Joe Wilson and His Mates [87]
out at night, between watches,
on the hard ground or the sand, or at best on a few boughs
when I wasn't too tired to pull them down, and my saddle for a pillow.
But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two.
I've never since quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home.
Probably he really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger;
perhaps he wanted me to understand -- maybe he was weakening as he grew older,
and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then.
When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, but Andy
roused me out about four o'clock. The old woman that they called Auntie
was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffee ready
in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe
and had our breakfast quietly.
`The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast
and say Good-bye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack,'
said the Boss. `I'm going to walk down as far as the station with you.
She made up a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy.
Don't forget it.'
Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street,
which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yards
without speaking. He didn't seem sociable this morning,
or any way sentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle.
But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest,
and at last I made a swallow and blurted out --
`Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!'
Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak
was over the Bathurst plains.
We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly --
`I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go
on a howling spree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her
I had to go to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after some stock.
When the children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after,
I was beastly drunk in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush --
a sly grog-shop. The old brute that kept it was too true to me.
He thought that the story of the lost children was a trick to get me home,
and he swore that he hadn't seen me. He never told me.
I could have found those children, Jack. They were mostly new chums and fools
about the run, and not one of the three policemen was a Bushman.
I knew those scrubs better than any man in the country.'
I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do
for him.
`Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. `Good-bye, Andy! --
keep those bullocks on their feet.'
The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I sat silent
for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over a coal-stove
in the centre of the van.
`Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked.
`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,
on the hard ground or the sand, or at best on a few boughs
when I wasn't too tired to pull them down, and my saddle for a pillow.
But the story of the children haunted me for an hour or two.
I've never since quite made up my mind as to why the Boss took me home.
Probably he really did think it would do his wife good to talk to a stranger;
perhaps he wanted me to understand -- maybe he was weakening as he grew older,
and craved for a new word or hand-grip of sympathy now and then.
When I did get to sleep I could have slept for three or four days, but Andy
roused me out about four o'clock. The old woman that they called Auntie
was up and had a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffee ready
in the detached kitchen at the back. We moved about on tiptoe
and had our breakfast quietly.
`The wife made me promise to wake her to see to our breakfast
and say Good-bye to you; but I want her to sleep this morning, Jack,'
said the Boss. `I'm going to walk down as far as the station with you.
She made up a parcel of fruit and sandwiches for you and Andy.
Don't forget it.'
Andy went on ahead. The Boss and I walked down the wide silent street,
which was also the main road; and we walked two or three hundred yards
without speaking. He didn't seem sociable this morning,
or any way sentimental; when he did speak it was something about the cattle.
But I had to speak; I felt a swelling and rising up in my chest,
and at last I made a swallow and blurted out --
`Look here, Boss, old chap! I'm damned sorry!'
Our hands came together and gripped. The ghostly Australian daybreak
was over the Bathurst plains.
We went on another hundred yards or so, and then the Boss said quietly --
`I was away when the children were lost, Jack. I used to go
on a howling spree every six or nine months. Maggie never knew. I'd tell her
I had to go to Sydney on business, or Out-Back to look after some stock.
When the children were lost, and for nearly a fortnight after,
I was beastly drunk in an out-of-the-way shanty in the Bush --
a sly grog-shop. The old brute that kept it was too true to me.
He thought that the story of the lost children was a trick to get me home,
and he swore that he hadn't seen me. He never told me.
I could have found those children, Jack. They were mostly new chums and fools
about the run, and not one of the three policemen was a Bushman.
I knew those scrubs better than any man in the country.'
I reached for his hand again, and gave it a grip. That was all I could do
for him.
`Good-bye, Jack!' he said at the door of the brake-van. `Good-bye, Andy! --
keep those bullocks on their feet.'
The cattle-train went on towards the Blue Mountains. Andy and I sat silent
for a while, watching the guard fry three eggs on a plate over a coal-stove
in the centre of the van.
`Does the boss never go to Sydney?' I asked.
`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,