Joe Wilson and His Mates [95]
thousands
on his runs, Bob Baker went under, and the bank took over his station
and put a manager in charge.
He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that
he'd been a selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned,
for they had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity
is often born of vanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It's very nice
to hear the chaps sing `For he's a jolly good fellow', but you've mostly
got to pay for it twice -- first in company, and afterwards alone.
I once heard the chaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow,
when I was leaving a place and they were giving me a send-off.
It thrilled me, and brought a warm gush to my eyes; but, all the same,
I wished I had half the money I'd lent them, and spent on 'em,
and I wished I'd used the time I'd wasted to be a jolly good fellow.
When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the great
north-western route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong
on the Sydney side. He was going north to new country
round by the Gulf of Carpentaria, with a big mob of cattle,
on a two years' trip; and I and my mate, Andy M`Culloch,
engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look at the Gulf Country.
After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me
that the Boss was too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs.
Andy had been with him on another trip, and he told me
that the Boss was only going this way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well,
and seemed to think a deal of her. `She's a good little woman,' said Andy.
`One of the right stuff. I worked on their station for a while
when I was a nipper, and I know. She was always a damned sight too good
for the Boss, but she believed in him. When I was coming away this time
she says to me, "Look here, Andy, I'm afraid Robert is drinking again.
Now I want you to look after him for me, as much as you can --
you seem to have as much influence with him as any one.
I want you to promise me that you'll never have a drink with him."
`And I promised,' said Andy, `and I'll keep my word.'
Andy was a chap who could keep his word, and nothing else.
And, no matter how the Boss persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him,
Andy would never drink with him.
It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at
a shanty, and sometimes he'd be days behind us; and when he'd catch up to us
his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last he went
on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles
north of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow
with a flash barmaid there -- one of those girls who are engaged,
by the publicans up country, as baits for chequemen.
He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque
from the stock-owner's agent there, and knocked that down;
then he raised some more money somehow, and spent that -- mostly on the girl.
We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple of stages,
and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night
and went back.
We had two other men with us, but had the devil's own bother
on account of the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round.
You see it was all big runs round there, and we had to keep the bullocks
moving along the route all the time, or else get into trouble for trespass.
The agent wasn't going to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock
until the Boss sobered up; there was very little grass
on the route or the travelling-stock reserves or camps,
so we had to keep travelling for grass.
The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle
have to go through -- that's the law of the stock-routes.
So the agent wired to the owners, and, when he got their reply,
he sacked the Boss and sent the cattle on in charge of another man.
The new Boss was a drover coming south after a trip;
he had his two brothers with him, so he didn't want me and Andy;
but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged,
between the agent and the new Boss,
on his runs, Bob Baker went under, and the bank took over his station
and put a manager in charge.
He'd been a jolly, open-handed, popular man, which means that
he'd been a selfish man as far as his wife and children were concerned,
for they had to suffer for it in the end. Such generosity
is often born of vanity, or moral cowardice, or both mixed. It's very nice
to hear the chaps sing `For he's a jolly good fellow', but you've mostly
got to pay for it twice -- first in company, and afterwards alone.
I once heard the chaps singing that I was a jolly good fellow,
when I was leaving a place and they were giving me a send-off.
It thrilled me, and brought a warm gush to my eyes; but, all the same,
I wished I had half the money I'd lent them, and spent on 'em,
and I wished I'd used the time I'd wasted to be a jolly good fellow.
When I first met Bob Baker he was a boss-drover on the great
north-western route, and his wife lived at the township of Solong
on the Sydney side. He was going north to new country
round by the Gulf of Carpentaria, with a big mob of cattle,
on a two years' trip; and I and my mate, Andy M`Culloch,
engaged to go with him. We wanted to have a look at the Gulf Country.
After we had crossed the Queensland border it seemed to me
that the Boss was too fond of going into wayside shanties and town pubs.
Andy had been with him on another trip, and he told me
that the Boss was only going this way lately. Andy knew Mrs Baker well,
and seemed to think a deal of her. `She's a good little woman,' said Andy.
`One of the right stuff. I worked on their station for a while
when I was a nipper, and I know. She was always a damned sight too good
for the Boss, but she believed in him. When I was coming away this time
she says to me, "Look here, Andy, I'm afraid Robert is drinking again.
Now I want you to look after him for me, as much as you can --
you seem to have as much influence with him as any one.
I want you to promise me that you'll never have a drink with him."
`And I promised,' said Andy, `and I'll keep my word.'
Andy was a chap who could keep his word, and nothing else.
And, no matter how the Boss persuaded, or sneered, or swore at him,
Andy would never drink with him.
It got worse and worse: the Boss would ride on ahead and get drunk at
a shanty, and sometimes he'd be days behind us; and when he'd catch up to us
his temper would be just about as much as we could stand. At last he went
on a howling spree at Mulgatown, about a hundred and fifty miles
north of the border, and, what was worse, he got in tow
with a flash barmaid there -- one of those girls who are engaged,
by the publicans up country, as baits for chequemen.
He went mad over that girl. He drew an advance cheque
from the stock-owner's agent there, and knocked that down;
then he raised some more money somehow, and spent that -- mostly on the girl.
We did all we could. Andy got him along the track for a couple of stages,
and just when we thought he was all right, he slipped us in the night
and went back.
We had two other men with us, but had the devil's own bother
on account of the cattle. It was a mixed-up job all round.
You see it was all big runs round there, and we had to keep the bullocks
moving along the route all the time, or else get into trouble for trespass.
The agent wasn't going to go to the expense of putting the cattle in a paddock
until the Boss sobered up; there was very little grass
on the route or the travelling-stock reserves or camps,
so we had to keep travelling for grass.
The world might wobble and all the banks go bung, but the cattle
have to go through -- that's the law of the stock-routes.
So the agent wired to the owners, and, when he got their reply,
he sacked the Boss and sent the cattle on in charge of another man.
The new Boss was a drover coming south after a trip;
he had his two brothers with him, so he didn't want me and Andy;
but, anyway, we were full up of this trip, so we arranged,
between the agent and the new Boss,