Joe Wilson and His Mates [77]
came to his lodgings to arrest him, they found the coffin
on the floor by the side of the bed, and the Flour lying in it on his back,
with his arms folded peacefully on his bosom. He was as dead drunk
as any man could get to be and still be alive. They knocked air-holes
in the coffin-lid, screwed it on, and carried the coffin, the Flour, and all
to the local lock-up. They laid their burden down on the bare,
cold floor of the prison-cell, and then went out, locked the door,
and departed several ways to put the "boys" up to it. And about midnight
the "boys" gathered round with a supply of liquor, and waited,
and somewhere along in the small hours there was a howl,
as of a strong Irishman in Purgatory, and presently the voice of the Flour
was heard to plead in changed and awful tones --
`"Pray for me soul, boys -- pray for me soul! Let bygones be bygones
between us, boys, and pray for me lovely soul! The lovely Flour's
in Purgatory!"
`Then silence for a while; and then a sound like a dray-wheel
passing over a packing-case. . . . That was the only time on record
that the Flour was heard to swear. And he swore then.
`They didn't pray for him -- they gave him a month. And, when he came out,
he went half-way across the road to meet the doctor, and he --
to his credit, perhaps -- came the other half. They had a drink together,
and the Flour presented the doctor with a fine specimen of coarse gold
for a pin.
`"It was the will o' God, after all, doctor," said the Flour.
"It was the will o' God. Let bygones be bygones between us;
gimme your hand, doctor. . . . Good-bye."
`Then he left for Th' Canary.'
The Babies in the Bush.
`Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright --
That only the Bushmen know --
Who guide the feet of the lost aright,
Or carry them up through the starry night,
Where the Bush-lost babies go.'
He was one of those men who seldom smile. There are many
in the Australian Bush, where drift wrecks and failures
of all stations and professions (and of none), and from all the world.
Or, if they do smile, the smile is either mechanical or bitter
as a rule -- cynical. They seldom talk. The sort of men who, as bosses,
are set down by the majority -- and without reason or evidence --
as being proud, hard, and selfish, -- `too mean to live,
and too big for their boots.'
But when the Boss did smile his expression was very, very gentle,
and very sad. I have seen him smile down on a little child
who persisted in sitting on his knee and prattling to him,
in spite of his silence and gloom. He was tall and gaunt,
with haggard grey eyes -- haunted grey eyes sometimes --
and hair and beard thick and strong, but grey. He was not above forty-five.
He was of the type of men who die in harness, with their hair
thick and strong, but grey or white when it should be brown.
The opposite type, I fancy, would be the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyed men
who grow bald sooner than they grow grey, and fat and contented,
and die respectably in their beds.
His name was Head -- Walter Head. He was a boss drover
on the overland routes. I engaged with him at a place
north of the Queensland border to travel down to Bathurst,
on the Great Western Line in New South Wales, with something over
a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydney market.
I am an Australian Bushman (with city experience) -- a rover, of course,
and a ne'er-do-well, I suppose. I was born with brains and a thin skin --
worse luck! It was in the days before I was married, and I went by
the name of `Jack Ellis' this trip, -- not because the police were after me,
but because I used to tell yarns about a man named Jack Ellis --
and so the chaps nicknamed me.
The Boss spoke little to the men: he'd sit at tucker or with his pipe
by the camp-fire nearly as silently as he rode his night-watch
round the big, restless, weird-looking mob of bullocks
camped on the dusky starlit plain. I believe that from the first he spoke
oftener and more confidentially
on the floor by the side of the bed, and the Flour lying in it on his back,
with his arms folded peacefully on his bosom. He was as dead drunk
as any man could get to be and still be alive. They knocked air-holes
in the coffin-lid, screwed it on, and carried the coffin, the Flour, and all
to the local lock-up. They laid their burden down on the bare,
cold floor of the prison-cell, and then went out, locked the door,
and departed several ways to put the "boys" up to it. And about midnight
the "boys" gathered round with a supply of liquor, and waited,
and somewhere along in the small hours there was a howl,
as of a strong Irishman in Purgatory, and presently the voice of the Flour
was heard to plead in changed and awful tones --
`"Pray for me soul, boys -- pray for me soul! Let bygones be bygones
between us, boys, and pray for me lovely soul! The lovely Flour's
in Purgatory!"
`Then silence for a while; and then a sound like a dray-wheel
passing over a packing-case. . . . That was the only time on record
that the Flour was heard to swear. And he swore then.
`They didn't pray for him -- they gave him a month. And, when he came out,
he went half-way across the road to meet the doctor, and he --
to his credit, perhaps -- came the other half. They had a drink together,
and the Flour presented the doctor with a fine specimen of coarse gold
for a pin.
`"It was the will o' God, after all, doctor," said the Flour.
"It was the will o' God. Let bygones be bygones between us;
gimme your hand, doctor. . . . Good-bye."
`Then he left for Th' Canary.'
The Babies in the Bush.
`Oh, tell her a tale of the fairies bright --
That only the Bushmen know --
Who guide the feet of the lost aright,
Or carry them up through the starry night,
Where the Bush-lost babies go.'
He was one of those men who seldom smile. There are many
in the Australian Bush, where drift wrecks and failures
of all stations and professions (and of none), and from all the world.
Or, if they do smile, the smile is either mechanical or bitter
as a rule -- cynical. They seldom talk. The sort of men who, as bosses,
are set down by the majority -- and without reason or evidence --
as being proud, hard, and selfish, -- `too mean to live,
and too big for their boots.'
But when the Boss did smile his expression was very, very gentle,
and very sad. I have seen him smile down on a little child
who persisted in sitting on his knee and prattling to him,
in spite of his silence and gloom. He was tall and gaunt,
with haggard grey eyes -- haunted grey eyes sometimes --
and hair and beard thick and strong, but grey. He was not above forty-five.
He was of the type of men who die in harness, with their hair
thick and strong, but grey or white when it should be brown.
The opposite type, I fancy, would be the soft, dark-haired, blue-eyed men
who grow bald sooner than they grow grey, and fat and contented,
and die respectably in their beds.
His name was Head -- Walter Head. He was a boss drover
on the overland routes. I engaged with him at a place
north of the Queensland border to travel down to Bathurst,
on the Great Western Line in New South Wales, with something over
a thousand head of store bullocks for the Sydney market.
I am an Australian Bushman (with city experience) -- a rover, of course,
and a ne'er-do-well, I suppose. I was born with brains and a thin skin --
worse luck! It was in the days before I was married, and I went by
the name of `Jack Ellis' this trip, -- not because the police were after me,
but because I used to tell yarns about a man named Jack Ellis --
and so the chaps nicknamed me.
The Boss spoke little to the men: he'd sit at tucker or with his pipe
by the camp-fire nearly as silently as he rode his night-watch
round the big, restless, weird-looking mob of bullocks
camped on the dusky starlit plain. I believe that from the first he spoke
oftener and more confidentially