reserve.

Next day Bill turned up with the missing horse and saw Jim standing against a veranda-post of the Carriers' Arms, with his hat down over his eyes, and thoughtfully spitting in the dust. Bill rode over to him.

"'Ullo, Jim."

"'Ullo, Bill. I see you got him."

"Yes, I got him."

Pause.

"Where'd yer find him?"

"'Bout ten mile back. Near Ford's Bridge. He was just feedin' along."

Pause. Jim s.h.i.+fted his feet and spat in the dust.

"Well," said Bill at last. "How did you get on, Jim?"

"Oh, all right," said Jim. "I sold the mare."

"That's right," said Bill. "How much did she fetch?"

"Eight quid;" then, rousing himself a little and showing some emotion, "An' I could 'a' got ten quid for her if I hadn't been a dam' fool."