Part 8

“'Why, what d'yer mean?' I'll say. 'Leave her like what?' I won't pretend to know what he's driving at.

“'Oh!' he'll say, 'you know very well what I mean. The question is: _Are you going to marry the girl or not_?'

“I'll see that things are gettin' a little warm and that I'm in a corner, so I'll say:

“'Why, I never thought about it. This is pretty sudden and out of the common, isn't it? I don't mind marrying the girl if she'll have me. Why! I haven't asked her yet!'

“'Well, look here,' he'll say, 'if you agree to marry the girl--and I'll make you marry her, any road--I'll give you that there farm over there and a couple of hundred to start on.'

“So, I'll marry her and settle down and be a cocky myself and if you ever happen to be knocking round there hard up, you needn't go short of tucker a week or two; but don't come knocking round the house when I'm not at home.”

STEELMAN

Steelman was a hard case. If you were married, and settled down, and were so unfortunate as to have known Steelman in other days, he would, if in your neighbourhood and dead-beat, be sure to look you up. He would find you anywhere, no matter what precautions you might take. If he came to your house, he would stay to tea without invitation, and if he stayed to tea, he would ask you to “fix up a shake-down on the floor, old man,” and put him up for the night; and, if he stopped all night, he'd remain--well, until something better turned up.

There was no shaking off Steelman. He had a way about him which would often make it appear as if you had invited him to stay, and pressed him against his roving inclination, and were glad to have him round for company, while he remained only out of pure goodwill to you. He didn't like to offend an old friend by refusing his invitation.

Steelman knew his men.

The married victim generally had neither the courage nor the ability to turn him out. He was cheerfully blind and deaf to all hints, and if the exasperated missus said anything to him straight, he would look shocked, and reply, as likely as not:

“Why, my good woman, you must be mad! I'm your husband's guest!”

And if she wouldn't cook for him, he'd cook for himself. There was no choking him off. Few people care to call the police in a case like this; and besides, as before remarked, Steelman knew his men. The only way to escape from him was to move--but then, as likely as not, he'd help pack up and come along with his portmanteau right on top of the last load of furniture, and drive you and your wife to the verge of madness by the calm style in which he proceeded to superintend the hanging of your pictures.

Once he quartered himself like this on an old schoolmate of his, named Brown, who had got married and steady and settled down. Brown tried all ways to get rid of Steelman, but he couldn't do it. One day Brown said to Steelman:

“Look here, Steely, old man, I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid we won't be able to accommodate you any longer--to make you comfortable, I mean. You see, a sister of the missus is coming down on a visit for a month or two, and we ain't got anywhere to put her, except in your room. I wish the missus's relations to blazes! I didn't marry the whole blessed family; but it seems I've got to keep them.”

Pause--very awkward and painful for poor Brown. Discouraging silence from Steelman. Brown rested his elbows on his knees, and, with a pathetic and appealing movement of his hand across his forehead, he continued desperately:

“I'm very sorry, you see, old man--you know I'd like you to stay--I want you to stay.... It isn't my fault--it's the missus's doings. I've done my best with her, but I can't help it. I've been more like a master in my own house--more comfortable--and I've been better treated since I've had you to back me up.... I'll feel mighty lonely, anyway, when ycu're gone.... But... you know... as soon as her sister goes... you know.... ”

Here poor Brown broke down--very sorry he had spoken at all; but Steely came to the rescue with a ray of light.

“What's the matter with the little room at the back?” he asked.

“Oh, we couldn't think of putting you there,” said Brown, with a last effort; “it's not fined up; you wouldn't be comfortable, and, besides, it's damp, and you'd catch your death of cold. It was never meant for anything but a wash-house. I'm sorry I didn't get another room built on to the house.”

“Bosh!” interrupted Steelman, cheerfully. “Catch a cold! Here I've been knocking about the country for the last five years--sleeping out in all weathers--and do you think a little damp is going to hurt me? Pooh! What do you take me for? Don't you bother your head about it any more, old man; I'll fix up the lumber-room for myself, all right; and all you've got to do is to let me know when the sister-in-law business is coming on, and I'll shift out of my room in time for the missus to get it ready for her. Here, have you got a bob on you? I'll go out and get some beer. A drop'll do you good.”

“Well, if you can make yourself comfortable, I'll be only too glad for you to stay,” said Brown, wearily.

“You'd better invite some woman you know to come on a visit, and pass her off as your sister,” said Brown to his wife, while Steelman was gone for the beer. “I've made a mess of it.”

Mrs Brown said, “I knew you would.”

Steelman knew his men.

But at last Brown reckoned that he could stand it no longer. The thought of it made him so wild that he couldn't work. He took a day off to get thoroughly worked up in, came home that night full to the chin of indignation and Dunedin beer, and tried to kick Steelman out. And Steelman gave him a hiding.

Next morning Steelman was sitting beside Brown's bed with a saucer of vinegar, some brown paper, a raw beef-steak, and a bottle of soda.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself now, Brown?” he said, sternly. “Ain't you jolly well ashamed of yourself to come home in the beastly state you did last night, and insult a guest in your house, to say nothing of an old friend--and perhaps the best friend you ever had, if you only knew it? Anybody else would have given you in charge and got you three months for the assault. You ought to have some consideration for your wife and children, and your own character--even if you haven't any for your old mate's feelings. Here, drink this, and let me fix you up a bit; the missus has got the breakfast waiting.”

DRIFTED BACK

The stranger walked into the corner grocery with the air of one who had come back after many years to see someone who would be glad to see him. He shed his swag and stood it by the wall with great deliberation; then he rested his elbow on the counter, stroked his beard, and grinned quizzically at the shopman, who smiled back presently in a puzzled way.

“Good afternoon,” said the grocer.

“Good afternoon.”

Pause.

“Nice day,” said the grocer.

Pause.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes; tell the old man there's a chap wants to speak to him for a minute.”

“Old man? What old man?”

“Hake, of course--old Ben Hake! Ain't he in?”

The grocer smiled.

“Hake ain't here now. I'm here.”

“How's that?”

“Why, he sold out to me ten years ago.”

“Well, I suppose I'll find him somewhere about town?”

“I don't think you will. He left Australia when he sold out. He's--he's dead now.”

“Dead! Old Ben Hake?”

“Yes. You knew him, then?”

The stranger seemed to have lost a great deal of his assurance. He turned his side to the counter, hooked his elbow on it, and gazed out through the door along Sunset Track.

“You can give me half a pound of nailrod,” he said, in a quiet tone--“I s'pose young Hake is in town?”

“No; the whole family went away. I think there's one of the sons in business in Sydney now.”

“I s'pose the M'Lachlans are here yet?”

“No; they are not. The old people died about five years ago; the sons are in Queensland, I think; and both the girls are married and in Sydney.”

“Ah, well!... I see you've got the railway here now.”

“Oh, yes! Six years.”

“Times is changed a lot.”

“They are.”

“I s'pose--I s'pose you can tell me where I'll find old Jimmy Nowlett?”

“Jimmy Nowlett? Jimmy Nowlett? I never heard of the name. What was he?”

“Oh, he was a bullock-driver. Used to carry from the mountains before the railway was made.”

“Before my time, perhaps. There's no one of that name round here now.”

“Ah, well!... I don't suppose you knew the Duggans?”

“Yes, I did. The old man's dead, too, and the family's gone away--Lord knows where. They weren't much loss, to all accounts. The sons got into trouble, I b'lieve--went to the bad. They had a bad name here.”

“Did they? Well, they had good hearts--at least, old Malachi Duggan and the eldest son had.... You can give me a couple of pounds of sugar.”

“Right. I suppose it's a long time since you were here last?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. I don't s'pose I remind you of anyone you know around here?”

“N--no!” said the grocer with a smile. “I can't say you do.”

“Ah, well! I s'pose I'll find the Wilds still living in the same place?”

“The Wilds? Well, no. The old man is dead, too, and--”

“And--and where's Jim? He ain't dead?”

“No; he's married and settled down in Sydney.”

Long pause.

“Can you--” said the stranger, hesitatingly; “did you--I suppose you knew Mary--Mary Wild?”

“Mary?” said the grocer, smilingly. “That was my wife's maiden name. Would you like to see her?”

“No, no! She mightn't remember me!”

He reached hastily for his swag, and shouldered it.

“Well, I must be gettin' on.”

“I s'pose you'll camp here over Christmas?”

“No; there's nothing to stop here for--I'll push on. I did intend to have a Christmas here--in fact, I came a long way out of my road a-purpose.... I meant to have just one more Christmas with old Ben Hake an' the rest of the boys--but I didn't know as they'd moved on so far west. The old bush school is dyin' out.”

There was a smile in his eyes, but his bearded lips twitched a little.

“Things is changed. The old houses is pretty much the same, an' the old signs want touchin' up and paintin' jest as had as ever; an' there's that old palin' fence that me an' Ben Hake an' Jimmy Nowlett put up twenty year ago. I've tramped and travelled long ways since then. But things is changed--at least, people is.... Well, I must be goin'. There's nothing to keep me here. I'll push on and get into my track again. It's cooler travellin' in the night.”

“Yes, it's been pretty hot to-day.”

“Yes, it has. Well, s'long.”

“Good day. Merry Christmas!”

“Eh? What? Oh, yes! Same to you! S'long!”

“Good day!” He drifted out and away along Sunset Track.

REMAILED

There is an old custom prevalent in Australasia--and other parts, too, perhaps, for that matter--which, we think, deserves to be written up. It might not be an “honoured” custom from a newspaper manager's or proprietor's point of view, or from the point of view (if any) occupied by the shareholders on the subject; but, nevertheless, it is a time-honoured and a good old custom. Perhaps, for several reasons, it was more prevalent among diggers than with the comparatively settled bushmen of to-day--the poor, hopeless, wandering swaggy doesn't count in the matter, for he has neither the wherewithal nor the opportunity to honour the old custom; also his movements are too sadly uncertain to permit of his being honoured by it. We refer to the remailing of newspapers and journals from one mate to another.

Bill gets his paper and reads it through conscientiously from beginning to end by candle or slush-lamp as he lies on his back in the hut or tent with his pipe in his mouth; or, better still, on a Sunday afternoon as he reclines on the grass in the shade, in all the glory and comfort of a clean pair of moleskins and socks and a clean shirt. And when he has finished reading the paper--if it is not immediately bespoke--he turns it right side out, folds it, and puts it away where he'll know where to find it. The paper is generally bespoke in the following manner:

“Let's have a look at that paper after you, Bill, when yer done with it,” says Jack.

And Bill says:

“I just promised it to Bob. You can get it after him.”

And, when it is finally lent, Bill says:

“Don't forget to give that paper back to me when yer done with it. Don't let any of those other blanks get holt of it, or the chances are I won't set eyes on it again.”

But the other blanks get it in their turn after being referred to Bill. “You must ask Bill,” says Jack to the next blank, “I got it from him.” And when Bill gets his paper back finally--which is often only after much bush grumbling, accusation, recrimination, and denial--he severely and carefully re-arranges theme pages, folds the paper, and sticks it away up over a rafter, or behind a post or batten, or under his pillow where it will safe. He wants that paper to send to Jim.

Bill is but an indifferent hand at folding, and knows little or nothing about wrappers. He folds and re-folds the paper several times and in various ways, but the first result is often the best, and is finally adopted. The parcel looks more ugly than neat; but Bill puts a weight upon it so that it won't fly open, and looks round for a piece of string to tie it with. Sometimes he ties it firmly round the middle, sometimes at both ends; at other times he runs the string down inside the folds and ties it that way, or both ways, or all the ways, so as to be sure it won't come undone--which it doesn't as a rule. If he can't find a piece of string long enough, he ties two bits together, and submits the result to a rather severe test; and if the string is too thin, or he has to use thread, he doubles it. Then he worries round to find out who has got the ink, or whether anyone has seen anything of the pen; and when he gets them, he writes the address with painful exactitude on the margin of the paper, sometimes in two or three places. He has to think a moment before he writes; and perhaps he'll scratch the back of his head afterwards with an inky finger, and regard the address with a sort of mild, passive surprise. His old mate Jim was always plain Jim to him, and nothing else; but, in order to reach Jim, this paper has to be addressed to--

MR JAMES MITCHELL, c/o J. W. Dowell, Esq., Munnigrub Station--

and so on. “Mitchell” seems strange--Bill couldn't think of it for the moment--and so does “James.”

And, a week or so later, over on Coolgardie, or away up in northern Queensland, or bush-felling down in Maoriland, Jim takes a stroll up to the post office after tea on mail night. He doesn't expect any letters, but there might be a paper from Bill. Bill generally sends him a newspaper. They seldom write to each other, these old mates.

There were points, of course, upon which Bill and Jim couldn't agree--subjects upon which they argued long and loud and often in the old days; and it sometimes happens that Bill comes across an article or a paragraph which agrees with and, so to speak, barracks for a pet theory of his as against one held by Jim; and Bill marks it with a chuckle and four crosses at the corners--and an extra one at each side perhaps--and sends it on to Jim; he reckons it'll rather corner old Jim. The crosses are not over ornamental nor artistic, but very distinct; Jim sees them from the reverse side of the sheet first, maybe, and turns it over with interest to see what it is. He grins a good-humoured grin as he reads--poor old Bill is just as thick-headed and obstinate as ever--just as far gone on his old fad. It's rather rough on Jim, because he's too far off to argue; but, if he's very earnest on the subject, he'll sit down and write, using all his old arguments to prove that the man who wrote that rot was a fool. This is one of the few things that will make them write to each other. Or else Jim will wait till he comes across a paragraph in another paper which barracks for his side of the argument, and, in his opinion; rather knocks the stuffing out of Bill's man; then he marks it with more and bigger crosses and a grin, and sends it along to Bill. They are both democrats--these old mates generally are--and at times one comes across a stirring article or poem, and marks it with approval and sends it along. Or it may be a good joke, or the notice of the death of an old mate. What a wave of feeling and memories a little par can take through the land!

Jim is a sinner and a scoffer, and Bill is an earnest, thorough, respectable old freethinker, and consequently they often get a _War Cry_ or a tract sent inside their exchanges--somebody puts it in for a joke.

Long years ago--long years ago Bill and Jim were sweet on a rose of the bush--or a lily of the goldfields--call her Lily King. Both courted her at the same time, and quarrelled over her--fought over her, perhaps--and were parted by her for years. But that's all bygones. Perhaps she loved Bill, perhaps she loved Jim--perhaps both; or, maybe, she wasn't sure which. Perhaps she loved neither, and was only stringing them on. Anyway, she didn't marry either the one or the other. She married another man--call him Jim Smith. And so, in after years, Bill comes across a paragraph in a local paper, something like the following:

On July 10th, at her residence, Eureka Cottage, Ballarat-street, Tally Town, the wife of James Smith of twins (boy and girl); all three doing well.

And Bill marks it with a loud chuckle and big crosses, and sends it along to Jim. Then Bill sits and thinks and smokes, and thinks till the fire goes out, and quite forgets all about putting that necessary patch on his pants.

And away down on Auckland gum-fields, perhaps, Jim reads the par with a grin; then grows serious, and sits and scrapes his gum by the flickering firelight in a mechanical manner, and--thinks. His thoughts are far away in the back years--faint and far, far and faint. For the old, lingering, banished pain returns and hurts a man's heart like the false wife who comes back again, falls on her knees before him, and holds up her trembling arms and pleads with swimming, upturned eyes, which are eloquent with the love she felt too late.

It is supposed to be something to have your work published in an English magazine, to have it published in book form, to be flattered by critics and reprinted throughout the country press, or even to be cut up well and severely. But, after all, now we come to think of it, we would almost as soon see a piece of ours marked with big inky crosses in the soiled and crumpled rag that Bill or Jim gets sent him by an old mate of his--the paper that goes thousands of miles scrawled all over with smudgy addresses and tied with a piece of string.

MITCHELL DOESN'T BELIEVE IN THE SACK

“If ever I do get a job again,” said Mitchell, “I'll stick to it while there's a hand's turn of work to do, and put a few pounds together. I won't be the fool I always was. If I'd had sense a couple of years ago, I wouldn't be tramping through this damned sand and mulga now. I'll get a job on a station, or at some toff's house, knocking about the stables and garden, and I'll make up my mind to settle down to graft for four or five years.”

“But supposing you git the sack?” said his mate.

“I won't take it. Only for taking the sack I wouldn't be hard up to-day. The boss might come round and say:

'I won't want you after this week, Mitchell. I haven't got any more work for you to do. Come up and see me at the office presently.'

“So I'll go up and get my money; but I'll be pottering round as usual on Monday, and come up to the kitchen for my breakfast. Some time in the day the boss'll be knocking round and see me.

“'Why, Mitchell,' he'll say, 'I thought you was gone.'

“'I didn't say I was going,' I'll say. 'Who told you that--or what made you think so?'

“'I thought I told you on Saturday that I wouldn't want you any more,' he'll say, a bit short. 'I haven't got enough work to keep a man going; I told you that; I thought you understood. _Didn't I give you the sack on Saturday_?'

“'It's no use;' I'll say, 'that sort of thing's played out. I've been had too often that way; I've been sacked once too often. Taking the sack's been the cause of all my trouble; I don't believe in it. If I'd never taken the sack I'd have been a rich man to-day; it might be all very well for horses, but it doesn't suit me; it doesn't hurt you, but it hurts me. I made up my mind that when I got a place to suit me, I'd stick in it. I'm comfortable here and satisfied, and you've had no cause to find fault with me. It's no use you trying to sack me, because I won't take it. I've been there before, and you might as well try to catch an old bird with chaff.'

“'Well, I won't pay you, and you'd better be off,' he'll say, trying not to grin.

“'Never mind the money,' I'll say, 'the bit of tucker won't cost you anything, and I'll find something to do round the house till you have some more work. I won't ask you for anything, and, surely to God I'll find enough to do to pay for my grub!'

“So I'll potter round and take things easy and call up at the kitchen as usual at meal times, and by and by the boss'll think to himself: 'Well, if I've got to feed this chap I might as well get some work out of him.'

“So he'll find me, something regular to do--a bit of fencing, or carpentering, or painting, or something, and then I'll begin to call up for my stuff again, as usual.”

SHOOTING THE MOON