Joe Wilson and His Mates [72]
of times and found it all right.
Then we both tried, and agreed that it was locked.
I got back into bed, and Dave was about half in when a thought struck him.
He got the heaviest piece of firewood and stood it against the door.
`What are you doing that for?' I asked.
`If there's a broken-down burglar camped round here, and trying
any of his funny business, we'll hear him if he tries to come in while
we're asleep,' says Dave. Then he got back into bed. We composed our nerves
with the `Haunted Gulch' and `The Disembowelled Corpse',
and after a while I heard Dave snore, and was just dropping off
when the stick fell from the door against my big toe and then to the ground
with tremendous clatter. I snatched up my feet and sat up with a jerk,
and so did Dave -- the cat went over the partition. That door opened,
only a little way this time, paused, and shut suddenly. Dave got out,
grabbed a stick, skipped to the door, and clutched at the knob
as if it were a nettle, and the door wouldn't come! -- it was fast and locked!
Then Dave's face began to look as frightened as his hair.
He lit his candle at the fire, and asked me to come with him;
he unlocked the door and we went into the other room,
Dave shading his candle very carefully and feeling his way slow with his feet.
The room was empty; we tried the outer door and found it locked.
`It muster gone by the winder,' whispered Dave. I noticed that he said `it'
instead of `he'. I saw that he himself was shook up, and it only needed that
to scare me bad.
We went back to the bedroom, had a drink of cold tea, and lit our pipes.
Then Dave took the waterproof cover off his bunk, spread it on the floor,
laid his blankets on top of it, his spare clothes, &c., on top of them,
and started to roll up his swag.
`What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked.
`I'm going to take the track,' says Dave, `and camp somewhere farther on.
You can stay here, if you like, and come on in the morning.'
I started to roll up my swag at once. We dressed and fastened on
the tucker-bags, took up the billies, and got outside without making
any noise. We held our backs pretty hollow till we got down on to the road.
`That comes of camping in a deserted house,' said Dave, when we were safe
on the track. No Australian Bushman cares to camp in an abandoned homestead,
or even near it -- probably because a deserted home looks ghostlier
in the Australian Bush than anywhere else in the world.
It was blowing hard, but not raining so much.
We went on along the track for a couple of miles and camped
on the sheltered side of a round tussock hill, in a hole
where there had been a landslip. We used all our candle-ends
to get a fire alight, but once we got it started we knocked the wet bark
off `manuka' sticks and logs and piled them on, and soon had a roaring fire.
When the ground got a little drier we rigged a bit of shelter from the showers
with some sticks and the oil-cloth swag-covers; then we made some coffee
and got through the night pretty comfortably. In the morning Dave said,
`I'm going back to that house.'
`What for?' I said.
`I'm going to find out what's the matter with that crimson door.
If I don't I'll never be able to sleep easy within a mile of a door
so long as I live.'
So we went back. It was still blowing. The thing was simple enough
by daylight -- after a little watching and experimenting.
The house was built of odds and ends and badly fitted. It `gave' in the wind
in almost any direction -- not much, not more than an inch or so,
but just enough to throw the door-frame out of plumb and out of square
in such a way as to bring the latch and bolt of the lock clear of the catch
(the door-frame was of scraps joined). Then the door swung open
according to the hang of it; and when the gust was over the house gave back,
and the door swung to -- the frame easing just a little in another direction.
I suppose it would take Edison to invent a thing like that, that came about
by accident. The different strengths and directions
Then we both tried, and agreed that it was locked.
I got back into bed, and Dave was about half in when a thought struck him.
He got the heaviest piece of firewood and stood it against the door.
`What are you doing that for?' I asked.
`If there's a broken-down burglar camped round here, and trying
any of his funny business, we'll hear him if he tries to come in while
we're asleep,' says Dave. Then he got back into bed. We composed our nerves
with the `Haunted Gulch' and `The Disembowelled Corpse',
and after a while I heard Dave snore, and was just dropping off
when the stick fell from the door against my big toe and then to the ground
with tremendous clatter. I snatched up my feet and sat up with a jerk,
and so did Dave -- the cat went over the partition. That door opened,
only a little way this time, paused, and shut suddenly. Dave got out,
grabbed a stick, skipped to the door, and clutched at the knob
as if it were a nettle, and the door wouldn't come! -- it was fast and locked!
Then Dave's face began to look as frightened as his hair.
He lit his candle at the fire, and asked me to come with him;
he unlocked the door and we went into the other room,
Dave shading his candle very carefully and feeling his way slow with his feet.
The room was empty; we tried the outer door and found it locked.
`It muster gone by the winder,' whispered Dave. I noticed that he said `it'
instead of `he'. I saw that he himself was shook up, and it only needed that
to scare me bad.
We went back to the bedroom, had a drink of cold tea, and lit our pipes.
Then Dave took the waterproof cover off his bunk, spread it on the floor,
laid his blankets on top of it, his spare clothes, &c., on top of them,
and started to roll up his swag.
`What are you going to do, Dave?' I asked.
`I'm going to take the track,' says Dave, `and camp somewhere farther on.
You can stay here, if you like, and come on in the morning.'
I started to roll up my swag at once. We dressed and fastened on
the tucker-bags, took up the billies, and got outside without making
any noise. We held our backs pretty hollow till we got down on to the road.
`That comes of camping in a deserted house,' said Dave, when we were safe
on the track. No Australian Bushman cares to camp in an abandoned homestead,
or even near it -- probably because a deserted home looks ghostlier
in the Australian Bush than anywhere else in the world.
It was blowing hard, but not raining so much.
We went on along the track for a couple of miles and camped
on the sheltered side of a round tussock hill, in a hole
where there had been a landslip. We used all our candle-ends
to get a fire alight, but once we got it started we knocked the wet bark
off `manuka' sticks and logs and piled them on, and soon had a roaring fire.
When the ground got a little drier we rigged a bit of shelter from the showers
with some sticks and the oil-cloth swag-covers; then we made some coffee
and got through the night pretty comfortably. In the morning Dave said,
`I'm going back to that house.'
`What for?' I said.
`I'm going to find out what's the matter with that crimson door.
If I don't I'll never be able to sleep easy within a mile of a door
so long as I live.'
So we went back. It was still blowing. The thing was simple enough
by daylight -- after a little watching and experimenting.
The house was built of odds and ends and badly fitted. It `gave' in the wind
in almost any direction -- not much, not more than an inch or so,
but just enough to throw the door-frame out of plumb and out of square
in such a way as to bring the latch and bolt of the lock clear of the catch
(the door-frame was of scraps joined). Then the door swung open
according to the hang of it; and when the gust was over the house gave back,
and the door swung to -- the frame easing just a little in another direction.
I suppose it would take Edison to invent a thing like that, that came about
by accident. The different strengths and directions