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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/307-0.txt b/307-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8b0158 --- /dev/null +++ b/307-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4042 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Three Elephant Power, by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Elephant Power + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #307] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser + + + + + +THREE ELEPHANT POWER AND OTHER STORIES + +by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson and by Knott Gold + +[Australian Poet, Reporter--1864-1941.] + + +1917 Edition + + + +[Note on text: These stories appeared originally in several +Australian journals.] + + + + +CONTENTS + + Three Elephant Power + The Oracle + The Cast-iron Canvasser + The Merino Sheep + The Bullock + White-when-he's-wanted + The Downfall of Mulligan's + The Amateur Gardener + Thirsty Island + Dan Fitzgerald Explains + The Cat + Sitting in Judgment + The Dog + The Dog--as a Sportsman + Concerning a Steeplechase Rider + Victor Second + Concerning a Dog-fight + His Masterpiece + + Done for the Double by Knott Gold + + + + + +THREE ELEPHANT POWER + + +“Them things,” said Alfred the chauffeur, tapping the speed indicator +with his fingers, “them things are all right for the police. But, Lord, +you can fix 'em up if you want to. Did you ever hear about Henery, that +used to drive for old John Bull--about Henery and the elephant?” + +Alfred was chauffeur to a friend of mine who owned a very powerful car. +Alfred was part of that car. Weirdly intelligent, of poor physique, he +might have been any age from fifteen to eighty. His education had been +somewhat hurried, but there was no doubt as to his mechanical ability. +He took to a car like a young duck to water. He talked motor, thought +motor, and would have accepted--I won't say with enthusiasm, for +Alfred's motto was 'Nil admirari'--but without hesitation, an offer to +drive in the greatest race in the world. He could drive really well, +too; as for belief in himself, after six months' apprenticeship in +a garage he was prepared to vivisect a six-cylinder engine with the +confidence of a diplomaed bachelor of engineering. + +Barring a tendency to flash driving, and a delight in persecuting slow +cars by driving just in front of them and letting them come up and enjoy +his dust, and then shooting away again, he was a respectable member of +society. When his boss was in the car he cloaked the natural ferocity of +his instincts; but this day, with only myself on board, and a clear run +of a hundred and twenty miles up to the station before him, he let her +loose, confident that if any trouble occurred I would be held morally +responsible. + +As we flew past a somnolent bush pub, Alfred, whistling softly, leant +forward and turned on a little more oil. + +“You never heard about Henery and the elephant?” he said. “It was dead +funny. Henery was a bushwacker, but clean mad on motorin'. He was wood +and water joey at some squatter's place until he seen a motor-car go +past one day, the first that ever they had in the districk. + +“'That's my game,' says Henery; 'no more wood and water joey for me.' + +“So he comes to town and gets a job off Miles that had that garage at +the back of Allison's. An old cove that they called John Bull--I don't +know his right name, he was a fat old cove--he used to come there to +hire cars, and Henery used to drive him. And this old John Bull he +had lots of stuff, so at last he reckons he's going to get a car for +himself, and he promises Henery a job to drive it. A queer cove this +Henery was--half mad, I think, but the best hand with a car ever I see.” + +While he had been talking we topped a hill, and opened up a new stretch +of blue-grey granite-like road. Down at the foot of the hill was a +teamster's waggon in camp; the horses in their harness munching at their +nose-bags, while the teamster and a mate were boiling a billy a little +off to the side of the road. There was a turn in the road just below +the waggon which looked a bit sharp, so of course Alfred bore down on it +like a whirlwind. The big stupid team-horses huddled together and pushed +each other awkwardly as we passed. A dog that had been sleeping in +the shade of the waggon sprang out right in front of the car, and was +exterminated without ever knowing what struck him. + +There was just room to clear the tail of the waggon and negotiate the +turn. Alfred, with the calm decision of a Napoleon, swung round the bend +to find that the teamster's hack, fast asleep, was tied to the tail of +the waggon. Nothing but a lightning-like twist of the steering-wheel +prevented our scooping the old animal up, and taking him on board as a +passenger. As it was, we carried off most of his tail as a trophy on the +brass of the lamp. The old steed, thus rudely awakened, lashed out good +and hard, but by that time we were gone, and he missed the car by a +quarter of a mile. + +During this strenuous episode Alfred never relaxed his professional +stolidity, and, when we were clear, went on with his story in the tone +of a man who found life wanting in animation. + +“Well, at fust, the old man would only buy one of these little +eight-horse rubby-dubbys that go strugglin' up 'ills with a death-rattle +in its throat, and all the people in buggies passin' it. O' course that +didn't suit Henery. He used to get that spiked when a car passed him, +he'd nearly go mad. And one day he nearly got the sack for dodgin' about +up a steep 'ill in front of one o' them big twenty-four Darracqs, full +of 'owlin' toffs, and not lettin' 'em get a chance to go past till they +got to the top. But at last he persuaded old John Bull to let him go +to England and buy a car for him. He was to do a year in the shops, and +pick up all the wrinkles, and get a car for the old man. Bit better than +wood and water joeying, wasn't it?” + +Our progress here was barred by our rounding a corner right on to a +flock of sheep, that at once packed together into a solid mass in front +of us, blocking the whole road from fence to fence. + +“Silly cows o' things, ain't they?” said Alfred, putting on his +emergency brake, and skidding up till the car came softly to rest +against the cushion-like mass--a much quicker stop than any horse-drawn +vehicle could have made. A few sheep were crushed somewhat, but it +is well known that a sheep is practically indestructible by violence. +Whatever Alfred's faults were, he certainly could drive. + +“Well,” he went on, lighting a cigarette, unheeding the growls of the +drovers, who were trying to get the sheep to pass the car, “well, as I +was sayin', Henery went to England, and he got a car. Do you know wot he +got?” + +“No, I don't.” + +“'E got a ninety,” said Alfred slowly, giving time for the words to soak +in. + +“A ninety! What do you mean?” + +“'E got a ninety--a ninety-horse-power racin' engine wot was made +for some American millionaire and wasn't as fast as wot some other +millionaire had, so he sold it for the price of the iron, and Henery got +it, and had a body built for it, and he comes out here and tells us all +it's a twenty mongrel--you know, one of them cars that's made part in +one place and part in another, the body here and the engine there, and +the radiator another place. There's lots of cheap cars made like that. + +“So Henery he says that this is a twenty mongrel--only a four-cylinder +engine; and nobody drops to what she is till Henery goes out one Sunday +and waits for the big Napier that Scotty used to drive--it belonged to +the same bloke wot owned that big racehorse wot won all the races. So +Henery and Scotty they have a fair go round the park while both their +bosses is at church, and Henery beat him out o' sight--fair lost +him--and so Henery was reckoned the boss of the road. No one would take +him on after that.” + +A nasty creek-crossing here required Alfred's attention. A little girl, +carrying a billy-can of water, stood by the stepping stones, and smiled +shyly as we passed. Alfred waved her a salute quite as though he were an +ordinary human being. I felt comforted. He had his moments of relaxation +evidently, and his affections like other people. + +“What happened to Henry and the ninety-horse machine?” I asked. “And +where does the elephant come in?” + +Alfred smiled pityingly. + +“Ain't I tellin' yer,” he said. “You wouldn't understand if I didn't +tell yer how he got the car and all that. So here's Henery,” he went on, +“with old John Bull goin' about in the fastest car in Australia, and +old John, he's a quiet old geezer, that wouldn't drive faster than the +regulations for anything, and that short-sighted he can't see to +the side of the road. So what does Henery do? He fixes up the +speed-indicator--puts a new face on it, so that when the car is doing +thirty, the indicator only shows fifteen, and twenty for forty, and so +on. So out they'd go, and if Henery knew there was a big car in front of +him, he'd let out to forty-five, and the pace would very near blow +the whiskers off old John; and every now and again he'd look at the +indicator, and it'd be showin' twenty-two and a half, and he'd say: + +“'Better be careful, Henery, you're slightly exceedin' the speed limit; +twenty miles an hour, you know, Henery, should be fast enough for +anybody, and you're doing over twenty-two.' + +“Well, one day, Henery told me, he was tryin' to catch up a big car that +just came out from France, and it had a half-hour start of him, and he +was just fairly flyin', and there was a lot of cars on the road, and he +flies past 'em so fast the old man says, 'It's very strange, Henery,' +he says, 'that all the cars that are out to-day are comin' this way,' he +says. You see he was passin' 'em so fast he thought they were all comin' +towards him. + +“And Henery sees a mate of his comin', so he lets out a notch or two, +and the two cars flew by each other like chain lightnin'. They were each +doin' about forty, and the old man, he says, 'There's a driver must be +travellin' a hundred miles an hour,' he says. 'I never see a car go by +so fast in my life,' he says. 'If I could find out who he is, I'd report +him,' he says. 'Did you know the car, Henery?' But of course Henery, he +doesn't know, so on they goes. + +“The owner of the big French car thinks he has the fastest car in +Australia, and when he sees Henery and the old man coming, he tells his +driver to let her out a little; but Henery gives the ninety-horse the +full of the lever, and whips up alongside in one jump. And then he keeps +there just half a length ahead of him, tormentin' him like. And the +owner of the French car he yells out to old John Bull, 'You're going +a nice pace for an old 'un,' he says. Old John has a blink down at +the indicator. 'We're doing twenty-five,' he yells out. 'Twenty-five +grandmothers,' says the bloke; but Henery he put on his accelerator, and +left him. It wouldn't do to let the old man get wise to it, you know.” + +We topped a big hill, and Alfred cut off the engine and let the car +swoop, as swiftly and noiselessly as an eagle, down to the flat country +below. + +“You're a long while coming to the elephant, Alfred,” I said. + +“Well, now, I'll tell you about the elephant,” said Alfred, letting his +clutch in again, and taking up the story to the accompaniment of the +rhythmic throb of the engine. + +“One day Henery and the old man were going out a long trip over the +mountain, and down the Kangaroo Valley Road that's all cut out of the +side of the 'ill. And after they's gone a mile or two, Henery sees a +track in the road--the track of the biggest car he ever seen or 'eard +of. An' the more he looks at it, the more he reckons he must ketch that +car and see what she's made of. So he slows down passin' two yokels on +the road, and he says, 'Did you see a big car along 'ere?' + +“'Yes, we did,' they says. + +“'How big is she?' says Henery. + +“'Biggest car ever we see,' says the yokels, and they laughed that silly +way these yokels always does. + +“'How many horse-power do you think she was?' says Henery. + +“'Horse-power,' they says; 'elephant-power, you mean! She was three +elephant-power,' they says; and they goes 'Haw, haw!' and Henery drops +his clutch in, and off he goes after that car.” + +Alfred lit another cigarette as a preliminary to the climax. + +“So they run for miles, and all the time there's the track ahead of 'em, +and Henery keeps lettin' her out, thinkin' that he'll never ketch that +car. They went through a town so fast, the old man he says, 'What house +was that we just passed,' he says. At last they come to the top of the +big 'ill, and there's the tracks of the big car goin' straight down +ahead of 'em. + +“D'you know that road? It's all cut out of the side of the mountain, and +there's places where if she was to side-slip you'd go down 'undreds +of thousands of feet. And there's sharp turns, too; but the surface is +good, so Henery he lets her out, and down they go, whizzin' round the +turns and skatin' out near the edge, and the old cove sittin' there +enjoyin' it, never knowin' the danger. And comin' to one turn Henery +gives a toot on the 'orn, and then he heard somethin' go 'toot, toot' +right away down the mountain. + +“'Bout a mile ahead it seemed to be, and Henery reckoned he'd go another +four miles before he'd ketch it, so he chances them turns more than +ever. And she was pretty hot, too; but he kept her at it, and he hadn't +gone a full mile till he come round a turn about forty miles an hour, +and before he could stop he run right into it, and wot do you think it +was?” + +I hadn't the faintest idea. + +“A circus. One of them travellin' circuses, goin' down the coast; and +one of the elephants had sore feet, so they put him in a big waggon, +and another elephant pulled in front and one pushed behind. Three +elephant-power it was, right enough. That was the waggon wot made the +big track. Well, it was all done so sudden. Before Henery could stop, he +runs the radiator--very near boiling she was--up against the elephant's +tail, and prints the pattern of the latest honeycomb radiator on the +elephant as clear as if you done it with a stencil. + +“The elephant, he lets a roar out of him like one of them bulls +bellerin', and he puts out his nose and ketches Henery round the neck, +and yanks him out of the car, and chucks him right clean over the cliff, +'bout a thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke.” + +“Good gracious!” + +“Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course, and the old +man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady, trustworthy man. +'Never get another like him,' he says.” + +We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate +into the home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle, came +frisking and cantering after the car, and the rough bush track took +all Alfred's attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing from the +wheels, and began the long pull up to the homestead. Over the clamour of +the little-used second speed, Alfred concluded his narrative. + +“The old bloke advertised,” he said, “for another driver, a steady, +reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car. +Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car to fetch +'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive the Napier I was +tellin' you about.” + +“And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running a racing +car?” + +“He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he? He's drivin' +about the country now, the boss of the roads, but he won't chance +her near a circus. Thinks he might bump the same elephant. And that +elephant, every time he smells a car passin' in the road, he goes near +mad with fright. If he ever sees that car again, do you think he'd know +it?” + +Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion. + + + + +THE ORACLE + + +No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat, +hairy, and assertive; he is generally one of a party, and takes the +centre of the stage all the time--collects and hands over the fares, +adjusts the change, chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic +stranger next him into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if +they had asked for his opinion. + +He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the +impression that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his +race book, and one of his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a +deferential way: + +“What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?” + +The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else ventures +to speak. + +“Well,” he says, at last, “of course there's only one in it--if he's +wanted. But that's it--will they spin him? I don't think they will. +They's only a lot o' cuddies, any'ow.” + +No one likes to expose his own ignorance by asking which horse he refers +to as the “only one in it”; and the Oracle goes on to deal out some more +wisdom in a loud voice. + +“Billy K---- told me” (he probably hardly knows Billy K---- by sight) +“Billy K---- told me that that bay 'orse ran the best mile-an'-a-half +ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a chance, for all +that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know when their +horses are well--half of 'em.” + +Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, who is +crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle. + +“I think,” says the thin man, “that that horse of Flannery's ought to +run well in the Handicap.” + +The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort, +wheels half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back to the +compartment full of people, and says: “No 'ope.” + +The thin man makes a last effort. “Well, they backed him last night, +anyhow.” + +“Who backed 'im?” says the Oracle. + +“In Tattersall's,” says the thin man. + +“I'm sure,” says the Oracle; and the thin man collapses. + +On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by +his string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the +horses. Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the +Oracle doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge. + +“'Ere's Blue Fire,” he says, stopping at that animal's stall, and +swinging his race book. “Good old Blue Fire!” he goes on loudly, as a +little court collects. “Jimmy B----” (mentioning a popular jockey) “told +me he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only been ridden +different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day. Lor', the races +that has been chucked away on this horse. They will not ride him right.” + +A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. “This isn't Blue +Fire,” he says. “Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old +filly that's in the stall----” + +“Well, I can see that, can't I,” says the Oracle, crushingly. “You +don't suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?” and he moves off +hurriedly. + +“Now, look here, you chaps,” he says to his followers at last. “You wait +here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do to have +a crowd with you. There's Jimmy M---- over there now” (pointing to a +leading trainer). “I'll get hold of him in a minute. He couldn't tell me +anything with so many about. Just you wait here.” + +He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall, +and overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, “What do you +like?” to which the other answers, “Well, either this or Royal Scot. I +think I'll put a bit on Royal Scot.” This is enough for the Oracle. He +doesn't know either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses from +the great original pachyderm, but the information will do to go on with. +He rejoins his followers, and looks very mysterious. + +“Well, did you hear anything?” they say. + +The Oracle talks low and confidentially. + +“The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid of +anything but Royal Scot,” he says. “I think we'd better put a bit on +both.” + +“What did the Royal Scot crowd say?” asks an admirer deferentially. + +“Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, and he +told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, you +needn't say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell.” And +the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think what a +privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man. + +They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a +pound, others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to +invest, half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the +favourite is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one +being offered against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a +Whisperer (one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get +their living in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving “tips” to +backers) pulls his sleeve. + +“What are you backing?” he says. + +“Favourite and Royal Scot,” says the Oracle. + +“Put a pound on Bendemeer,” says the tipster. “It's a certainty. Meet +me here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something for the next race. +Don't miss it now. Get on quick!” + +The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. A +bookmaker roars “10 to 1 Bendemeer;” he suddenly fishes out a sovereign +of his own--and he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness--and +puts it on Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite and +Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race. + +The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals with +little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple, +French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner, +and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out +where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite he has lost +interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be left at the post +or break their necks; but he does not confide his sentiment to his +companions. + +They're off! The long line of colours across the track becomes a +shapeless clump and then draws out into a long string. “What's that in +front?” yells someone at the rails. “Oh, that thing of Hart's,” says +someone else. But the Oracle hears them not; he is looking in the mass +of colour for a purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands. He +cannot see it anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass swings round +the turn into the straight. + +Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of “Bendemeer! +Bendemeer!” and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, takes +up the cry feverishly. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” he yells, waggling his +glasses about, trying to see where the animal is. + +“Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?” screams one of his +friends, in agony. “'Ow's he doin'?” + +“No 'ope!” says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” + +The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses +seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be a +dozen nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front +of the others, and a small man at the Oracle's side emits a deafening +series of yells right by the Oracle's ear: + +“Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It's a cake-walk! A cake-walk!” + The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, seems to stick his body clear +of his opponents, and passes the post a winner by a length. The Oracle +doesn't know what has won, but fumbles with his book. The number on the +saddle-cloth catches his eye--No. 7; he looks hurriedly down the page. +No. 7--Royal Scot. Second is No. 24--Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere. + +Hardly has he realised it, before his friends are cheering and clapping +him on the back. “By George, Charley, it takes you to pick 'em.” “Come +and 'ave a wet!” “You 'ad a quid in, didn't you, Charley?” The Oracle +feels very sick at having missed the winner, but he dies game. “Yes, +rather; I had a quid on,” he says. “And” (here he nerves himself to +smile) “I had a saver on the second, too.” + +His comrades gasp with astonishment. “D'you hear that, eh? Charley +backed first and second. That's pickin' 'em if you like.” They have a +wet, and pour fulsome adulation on the Oracle when he collects their +money. + +After the Oracle has collected the winnings for his friends he meets the +Whisperer again. + +“It didn't win?” he says to the Whisperer in inquiring tones. + +“Didn't win,” says the Whisperer, who has determined to brazen the +matter out. “How could he win? Did you see the way he was ridden? That +horse was stiffened just after I seen you, and he never tried a yard. +Did you see the way he was pulled and hauled about at the turn? It'd +make a man sick. What was the stipendiary stewards doing, I wonder?” + +This fills the Oracle with a new idea. All that he remembers of the race +at the turn was a jumble of colours, a kaleidoscope of horses and of +riders hanging on to the horses' necks. But it wouldn't do to admit that +he didn't see everything, and didn't know everything; so he plunges in +boldly. + +“O' course I saw it,” he says. “And a blind man could see it. They ought +to rub him out.” + +“Course they ought,” says the Whisperer. “But, look here, put two quid +on Tell-tale; you'll get it all back!” + +The Oracle does put on “two quid”, and doesn't get it all back. Neither +does he see any more of this race than he did of the last one--in fact, +he cheers wildly when the wrong horse is coming in. But when the public +begin to hoot he hoots as loudly as anybody--louder if anything; and all +the way home in the tram he lays down the law about stiff running, and +wants to know what the stipendiaries are doing. + +If you go into any barber's shop, you can hear him at it, and he +flourishes in suburban railway carriages; but he has a tremendous local +reputation, having picked first and second in the handicap, and it would +be a bold man who would venture to question the Oracle's knowledge of +racing and of all matters relating to it. + + + + +THE CAST-IRON CANVASSER + + +The firm of Sloper and Dodge, publishers and printers, was in great +distress. These two enterprising individuals had worked up an enormous +business in time-payment books, which they sold all over Australia +by means of canvassers. They had put all the money they had into the +business; and now, just when everything was in thorough working order, +the public had revolted against them. + +Their canvassers were molested by the country folk in divers strange +bush ways. One was made drunk, and then a two-horse harrow was run over +him; another was decoyed into the ranges on pretence of being shown a +gold-mine, and his guide galloped away and left him to freeze all night +in the bush. In mining localities the inhabitants were called together +by beating a camp-oven lid with a pick, and the canvasser was given ten +minutes in which to get out of the town alive. If he disregarded the +hint he would, as likely as not, fall accidentally down a disused shaft. + +The people of one district applied to their M.P. to have canvassers +brought under the “Noxious Animals Act”, and demanded that a reward +should be offered for their scalps. Reports appeared in the country +press about strange, gigantic birds that appeared at remote selections +and frightened the inhabitants to death--these were Sloper and Dodge's +sober and reliable agents, wearing neat, close-fitting suits of tar and +feathers. + +In fact, it was altogether too hot for the canvassers, and they came +in from North and West and South, crippled and disheartened, to tender +their resignations. To make matters worse, Sloper and Dodge had just +got out a large Atlas of Australasia, and if they couldn't sell it, ruin +stared them in the face; and how could they sell it without canvassers? + +The members of the firm sat in their private office. Sloper was a long, +sanctimonious individual, very religious and very bald. Dodge was a +little, fat American, with bristly, black hair and beard, and quick, +beady eyes. He was eternally smoking a reeking black pipe, and puffing +the smoke through his nose in great whiffs, like a locomotive on a +steep grade. Anybody walking into one of those whiffs was liable to get +paralysis. + +Just as things were at their very blackest, something had turned up that +promised to relieve all their difficulties. An inventor had offered to +supply them with a patent cast-iron canvasser--a figure which (he said) +when wound up would walk, talk, collect orders, and stand any amount +of ill-usage and wear and tear. If this could indeed be done, they +were saved. They had made an appointment with the genius; but he was +half-an-hour late, and the partners were steeped in gloom. + +They had begun to despair of his appearing at all, when a cab rattled up +to the door. Sloper and Dodge rushed unanimously to the window. A +young man, very badly dressed, stepped out of the cab, holding over +his shoulder what looked like the upper half of a man's body. In his +disengaged hand he held a pair of human legs with boots and trousers on. +Thus burdened he turned to ask his fare, but the cabman gave a yell of +terror, whipped up his horse, and disappeared at a hand-gallop; and a +woman who happened to be going by, ran down the street, howling that +Jack the Ripper had come to town. The man bolted in at the door, and +toiled up the dark stairs tramping heavily, the legs and feet, which he +dragged after him, making an unearthly clatter. He came in and put his +burden down on the sofa. + +“There you are, gents,” he said; “there's your canvasser.” + +Sloper and Dodge recoiled in horror. The upper part of the man had a +waxy face, dull, fishy eyes, and dark hair; he lounged on the sofa like +a corpse at ease, while his legs and feet stood by, leaning stiffly +against the wall. The partners gazed at him for a while in silence. + +“Fix him together, for God's sake,” said Dodge. “He looks awful.” + +The Genius grinned, and fixed the legs on. + +“Now he looks better,” said Dodge, poking about the figure--“looks +as much like life as most--ah, would you, you brute!” he exclaimed, +springing back in alarm, for the figure had made a violent La Blanche +swing at him. + +“That's all right,” said the Inventor. “It's no good having his face +knocked about, you know--lot of trouble to make that face. His head and +body are full of springs, and if anybody hits him in the face, or in the +pit of the stomach--favourite places to hit canvassers, the pit of the +stomach--it sets a strong spring in motion, and he fetches his right +hand round with a swipe that'll knock them into the middle of next week. +It's an awful hit. Griffo couldn't dodge it, and Slavin couldn't stand +up against it. No fear of any man hitting _him_ twice. + +“And he's dog-proof, too. His legs are padded with tar and oakum, and +if a dog bites a bit out of him, it will take that dog weeks to pick his +teeth clean. Never bite anybody again, that dog won't. And he'll talk, +talk, talk, like a suffragist gone mad; his phonograph can be charged +for 100,000 words, and all you've got to do is to speak into it what you +want him to say, and he'll say it. He'll go on saying it till he talks +his man silly, or gets an order. He has an order-form in his hand, and +as soon as anyone signs it and gives it back to him, that sets another +spring in motion, and he puts the order in his pocket, turns round, and +walks away. Grand idea, isn't he? Lor' bless you, I fairly love him.” + +He beamed affectionately on his monster. + +“What about stairs?” said Dodge. + +“No stairs in the bush,” said the Inventor, blowing a speck of dust off +his apparition; “all ground-floor houses. Anyhow, if there were stairs +we could carry him up and let him fall down afterwards, or get flung +down like any other canvasser.” + +“Ha! Let's see him walk,” said Dodge. + +The figure walked all right, stiff and erect. + +“Now let's hear him yabber.” + +The Genius touched a spring, and instantly, in a queer, tin-whistly +voice, he began to sing, “Little Annie Rooney”. + +“Good!” said Dodge; “he'll do. We'll give you your price. Leave him here +to-night, and come in to-morrow. We'll send you off to the back country +with him. Ninemile would be a good place to start in. Have a cigar?” + +Mr. Dodge, much elated, sucked at his pipe, and blew through his nose a +cloud of nearly solid smoke, through which the Genius sidled out. They +could hear him sneezing and choking all the way down the stairs. + +Ninemile is a quiet little place, sleepy beyond description. When the +mosquitoes in that town settle on anyone, they usually go to sleep, and +forget to bite him. The climate is so hot that the very grasshoppers +crawl into the hotel parlours out of the sun, climb up the window +curtains, and then go to sleep. The Riot Act never had to be read in +Ninemile. The only thing that can arouse the inhabitants out of their +lethargy is the prospect of a drink at somebody else's expense. + +For these reasons it had been decided to start the Cast-iron Canvasser +there, and then move him on to more populous and active localities if he +proved a success. They sent up the Genius, and one of their men who knew +the district well. The Genius was to manage the automaton, and the other +was to lay out the campaign, choose the victims, and collect the money, +geniuses being notoriously unreliable and loose in their cash. They got +through a good deal of whisky on the way up, and when they arrived at +Ninemile were in a cheerful mood, and disposed to take risks. + +“Who'll we begin on?” said the Genius. + +“Oh, hang it all,” said the other, “let's make a start with Macpherson.” + +Macpherson was a Land Agent, and the big bug of the place. He was a +gigantic Scotchman, six feet four in his socks, and freckled all over +with freckles as big as half-crowns. His eyebrows would have made +decent-sized moustaches for a cavalryman, and his moustaches looked like +horns. He was a fighter from the ground up, and had a desperate “down” + on canvassers generally, and on Sloper and Dodge's canvassers in +particular. + +Sloper and Dodge had published a book called “Remarkable Colonials”, and +Macpherson had written out his own biography for it. He was intensely +proud of his pedigree and his relations, and in his narrative made out +that he was descended from the original Fhairshon who swam round Noah's +Ark with his title-deeds in his teeth. He showed how his people had +fought under Alexander the Great and Timour, and had come over to +Scotland some centuries before William the Conqueror landed in England. +He proved that he was related in a general way to one emperor, fifteen +kings, twenty-five dukes, and earls and lords and viscounts innumerable. +And then, after all, the editor of “Remarkable Colonials” managed to mix +him up with some other fellow, some low-bred Irish McPherson, born in +Dublin of poor but honest parents. + +It was a terrible outrage. Macpherson became president of the Western +District Branch of the “Remarkable Colonials” Defence League, a fierce +and homicidal association got up to resist, legally and otherwise, +paying for the book. He had further sworn by all he held sacred that +every canvasser who came to harry him in future should die, and had put +up a notice on his office-door, “Canvassers come in at their own risk.” + +He had a dog of what he called the Hold'em breed, who could tell a +canvasser by his walk, and would go for him on sight. The reader will +understand, therefore, that, when the Genius and his mate proposed to +start on Macpherson, they were laying out a capacious contract for +the Cast-iron Canvasser, and could only have been inspired by a morbid +craving for excitement, aided by the influence of backblock whisky. + +The Inventor wound the figure up in the back parlour of the pub. There +were a frightful lot of screws to tighten before the thing would work, +but at last he said it was ready, and they shambled off down the street, +the figure marching stiffly between them. It had a book tucked under +its arm and an order-form in its hand. When they arrived opposite +Macpherson's office, the Genius started the phonograph working, pointed +the figure straight at Macpherson's door, and set it going. Then the two +conspirators waited, like Guy Fawkes in his cellar. + +The automaton marched across the road and in at the open door, talking +to itself loudly in a hoarse, unnatural voice. + +Macpherson was writing at his table, and looked up. + +The figure walked bang through a small collection of flower-pots, sent +a chair flying, tramped heavily in the spittoon, and then brought up +against the table with a loud crash and stood still. It was talking all +the time. + +“I have here,” it said, “a most valuable work, an Atlas of Australia, +which I desire to submit to your notice. The large and increasing demand +of bush residents for time-payment works has induced the publishers of +this----” + +“My God!” said Macpherson, “it's a canvasser. Here, Tom Sayers, Tom +Sayers!” and he whistled and called for his dog. “Now,” he said, “will +you go out of this office quietly, or will you be thrown out? It's for +yourself to decide, but you've only got while a duck wags his tail to +decide in. Which'll it be?” + +“---- works of modern ages,” said the canvasser. “Every person +subscribing to this invaluable work will receive, in addition, a +flat-iron, a railway pass for a year, and a pocket-compass. If you will +please sign this order----” + +Just here Tom Sayers came tearing through the office, and without +waiting for orders hitched straight on to the canvasser's calf. To +Macpherson's amazement the piece came clear away, and Tom Sayers rolled +about on the floor with his mouth full of a sticky substance which +seemed to surprise him badly. + +The long Scotchman paused awhile before this mystery, but at last +he fancied he had got the solution. “Got a cork leg, have you?” said +he--“Well, let's see if your ribs are cork too,” and he struck the +canvasser an awful blow on the fifth button of the waistcoat. + +Quicker than lightning came that terrific right-hand cross-counter. +Macpherson never even knew what happened to him. The canvasser's right +hand, which had been adjusted by his inventor for a high blow, had +landed on the butt of Macpherson's ear and dropped him like a fowl. The +gasping, terrified bull-dog fled the scene, and the canvasser stood over +his fallen foe, still intoning the virtues of his publication. He had +come there merely as a friend, he said, to give the inhabitants of +Ninemile a chance to buy a book which had recently earned the approval +of King O'Malley and His Excellency the Governor-General. + +The Genius and his mate watched this extraordinary drama through the +window. The stimulant habitually consumed by the Ninemilers had induced +in them a state of superlative Dutch courage, and they looked upon the +whole affair as a wildly hilarious joke. + +“By Gad! he's done him,” said the Genius, as Macpherson went down, “done +him in one hit. If he don't pay as a canvasser I'll take him to town +and back him to fight Les Darcy. Look out for yourself; don't you handle +him!” he continued as the other approached the figure. “Leave him to +me. As like as not, if you get fooling about him, he'll give you a clout +that'll paralyse you.” + +So saying, he guided the automaton out of the office and into the +street, and walked straight into a policeman. + +By a common impulse the Genius and his mate ran rapidly away in +different directions, leaving the figure alone with the officer. + +He was a fully-ordained sergeant--by name Aloysius O'Grady; a squat, +rosy little Irishman. He hated violent arrests and all that sort of +thing, and had a faculty of persuading drunks and disorderlies and other +fractious persons to “go quietly along wid him,” that was little short +of marvellous. Excited revellers, who were being carried by their mates, +struggling violently, would break away to prance gaily along to the +lock-up with the sergeant. Obstinate drunks who had done nothing but lie +on the ground and kick their feet in the air, would get up like birds, +serpent-charmed, to go with him to durance vile. + +As soon as he saw the canvasser, and noted his fixed, unearthly stare, +and listened to his hoarse, unnatural voice, the sergeant knew what was +the matter; it was a man in the horrors, a common enough spectacle at +Ninemile. He resolved to decoy him into the lock-up, and accosted him in +a friendly, free-and-easy way. + +“Good day t'ye,” he said. + +“---- most magnificent volume ever published, jewelled in fourteen +holes, working on a ruby roller, and in a glass case,” said the +book-canvasser. “The likenesses of the historical personages are +so natural that the book must not be left open on the table, or the +mosquitoes will ruin it by stinging the portraits.” + +It then dawned on the sergeant that this was no mere case of the +horrors--he was dealing with a book-canvasser. + +“Ah, sure,” he said, “fwhat's the use uv tryin' to sell books at all, at +all; folks does be peltin' them out into the street, and the nanny-goats +lives on them these times. Oi send the childer out to pick 'em up, and +we have 'em at me place in barrow-loads. Come along wid me now, and +Oi'll make you nice and comfortable for the night,” and he laid his hand +on the outstretched palm of the figure. + +It was a fatal mistake. He had set in motion the machinery which +operated the figure's left arm, and it moved that limb in towards its +body, and hugged the sergeant to its breast, with a vice-like grip. Then +it started in a faltering and uneven, but dogged, way to walk towards +the river. + +“Immortial Saints!” gasped the sergeant, “he's squazin' the livin' +breath out uv me. Lave go now loike a dacent sowl, lave go. And oh, +for the love uv God, don't be shpakin' into me ear that way;” for the +figure's mouth was pressed tight against the sergeant's ear, and its +awful voice went through and through the little man's head, as it held +forth about the volume. The sergeant struggled violently, and by so +doing set some more springs in motion, and the figure's right arm +made terrific swipes in the air. A following of boys and loafers had +collected by this time. “Blimey, how does he lash out!” was the remark +they made. But they didn't interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's +frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his +subordinate, Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene. + +Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition, +was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney, +and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious “pushes” of Bondi, +Surry Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's +play, and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; it was +beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. If they +wouldn't come any other way, he would take them by the ankles and drag +them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp of an +inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight. + +“I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant,” he said, and he caught hold of +the figure's right arm, to put on the “police twist”. Unfortunately, +at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in the +creature's breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, it +lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley a thud +on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot. + +For a few minutes he “lay as only dead men lie”. Then he got up bit by +bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, and mentioned casually +to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, and had taken +the sergeant away to drown him. After which, having given orders that +anybody who called was to be told that he had gone fifteen miles out of +town to serve a summons on a man for not registering a dog, he locked +himself up in a cell for the rest of the day. + +Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant tightly +clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river. +Something had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now +positively shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled, the +little man yelled still louder. + +“Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!” He beat with +his fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail. A short, +staggering rush, a wild shriek from the officer, and they both toppled +over the steep bank and went souse into the depths of Ninemile Creek. + +That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate returned to town +hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted for murder. Constable +Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police which contained so many +strange statements that the Police department concluded the sergeant +must have got drunk and drowned himself, and that Dooley saw him do it, +but was too drunk to pull him out. + +Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report of the +occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers. As a matter of fact the +storekeeper did think of writing one, but decided that it was too much +trouble. There was some idea of asking the Government to fish the two +bodies out of the river; but about that time an agitation was started +in Ninemile to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else +mattered. + +The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand of +whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became a Sub-Inspector of +Police; Sloper entered the Christian ministry; Dodge was elected to the +Federal Parliament; and a vague tradition about “a bloke who came up +here in the horrors, and drownded poor old O'Grady,” is the only memory +that remains of that wonderful creation, the Cast-iron Canvasser. + + + + +THE MERINO SHEEP + + +People have got the impression that the merino is a gentle, bleating +animal that gets its living without trouble to anybody, and comes up +every year to be shorn with a pleased smile upon its amiable face. It is +my purpose here to exhibit the merino sheep in its true light. + +First let us give him his due. No one can accuse him of being a +ferocious animal. No one could ever say that a sheep attacked him +without provocation; although there is an old bush story of a man who +was discovered in the act of killing a neighbour's wether. + +“Hello!” said the neighbour, “What's this? Killing my sheep! What have +you got to say for yourself?” + +“Yes,” said the man, with an air of virtuous indignation. “I _am_ killing +your sheep. I'll kill _any_ man's sheep that bites _me_!” + +But as a rule the merino refrains from using his teeth on people. He +goes to work in another way. + +The truth is that he is a dangerous monomaniac, and his one idea is to +ruin the man who owns him. With this object in view he will display a +talent for getting into trouble and a genius for dying that are almost +incredible. + +If a mob of sheep see a bush fire closing round them, do they run away +out of danger? Not at all, they rush round and round in a ring till the +fire burns them up. If they are in a river-bed, with a howling flood +coming down, they will stubbornly refuse to cross three inches of water +to save themselves. Dogs may bark and men may shriek, but the sheep +won't move. They will wait there till the flood comes and drowns them +all, and then their corpses go down the river on their backs with their +feet in the air. + +A mob will crawl along a road slowly enough to exasperate a snail, but +let a lamb get away in a bit of rough country, and a racehorse can't +head him back again. If sheep are put into a big paddock with water in +three corners of it, they will resolutely crowd into the fourth, and die +of thirst. + +When being counted out at a gate, if a scrap of bark be left on the +ground in the gateway, they will refuse to step over it until dogs and +men have sweated and toiled and sworn and “heeled 'em up”, and “spoke +to 'em”, and fairly jammed them at it. At last one will gather courage, +rush at the fancied obstacle, spring over it about six feet in the air, +and dart away. The next does exactly the same, but jumps a bit higher. +Then comes a rush of them following one another in wild bounds like +antelopes, until one overjumps himself and alights on his head. This +frightens those still in the yard, and they stop running out. + +Then the dogging and shrieking and hustling and tearing have to be gone +through all over again. (This on a red-hot day, mind you, with clouds +of blinding dust about, the yolk of wool irritating your eyes, and, +perhaps, three or four thousand sheep to put through). The delay throws +out the man who is counting, and he forgets whether he left off at 45 +or 95. The dogs, meanwhile, have taken the first chance to slip over +the fence and hide in the shade somewhere, and then there are loud +whistlings and oaths, and calls for Rover and Bluey. At last a +dirt-begrimed man jumps over the fence, unearths Bluey, and hauls him +back by the ear. Bluey sets to work barking and heeling-'em up again, +and pretends that he thoroughly enjoys it; but all the while he is +looking out for another chance to “clear”. And _this_ time he won't be +discovered in a hurry. + +There is a well-authenticated story of a ship-load of sheep that was +lost because an old ram jumped overboard, and all the rest followed him. +No doubt they did, and were proud to do it. A sheep won't go through +an open gate on his own responsibility, but he would gladly and proudly +“follow the leader” through the red-hot portals of Hades: and it makes +no difference whether the lead goes voluntarily, or is hauled struggling +and kicking and fighting every inch of the way. + +For pure, sodden stupidity there is no animal like the merino. A lamb +will follow a bullock-dray, drawn by sixteen bullocks and driven by +a profane person with a whip, under the impression that the aggregate +monstrosity is his mother. A ewe never knows her own lamb by sight, and +apparently has no sense of colour. She can recognise its voice half a +mile off among a thousand other voices apparently exactly similar; but +when she gets within five yards of it she starts to smell all the other +lambs within reach, including the black ones--though her own may be +white. + +The fiendish resemblance which one sheep bears to another is a great +advantage to them in their struggles with their owners. It makes it more +difficult to draft them out of a strange flock, and much harder to tell +when any are missing. + +Concerning this resemblance between sheep, there is a story told of +a fat old Murrumbidgee squatter who gave a big price for a famous ram +called Sir Oliver. He took a friend out one day to inspect Sir Oliver, +and overhauled that animal with a most impressive air of sheep-wisdom. + +“Look here,” he said, “at the fineness of the wool. See the serrations +in each thread of it. See the density of it. Look at the way his legs +and belly are clothed--he's wool all over, that sheep. Grand animal, +grand animal!” + +Then they went and had a drink, and the old squatter said, “Now, I'll +show you the difference between a champion ram and a second-rater.” So +he caught a ram and pointed out his defects. “See here--not half the +serrations that other sheep had. No density of fleece to speak of. +Bare-bellied as a pig, compared with Sir Oliver. Not that this isn't +a fair sheep, but he'd be dear at one-tenth Sir Oliver's price. By the +way, Johnson” (to his overseer), “what ram _is_ this?” + +“That, sir,” replied the astounded functionary--“that _is_ Sir Oliver, +sir!” + +There is another kind of sheep in Australia, as great a curse in his own +way as the merino--namely, the cross-bred, or half-merino-half-Leicester +animal. The cross-bred will get through, under, or over any fence you +like to put in front of him. He is never satisfied with his owner's run, +but always thinks other people's runs must be better, so he sets off to +explore. He will strike a course, say, south-east, and so long as +the fit takes him he will keep going south-east through all +obstacles--rivers, fences, growing crops, anything. The merino relies on +passive resistance for his success; the cross-bred carries the war into +the enemy's camp, and becomes a living curse to his owner day and night. + +Once there was a man who was induced in a weak moment to buy twenty +cross-bred rams. From that hour the hand of Fate was upon him. They +got into all the paddocks they shouldn't have been in. They scattered +themselves over the run promiscuously. They visited the cultivation +paddock and the vegetable-garden at their own sweet will. And then they +took to roving. In a body they visited the neighbouring stations, and +played havoc with the sheep all over the district. + +The wretched owner was constantly getting fiery letters from his +neighbours: “Your blanky rams are here. Come and take them away at +once,” and he would have to go nine or ten miles to drive them home. Any +man who has tried to drive rams on a hot day knows what purgatory is. He +was threatened every week with actions for trespass. + +He tried shutting them up in the sheep-yard. They got out and went back +to the garden. Then he gaoled them in the calf-pen. Out again and into +a growing crop. Then he set a boy to watch them; but the boy went to +sleep, and they were four miles away across country before he got on to +their tracks. + +At length, when they happened accidentally to be at home on their +owner's run, there came a big flood. His sheep, mostly merinos, had +plenty of time to get on to high ground and save their lives; but, of +course, they didn't, and were almost all drowned. The owner sat on a +rise above the waste of waters and watched the dead animals go by. He +was a ruined man. But he said, “Thank God, those cross-bred rams are +drowned, anyhow.” Just as he spoke there was a splashing in the water, +and the twenty rams solemnly swam ashore and ranged themselves in front +of him. They were the only survivors of his twenty thousand sheep. +He broke down, and was taken to an asylum for insane paupers. The +cross-breds had fulfilled their destiny. + +The cross-bred drives his owner out of his mind, but the merino ruins +his man with greater celerity. Nothing on earth will kill cross-breds; +nothing will keep merinos alive. If they are put on dry salt-bush +country they die of drought. If they are put on damp, well-watered +country they die of worms, fluke, and foot-rot. They die in the wet +seasons and they die in the dry ones. + +The hard, resentful look on the faces of all bushmen comes from a long +course of dealing with merino sheep. The merino dominates the bush, +and gives to Australian literature its melancholy tinge, its despairing +pathos. The poems about dying boundary-riders, and lonely graves under +mournful she-oaks, are the direct outcome of the poet's too close +association with that soul-destroying animal. A man who could write +anything cheerful after a day in the drafting-yards would be a freak of +nature. + + + + +THE BULLOCK + + +The typical Australian bullock--long-horned, sullen-eyed, stupid, and +vindictive--is bred away out in Queensland, on remote stations in the +Never Never land, where men live on damper and beef, and occasionally +eat a whole bottle of hot pickles at a sitting, simply to satisfy their +craving for vegetable food. Here, under the blazing tropic sun, among +flies and dust and loneliness, they struggle with the bullock from +year's end to year's end. It is not to be supposed that they take up +this kind of thing for fun. The man who worked cattle for sport would +wheel bricks for amusement. + +At periodical intervals a boom in cattle-country arises in the cities, +and syndicates are formed to take up country and stock it. It looks so +beautifully simple--_on paper_. + +You get your country, thousands of miles of it, for next to nothing. +You buy your breeding herd for a ridiculously small sum, on long-dated +bills. Your staff consists of a manager, who toils for a share of the +profits, a couple of half-civilized white stockmen at low wages, and +a handful of blacks, who work harder for a little opium ash than they +would for much money. Plant costs nothing, improvements nothing--no +woolshed is needed, there are no shearers to pay, and no carriage to +market, for the bullock walks himself down to his doom. Granted that +prices are low, still it is obvious that there must be huge profits in +the business. So the cattle start away out to “the country”, where they +are supposed to increase and multiply, and enrich their owners. Alas! +for such hopes. There is a curse on cattle. + +No one has ever been able to explain exactly how the deficit arises. +Put the figures before the oldest and most experienced cattleman, and he +will fail to show why they don't work out right. And yet they never do. +It is not the fault of the cattle themselves. Sheep would rather die +than live--and when one comes to think of the life they lead, one can +easily understand their preference for death; but cattle, if given half +a chance, will do their best to prolong their existence. + +If they are running on low-lying country and are driven off when a flood +comes, they will probably walk back into the flood-water and get drowned +as soon as their owner turns his back. But, as a rule, cattle are not +suicidal. They sort themselves into mobs, they pick out the best bits of +country, they find their way to the water, they breed habitually; but it +always ends in the same way. The hand of Fate is against them. + +If a drought comes, they eat off the grass near the water and have to +travel far out for a feed. Then they fall away and get weak, and when +they come down to drink they get bogged in the muddy waterholes and die +there. + +Or Providence sends the pleuro, and big strong beasts slink away by +themselves, and stand under trees glaring savagely till death comes. +Or else the tick attacks them, and soon a fine, strong beast becomes +a miserable, shrunken, tottering wreck. Once cattle get really low in +condition they are done for. Sheep can be shifted when their pasture +fails, but you can't shift cattle. They die quicker on the roads than +on the run. The only thing is to watch and pray for rain. It always +comes--after the cattle are dead. + +As for describing the animals themselves, it would take volumes. Sheep +are all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road +get to know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock--the +one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, the inquisitive +bullock that is always walking over towards the drover as if he were +going to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always trying to get +up a stampede and prodding the others with his horns. + +In poor Boake's “Where the Dead Men Lie” he says: + + Only the hand of Night can free them-- + That's when the dead men fly! + Only the frightened cattle see them-- + See the dead men go by! + Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, + Bidding the stockman know no leisure-- + That's when the dead men take their pleasure! + That's when the dead men fly! + +Cattle on a camp see ghosts, sure enough--else, why is it that, when +hundreds are in camp at night--some standing, some lying asleep, all +facing different ways--in an instant, at some invisible cause of alarm, +the whole mob are on their feet and all racing _in the same direction_, +away from some unseen terror? + +It doesn't do to sneak round cattle at night; it is better to whistle +and sing than to surprise them by a noiseless appearance. Anyone +sneaking about frightens them, and then they will charge right over +the top of somebody on the opposite side, and away into the darkness, +becoming more and more frightened as they go, smashing against trees and +stumps, breaking legs and ribs, and playing the dickens with themselves +generally. Cattle “on the road” are unaccountable animals; one cannot +say for certain what they will do. In this respect they differ from +sheep, whose movements can be predicted with absolute certainty. + +All the cussedness of the bovine race is centred in the cow. In +Australia the most opprobious epithet one can apply to a man or other +object is “cow”. In the whole range of a bullock-driver's vocabulary +there is no word that expresses his blistering scorn so well as “cow”. +To an exaggerated feminine perversity the cow adds a fiendish ingenuity +in making trouble. + +A quiet milking-cow will “plant” her calf with such skill that ten +stockmen cannot find him in a one-mile paddock. While the search goes on +she grazes unconcernedly, as if she never had a calf in her life. If +by chance he be discovered, then one notices a curious thing. The very +youngest calf, the merest staggering-Bob two days old, will not move +till the old lady gives him orders to do so. One may pull him about +without getting a move out of him. If sufficiently persecuted he will +at last sing out for help, and then his mother will arrive full-gallop, +charge men and horses indiscriminately, and clear out with him to the +thickest timber in the most rugged part of the creek-bed, defying man to +get her to the yard. + +While in his mother's company he seconds her efforts with great +judgment. But, if he be separated from her, he will follow a horse and +rider up to the yard thinking he is following his mother, though +she bellow instructions to him from the rear. Then the guileless +agriculturist, having penned him up, sets a dog on him, and his cries +soon fetch the old cow full-run to his assistance. Once in the yard +she is roped, hauled into the bail, propped up to prevent her throwing +herself down, and milked by sheer brute-force. After a while she +steadies down and will walk into the bail, knowing her turn and behaving +like a respectable female. + +Cows and calves have no idea of sound or distance. If a cow is on the +opposite side of the fence, and wishes to communicate with her calf, she +will put her head through the fence, place her mouth against his ear as +if she were going to whisper, and then utter a roar that can be heard +two miles off. It would stun a human being; but the calf thinks it over +for a moment, and then answers with a prolonged yell in the old cow's +ear. So the dialogue goes on for hours without either party dropping +dead. + +There is an element of danger in dealing with cattle that makes men +smart and self-reliant and independent. Men who deal with sheep get +gloomy and morbid, and are for ever going on strike. Nobody ever heard +of a stockman's strike. The true stockrider thinks himself just as good +a man as his boss, and inasmuch as “the boss” never makes any money, +while the stockman gets his wages, the stockman may be considered as +having the better position of the two. + +Sheepmen like to think that they know all about cattle, and could work +them if they chose. A Queensland drover once took a big mob from the +Gulf right down through New South Wales, selling various lots as he +went. He had to deliver some to a small sheep-man, near Braidwood, who +was buying a few hundred cattle as a spec. By the time they arrived, the +cattle had been on the road eight months, and were quiet as milkers. But +the sheep-man and his satellites came out, riding stable-fed horses +and brandishing twenty-foot whips, all determined to sell their lives +dearly. They galloped round the astonished cattle and spurred their +horses and cracked their whips, till they roused the weary mob. Then +they started to cut out the beasts they wanted. The horses rushed and +pulled, and the whips maddened the cattle, and all was turmoil and +confusion. + +The Queensland drovers looked on amazed, sitting their patient leg-weary +horses they had ridden almost continuously for eight months. At last, +seeing the hash the sheep-men were making of it, the drovers set to +work, and in a little while, without a shout, or crack of a whip, had +cut out the required number. These the head drover delivered to the +buyer, simply remarking, “Many's the time _you_ never cut-out cattle.” + +As I write, there rises a vision of a cattle-camp on an open plain, +the blue sky overhead, the long grass rustling below, the great mob of +parti-coloured cattle eddying restlessly about, thrusting at each other +with their horns; and in among the sullen half-savage animals go the +light, wiry stock-riders, horse and man working together, watchful, +quick, and resolute. + +A white steer is wanted that is right in the throng. Way!--make way! and +horse and rider edge into the restless sea of cattle, the man with his +eye fixed on the selected animal, the horse, glancing eagerly about him, +trying to discover which is the wanted one. The press divides and the +white steer scuttles along the edge of the mob trying to force his way +in again. Suddenly he and two or three others are momentarily eddied out +to the outskirts of the mob, and in that second the stockman dashes his +horse between them and the main body. The lumbering beasts rush hither +and thither in a vain attempt to return to their comrades. Those not +wanted are allowed to return, but the white steer finds, to his +dismay, that wherever he turns that horse and man and dreaded whip are +confronting him. He doubles and dodges and makes feints to charge, +but the horse anticipates every movement and wheels quicker than the +bullock. At last the white steer sees the outlying mob he is required to +join, and trots off to them quite happy, while horse and rider return to +cut out another. + +It is a pretty exhibition of skill and intelligence, doubly pleasant to +watch because of the undoubted interest that the horses take in it. Big, +stupid creatures that they are, cursed with highly-strung nerves, and +blessed with little sense, they are pathetically anxious to do such +work as they can understand. So they go into the cutting-out camp with a +zest, and toil all day edging lumbering bullocks out of the mob, but as +soon as a bad rider gets on them and begins to haul their mouths about, +their nerves overcome them, and they get awkward and frightened. A horse +that is a crack camp-horse in one man's hands may be a hopeless brute in +the hands of another. + + + + +WHITE-WHEN-HE'S-WANTED + + +Buckalong was a big freehold of some 80,000 acres, belonging to an +absentee syndicate, and therefore run in most niggardly style. There was +a manager on 200 pounds a year, Sandy M'Gregor to wit--a hard-headed old +Scotchman known as “four-eyed M'Gregor”, because he wore spectacles. +For assistants, he had half-a-dozen of us--jackaroos and +colonial-experiencers--who got nothing a year, and earned it. + +We had, in most instances, paid premiums to learn the noble art of +squatting--which now appears to me hardly worth studying, for so much +depends on luck that a man with a head as long as a horse's has little +better chance than the fool just imported. Besides the manager and the +jackaroos, there were a few boundary riders to prowl round the fences of +the vast paddocks. This constituted the whole station staff. + +Buckalong was on one of the main routes by which stock were taken to +market, or from the plains to the tablelands, and vice versa. Great mobs +of travelling sheep constantly passed through the run, eating up the +grass and vexing the soul of the manager. By law, sheep must travel six +miles per day, and they must be kept to within half-a-mile of the road. +Of course we kept all the grass near the road eaten bare, to discourage +travellers from coming that way. + +Such hapless wretches as did venture through Buckalong used to try hard +to stray from the road and pick up a feed, but old Sandy was always +ready for them, and would have them dogged right through the run. This +bred feuds, and bad language, and personal combats between us and the +drovers, whom we looked upon as natural enemies. + +The men who came through with mobs of cattle used to pull down the +paddock fences at night, and slip the cattle in for refreshments, but +old Sandy often turned out at 2 or 3 a.m. to catch a mob of bullocks +in the horse-paddock, and then off they went to Buckalong pound. The +drovers, as in duty bound, attributed the trespass to accident--broken +rails, and so on--and sometimes they tried to rescue the cattle, which +again bred strife and police-court summonses. + +Besides having a particular aversion to drovers, old M'Gregor had +a general “down” on the young Australians whom he comprehensively +described as a “feckless, horrse-dealin', horrse-stealin', crawlin' lot +o' wretches.” According to him, a native-born would sooner work a horse +to death than work for a living any day. He hated any man who wanted to +sell him a horse. + +“As aw walk the street,” he used to say, “the fouk disna stawp me to buy +claes nor shoon, an' wheerfore should they stawp me to buy horrses? It's +'Mister M'Gregor, will ye purrchase a horrse?' Let them wait till I ask +them to come wi' their horrses.” + +Such being his views on horseflesh and drovers, we felt no little +excitement when one Sunday, at dinner, the cook came in to say there +was “a drover-chap outside wanted the boss to come and have a look at +a horse.” M'Gregor simmered a while, and muttered something about the +“Sawbath day”; but at last he went out, and we filed after him to see +the fun. + +The drover stood by the side of his horse, beneath the acacia trees +in the yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result +of collision with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed +poverty-stricken enough to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down on +his luck. Had it not been for that indefinable self-reliant look which +drovers--the Ishmaels of the bush--always acquire, one might have taken +him for a swagman. His horse was in much the same plight. It was a +ragged, unkempt pony, pitifully poor and very footsore, at first sight, +an absolute “moke”; but a second glance showed colossal round ribs, +square hips, and a great length of rein, the rest hidden beneath a +wealth of loose hair. He looked like “a good journey horse”, possibly +something better. + +We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover. The man was +monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are. It is only +the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech. + +“Guid mornin',” said M'Gregor. + +“Mornin', boss,” said the drover, shortly. + +“Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?” + +“Yes.” + +“Ay,” and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike +don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs, +and opened the passive creature's mouth. “H'm,” he said. Then he turned +to the drover. “Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. Ye're thin like. What's been +the matter?” + +“Been sick with fever--Queensland fever. Just come through from the +North. Been out on the Diamantina last.” + +“Ay. I was there mysel',” said M'Gregor. “Hae ye the fever on ye still?” + +“Yes--goin' home to get rid of it.” + +A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he +can carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his +strength and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, +the malady moves with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at +regular intervals to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually +it wears itself out, often wearing its patient out at the same time. +M'Gregor had been through the experience, and there was a slight change +in his voice as he went on with his palaver. + +“Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?” + +“Monaro--my people live in Monaro.” + +“Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?” + +“Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin',” said the drover, while +a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. “I've rode him far +enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. I wouldn't sell him, only +I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now to get the money to go home.” + +“Hoo auld is he?” + +“Seven.” + +“Is he a guid horrse on a camp?” asked M'Gregor. + +“No better camp-horse in Queensland,” said the drover. “You can chuck +the reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself.” + +M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time crawling +after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us as +side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow off the +place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took +so much interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover and the old +camp-horse appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us. We had never +been on the Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered with the +fever, nor lived the roving life of the overlanders. M'Gregor had done +all this, and his heart (I can see it all now) went out to the man who +brought the old days back to him. + +“Ah, weel,” he said, “we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here, ye +ken; wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han' cuttin' +oot the milkers' cawves frae their mithers.” And the old man laughed +contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man from far +back. “An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?” asked M'Gregor. + +“Reckon he's worth fifteen notes,” said the drover. + +This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between thirty +shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations would close abruptly; +but M'Gregor, after a little more examination, agreed to give the price, +provided the saddle and bridle, both grand specimens of ancient art, +were given in. This was agreed to, and the drover was sent off to get +his meals in the hut before leaving by the coach. + +“The mon is verra harrd up, an' it's a sair thing that Queensland +fever,” was the only remark M'Gregor made. But we knew now that there +was a soft spot in his heart somewhere. + +Next morning the drover got a crisp-looking cheque. He said no word +while the cheque was being written, but, as he was going away, the horse +happened to be in the yard, and he went over to the old comrade that had +carried him so many miles, and laid a hand on his neck. + +“He ain't much to look at,” said the drover, speaking slowly and +awkwardly, “but he's white when he's wanted.” And just before the coach +rattled off, the man of few words leant down from the box and nodded +impressively, and repeated, “Yes, he's white when he's wanted.” + +We didn't trouble to give the new horse a name. Station horses are +generally called after the man from whom they are bought. “Tom Devine”, +“The Regan mare”, “Black M'Carthy” and “Bay M'Carthy” were among the +appellations of our horses at that time. As we didn't know the drover's +name, we simply called the animal “The new horse” until a still newer +horse was one day acquired. Then, one of the hands being told to take +the new horse, said, “D'yer mean the _new_ new horse or the _old_ new +horse?” + +“Naw,” said the boss, “not the new horrse--that bay horrse we bought +frae the drover. The ane he said was white when he's wanted.” + +And so, by degrees, the animal came to be referred to as the horse +that's white when he's wanted, and at last settled down to the definite +name of “White-when-he's-wanted”. + +White-when-he's-wanted didn't seem much of an acquisition. He was sent +out to do slavery for Greenhide Billy, a boundary-rider who plumed +himself on having once been a cattle-man. After a week's experience of +“White”, Billy came in to the homestead disgusted. The pony was so lazy +that he had to build a fire under him to get him to move, and so rough +that it made a man's nose bleed to ride him more than a mile. “The boss +must have been off his head to give fifteen notes for such a cow.” + +M'Gregor heard this complaint. “Verra weel, Mr. Billy,” said he, hotly, +“ye can juist tak' ane of the young horrses in yon paddock, an' if he +bucks wi' ye an' kills ye, it's yer ain fault. Ye're a cattleman--so ye +say--dommed if ah believe it. Ah believe ye're a dairy-farmin' body frae +Illawarra. Ye ken neither horrse nor cattle. Mony's the time ye never +rode buckjumpers, Mr. Billy”--and with this parting-shot the old man +turned into the house, and White-when-he's-wanted came back to the head +station. + +For a while he was a sort of pariah. He used to yard the horses, fetch +up the cows, and hunt travelling sheep through the run. He really was +lazy and rough, and we all decided that Billy's opinion of him was +correct, until the day came to make one of our periodical raids on the +wild horses in the hills at the back of the run. + +Every now and again we formed parties to run in some of these animals, +and, after nearly galloping to death half-a-dozen good horses, we +would capture three or four brumbies, and bring them in triumph to the +homestead to be broken in. By the time they had thrown half the crack +riders on the station, broken all the bridles, rolled on all the +saddles, and kicked all the dogs, they would be marketable (and no great +bargains) at about thirty shillings a head. + +Yet there is no sport in the world to be mentioned in the same volume as +“running horses”, and we were very keen on it. All the crack nags were +got as fit as possible, and fed up beforehand; and on this particular +occasion White-when-he's-wanted, being in good trim, was given a week's +hard feed and lent to a harum-scarum fellow from the Upper Murray, who +happened to be working in a survey camp on the run. How he did open our +eyes! + +He ran the mob from hill to hill, from range to range, across open +country and back again to the hills, over flats and gullies, +through hop-scrub and stringybark ridges; and all the time +White-when-he's-wanted was on the wing of the mob, pulling double. The +mares and foals dropped out, the colts and young stock pulled up dead +beat, and only the seasoned veterans were left. Most of our horses caved +in altogether; one or two were kept in the hunt by judicious nursing and +shirking the work; but White-when-he's-wanted was with the quarry from +end to end of the run, doing double his share; and at the finish, when a +chance offered to wheel them into the trapyard, he simply smothered them +for pace, and slewed them into the wings before they knew where they +were. Such a capture had not fallen to our lot for many a day, and the +fame of White-when-he's-wanted was speedily noised abroad. + +He was always fit for work, always hungry, always ready to lie down and +roll, and always lazy. But when he heard the rush of the brumbies' feet +in the scrub he became frantic with excitement. He could race over the +roughest ground without misplacing a hoof or altering his stride, and he +could sail over fallen timber and across gullies like a kangaroo. Nearly +every Sunday we were after the brumbies, until they got as lean as +greyhounds and as cunning as policemen. We were always ready to back +White-when-he's-wanted to run-down, single-handed, any animal in +the bush that we liked to put him after--wild horses, wild cattle, +kangaroos, emus, dingoes, kangaroo-rats--we barred nothing, for, if he +couldn't beat them for pace, he would outlast them. + +And then one day he disappeared from the paddock, and we never saw him +again. We knew there were plenty of men in the district who would steal +him; but, as we knew also of many more who would “inform” for a pound +or two, we were sure that it could not have been local “talent” that +had taken him. We offered good rewards and set some of the right sort to +work, but heard nothing of him for about a year. + +Then the surveyor's assistant turned up again, after a trip to the +interior. He told us the usual string of back-block lies, and wound up +by saying that out on the very fringe of settlement he had met an old +acquaintance. + +“Who was that?” + +“Why, that little bay horse that I rode after the brumbies that time. +The one you called White-when-he's-wanted.” + +“The deuce you did! Are you sure? Who had him?” + +“Sure! I'd swear to him anywhere. A little drover fellow had him. A +little fellow, with a big scar across his forehead. Came from Monaro way +somewhere. He said he bought the horse from you for fifteen notes.” + +The King's warrant doesn't run much out west of Boulia, and it is not +likely that any of us will ever see the drover again, or will ever again +cross the back of “White-when-he's-wanted”. + + + + +THE DOWNFALL OF MULLIGAN'S + + +The sporting men of Mulligan's were an exceedingly knowing lot; in fact, +they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours of being a little +bit too knowing. They had “taken down” the adjoining town in a variety +of ways. They were always winning maiden plates with horses which were +shrewdly suspected to be old and well-tried performers in disguise. + +When the sports of Paddy's Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the +shape of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent +immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfellow of their own, +and they made a match and won all the Paddy's Flat money with ridiculous +ease; then their blackfellow turned out to be a well-known Sydney +performer. They had a man who could fight, a man who could be backed to +jump five-feet-ten, a man who could kill eight pigeons out of nine at +thirty yards, a man who could make a break of fifty or so at billiards +if he tried; they could all drink, and they all had that indefinite look +of infinite wisdom and conscious superiority which belongs only to those +who know something about horseflesh. + +They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday-school. They were +experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble to work off +any small swindle in the sporting line. In short the general consensus +of opinion was that they were a very “fly” crowd at Mulligan's, and if +you went there you wanted to “keep your eyes skinned” or they'd “have” + you over a threepenny-bit. + +There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of the +Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high +feather, having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at +pigeon-shooting, by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into +his gun when he wasn't looking, and then backing the bird. + +They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, and admirers +who came to see them off only asked them as a favour to leave money +enough in Sydney to make it worth while for another detachment to go +down later on. Just as the train was departing a priest came running on +to the platform, and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan +friends were; the door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence +was hot and perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a +handkerchief, while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the +train. + +After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards and +proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter in +the carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, +and the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities +if they did not try to “get a bit to go on with” from him. He agreed to +play, and, just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest whether +he would take a hand. + +“What game d'ye play?” he asked, in a melodious brogue. + +They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, but they +thought it right to add that they generally played for money. + +“Sure an' it don't matter for wanst in a way,” said he--“Oi'll take +a hand bedad--Oi'm only going about fifty miles, so Oi can't lose a +fortune.” + +They lifted a light portmanteau on to their knees to make a table, and +five of them--three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers--started +to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy for the Mulligan +boys, who chuckled as they thought how soon they were making a +beginning, and what a magnificent yarn they would have to tell about how +they rooked a priest on the way down. + +Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest +began to ask questions. + +“Be ye going to the races?” + +They said they were. + +“Ah! and Oi suppose ye'll be betting wid thim bookmakers--betting on the +horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, thim bookmakers, they +tell me. I wouldn't bet much if Oi was ye,” he said, with an affable +smile. “If ye go bettin' ye will be took in wid thim bookmakers.” + +The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time they +parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able to look +after themselves. They went steadily on with the game, and the priest +and the young squatter won slightly; this was part of the plan to lead +them on to plunge. They neared the station where the priest was to get +out. He had won rather more than they liked, so the signal was passed +round to “put the cross on”. Poker is a game at which a man need not +risk much unless he feels inclined, and on this deal the priest stood +out. Consequently, when they drew up at his station he was still a few +pounds in. + +“Bedad,” he said, “Oi don't loike goin' away wid yer money. Oi'll go on +to the next station so as ye can have revinge.” Then he sat down again, +and play went on in earnest. + +The man of religion seemed to have the Devil's own luck. When he was +dealt a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one +he would not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious as they +saw him getting further and further ahead of them, prattling away all +the time like a big schoolboy. The squatter was the biggest loser so +far, but the priest was the only winner. All the others were out of +pocket. His reverence played with great dash, and seemed to know a lot +about the game, so that on arrival at the second station he was a good +round sum in pocket. + +He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly +promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage +door, one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage-whisper: “He's a +blanky sink-pocket. If he can come this far, let him come on to Sydney +and play for double the stakes.” Like a shot the priest turned on him. + +“Bedad, an' if _that's_ yer talk, Oi'll play ye fer double stakes from +here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice because they +eat cheese? It isn't one of the Ryans would be fearing to give any man +his revinge!” + +He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. The others +felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play in a dead +silence. But the priest kept on winning steadily, and the “old man” of +the Mulligan push saw that something decisive must be done, and decided +on a big plunge to get all the money back on one hand. By a dexterous +manipulation of the cards he dealt himself four kings, almost the best +hand at poker. Then he began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, +raising the stake little by little. + +“Sure ye're trying to bluff, so ye are!” said the priest, and +immediately raised it. + +The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest +the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful +certainty that the “old man” had made things safe, and regarded +themselves as mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation. +The priest went on doggedly raising the stake in response to his +antagonist's challenges until it had attained huge dimensions. + +“Sure that's high enough,” said he, putting into the pool sufficient to +entitle him to see his opponent's hand. + +The “old man” with great gravity laid down his four kings, whereat the +Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them. + +Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool. + +The sportsmen of Mulligan's never quite knew how they got out to +Randwick. They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves +in the saddling-paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realize +what had happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end +of the lawn near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, +small bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, plying +their trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one that +sounded familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, and they knew that +it was the voice of “Father” Ryan. They walked to the fence and looked +over. This is what he was saying:-- + +“Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don't put down a brick you +can't pick up a castle! I'll bet no one here can pick the knave of +hearts out of these three cards. I'll bet half-a-sovereign no one here +can find the knave!” + +Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening they could see +him distinctly, doing a great business and showing wonderful dexterity +with the pasteboard. + +There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worth while for another +detachment to come down from Mulligan's; but the next lot will hesitate +about playing poker with priests in the train. + + + + +THE AMATEUR GARDENER + + +The first step in amateur gardening is to sit down and consider what +good you are going to get by it. If you are only a tenant by the month, +as most people are, it is obviously not of much use for you to plant a +fruit orchard or an avenue of oak trees. What you want is something that +will grow quickly, and will stand transplanting, for when you move it +would be a sin to leave behind you the plants on which you have spent so +much labour and so much patent manure. + +We knew a man once who was a bookmaker by trade--and a Leger bookmaker +at that--but had a passion for horses and flowers. When he “had a big +win”, as he occasionally did, it was his custom to have movable wooden +stables, built on skids, put up in the yard, and to have tons of the +best soil that money could buy carted into the garden of the premises +which he was occupying. + +Then he would keep splendid horses, and grow rare roses and show-bench +chrysanthemums. His landlord passing by would see the garden in a +blaze of colour, and promise himself to raise the bookmaker's rent next +quarter day. + +However, when the bookmaker “took the knock”, as he invariably did at +least twice a year, it was his pleasing custom to move without giving +notice. He would hitch two cart-horses to the stables, and haul them +right away at night. He would not only dig up the roses, trees, and +chrysanthemums he had planted, but would also cart away the soil he +had brought in; in fact, he used to shift the garden bodily. He had one +garden that he shifted to nearly every suburb in Sydney; and he always +argued that the change of air was invaluable for chrysanthemums. + +Being determined, then, to go in for gardening on common-sense +principles, and having decided on the shrubs you mean to grow, the next +consideration is your chance of growing them. + +If your neighbour keeps game fowls, it may be taken for granted that +before long they will pay you a visit, and you will see the rooster +scratching your pot plants out by the roots as if they were so much +straw, just to make a nice place to lie down and fluff the dust over +himself. Goats will also stray in from the street, and bite the young +shoots off, selecting the most valuable plants with a discrimination +that would do credit to a professional gardener. + +It is therefore useless to think of growing delicate or squeamish +plants. Most amateur gardeners maintain a lifelong struggle against the +devices of Nature; but when the forces of man and the forces of Nature +come into conflict Nature wins every time. Nature has decreed that +certain plants shall be hardy, and therefore suitable to suburban +amateur gardeners; the suburban amateur gardener persists in trying to +grow quite other plants, and in despising those marked out by Nature for +his use. It is to correct this tendency that this article is written. + +The greatest standby to the amateur gardener should undoubtedly be the +blue-flowered shrub known as “plumbago”. This homely but hardy plant +will grow anywhere. It naturally prefers a good soil, and a sufficient +rainfall, but if need be it will worry along without either. Fowls +cannot scratch it up, and even the goat turns away dismayed from its +hard-featured branches. The flower is not strikingly beautiful nor +ravishingly scented, but it flowers nine months out of the year; +smothered with street dust and scorched by the summer sun, you will find +that faithful old plumbago plugging along undismayed. A plant like +this should be encouraged--but the misguided amateur gardener as a rule +despises it. + +The plant known as the churchyard geranium is also one marked out by +Providence for the amateur; so is Cosmea, which comes up year after year +where once planted. In creepers, bignonia and lantana will hold their +own under difficulties perhaps as well as any that can be found. In +trees the Port Jackson fig is a patriotic one to grow. It is a fine +plant to provide exercise, as it sheds its leaves unsparingly, and +requires the whole garden to be swept up every day. + +Your aim as a student of Nature should be to encourage the survival +of the fittest. There is a grass called nut grass, and another called +Parramatta grass, either of which holds its own against anything living +or dead. The average gardening manual gives you recipes for destroying +these. Why should you destroy them in favour of a sickly plant that +needs constant attention? No. The Parramatta grass is the selected of +Nature, and who are you to interfere with Nature? + +Having decided to go in for strong, simple plants that will hold their +own, and a bit over, you must get your implements of husbandry. + +The spade is the first thing, but the average ironmonger will show you +an unwieldy weapon only meant to be used by navvies. Don't buy it. Get a +small spade, about half-size--it is nice and light and doesn't tire the +wrist, and with it you can make a good display of enthusiasm, and earn +the hypocritical admiration of your wife. After digging for half-an-hour +or so, get her to rub your back with any of the backache cures. From +that moment you will have no further need for the spade. + +A barrow is about the only other thing needed; anyhow, it is almost a +necessity for wheeling cases of whisky up to the house. A rake is useful +when your terrier dog has bailed up a cat, and will not attack it until +the cat is made to run. + +Talking of terrier dogs, an acquaintance of ours has a dog that does all +his gardening. The dog is a small elderly terrier with a failing memory. +As soon as the terrier has planted a bone in the garden the owner slips +over, digs it up and takes it away. When that terrier goes back and +finds the bone gone, he distrusts his memory, and begins to think that +perhaps he has made a mistake, and has dug in the wrong place; so he +sets to work, and digs patiently all over the garden, turning over acres +of soil in the course of his search. This saves his master a lot of +backache. + +The sensible amateur gardener, then, will not attempt to fight with +Nature but will fall in with her views. What more pleasant than to get +out of bed at 11.30 on a Sunday morning; to look out of your window at +a lawn waving with the feathery plumes of Parramatta grass, and to see +beyond it the churchyard geranium flourishing side by side with the +plumbago and the Port Jackson fig? + +The garden gate blows open, and the local commando of goats, headed by +an aged and fragrant patriarch, locally known as De Wet, rushes in; but +their teeth will barely bite through the wiry stalks of the Parramatta +grass, and the plumbago and the figtree fail to attract them, and +before long they stand on one another's shoulders, scale the fence, and +disappear into the next-door garden, where a fanatic is trying to grow +show roses. + +After the last goat has scaled your neighbour's fence, and only De Wet +is left, your little dog discovers him. De Wet beats a hurried retreat, +apparently at full speed, with the dog exactly one foot behind him in +frantic pursuit. We say apparently at full speed, because experience has +taught that De Wet can run as fast as a greyhound when he likes; but +he never exerts himself to go faster than is necessary to keep just in +front of whatever dog is after him. + +Hearing the scrimmage, your neighbour comes on to his verandah, and sees +the chase going down the street. + +“Ha! that wretched old De Wet again!” he says. “Small hope your dog has +of catching him! Why don't you get a garden gate like mine, so that he +won't get in?” + +“No; he can't get in at your gate,” is the reply; “but I think his +commando are in your back garden now.” + +Then follows a frantic rush. Your neighbour falls downstairs in his +haste, and the commando, after stopping to bite some priceless pot +plants of your neighbour's as they come out, skips easily back over the +fence and through your gate into the street again. + +If a horse gets in his hoofs make no impression on the firm turf of the +Parramatta grass, and you get quite a hearty laugh by dropping a chair +on him from the first-floor window. + +The game fowls of your other neighbour come fluttering into your garden, +and scratch and chuckle and fluff themselves under your plumbago bush; +but you don't worry. Why should you? They can't hurt it; and, besides, +you know that the small black hen and the big yellow one, who have +disappeared from the throng, are even now laying their daily egg for you +behind the thickest bush. + +Your little dog rushes frantically up and down the front bed of your +garden, barking and racing, and tearing up the ground, because his rival +little dog, who lives down the street, is going past with his master, +and each pretends that he wants to be at the other--as they have +pretended every day for the past three years. The performance he is +going through doesn't disturb you. Why should it? By following the +directions in this article you have selected plants he cannot hurt. + +After breakfasting at noon, you stroll out, and, perhaps, smooth with +your foot, or with your spade, the inequalities made by the hens; you +gather up casually the eggs they have laid; you whistle to your little +dog, and go out for a stroll with a light heart. + + + + +THIRSTY ISLAND + + +Travellers approaching a bush township are sure to find some distance +from the town a lonely public-house waiting by the roadside to give +them welcome. Thirsty (miscalled Thursday) Island is the outlying pub of +Australia. + +When the China and British-India steamers arrive from the North the +first place they come to is Thirsty Island, the sentinel at the gate of +Torres Straits. New chums on the steamers see a fleet of white-sailed +pearling luggers, a long pier clustered with a hybrid crowd of every +colour, caste and creed under Heaven, and at the back of it all a little +galvanized-iron town shining in the sun. + +For nine months of the year a crisp, cool south-east wind blows, the +snow-white beach is splashed with spray and dotted with the picturesque +figures of Japanese divers and South Sea Island boatmen. Coco-nut palms +line the roads by the beach, and back of the town are the barracks and a +fort nestling among the trees on the hillside. Thirsty Island is a nice +place--to look at. + +When a vessel makes fast the Thirsty Islanders come down to greet +the new-comers and give them welcome to Australia. The new-chums are +inclined to patronise these simple, outlying people. Fresh from the +iniquities of the China-coast cocktail and the unhallowed orgies of the +Sourabaya Club, new-chums think they have little to learn in the way of +drink; at any rate, they haven't come all the way to Thursday Island +to be taught anything. Poor new-chums! Little do they know the kind of +people they are up against. + +The following description of a night at Thursday Island is taken from a +new-chum's note book: + +“Passed Proudfoot shoal and arrived at Thursday Island. First sight +of Australia. Lot of men came aboard, all called Captain. They are all +pearl-fishers or pilots, not a bit like the bushmen I expected. When +they came aboard they divided into parties. Some invaded the Captain's +cabin; others sat in the smoking room; the rest crowded into the saloon. +They talked to the passengers about the Boer War, and told us about +pearls worth 1000 pounds that had been found lately. + +“One captain pulled a handful of loose pearls out of a jar and handed +them round in a casual way for us to look at. The stewards opened +bottles and we all sat down for a drink and a smoke. I spoke to one +captain--an oldish man--and he grinned amiably, but did not answer. +Another captain leaned over to me and said, 'Don't take any notice of +him, he's boozed all this week.' + +“Conversation and drink became general. The night was very hot and +close, and some of the passengers seemed to be taking more than was good +for them. A contagious thirst spread round the ship, and before long the +stewards and firemen were at it. The saloon became an inferno of drink +and sweat and tobacco smoke. Perfect strangers were talking to each +other at the top of their voices. + +“Young MacTavish, who is in a crack English regiment, asked the captain +of a pearling lugger whether he didn't know Talbot de Cholmondeley in +the Blues. + +“The pearler said very likely he had met 'em, and no doubt he'd remember +their faces if he saw them, but he never could remember names. + +“Another passenger--a Jew--was trying to buy some pearls cheap from the +captains, but the more the captains drank the less anxious they became +to talk about pearls. + +“The night wore on, and still the drinks circulated. Young MacTavish +slept profoundly. + +“One passenger gave his steward a sovereign as he was leaving the +ship, and in half an hour the steward was carried to his berth in +a fit--alcoholic in its origin. Another steward was observed openly +drinking the passengers' whisky. When accused, he didn't even attempt +to defend himself; the great Thursday Island thirst seemed to have +communicated itself to everyone on board, and he simply _had_ to drink. + +“About three in the morning a tour of the ship disclosed the following +state of affairs: Captain's room full of captains solemnly tight; +smoking-room empty, except for the inanimate form of the captain who had +been boozed all the week, and was now sleeping peacefully with his feet +on the sofa and his head on the floor. The saloon was full of captains +and passengers--the latter mostly in a state of collapse or laughing and +singing deliriously; the rails lined with firemen who had business over +the side; stewards ditto. + +“At last the Thursday Islanders departed, unsteadily, but still on their +feet, leaving a demoralized ship behind them. And young MacTavish, +who has seen a thing or two in his brief span, staggered to his berth, +saying, 'My God! Is _all_ Australia like this place?'” + + * * * * * + +When no ships arrive, the Islanders just drop into the pubs, as a +matter of routine, for their usual evening soak. They drink weird +compounds--horehound beer, known as “lady dog”, and things like that. +About two in the morning they go home speechless, but still able to +travel. It is very rarely that an Islander gets helplessly drunk, but +strangers generally have to be put to bed. + +The Japanese on the island are a strong faction. They have a club of +their own, and once gave a dinner to mark the death of one of their +members. He was shrewdly suspected of having tried to drown another +member by cutting his airpipe, so, when he died, the club celebrated +the event. The Japanese are not looked upon with favor by the white +islanders. They send their money to Japan--thousands of pounds a year go +through the little office in money-orders--and so they are not “good for +trade”. + +The Manilamen and Kanakas and Torres Strait islanders, on the other +hand, bring all the money they do not spend on the pearling schooner to +the island, and “blow it in”, like men. They knife each other sometimes, +and now and again have to be run in wholesale, but they are “good for +trade”. The local lock-up has a record of eighteen drunks run in in +seven minutes. They weren't taken along in carriages-and-four, either; +they were mostly dragged along by the scruff of the neck. + +Billy Malkeela, the South Sea diver, summed up the Japanese +question--“Seems to me dis Islan' soon b'long Japanee altogedder. One +time pa-lenty rickatta (plenty regatta), all same Isle of Wight. Now no +more rickatta. All money go Japan!” + +An English new-chum made his appearance there lately--a most undefeated +sportsman. He was put down in a diving dress in about eight feet of +water, where he bubbled and struggled about in great style. Suddenly he +turned, rushed for the beach, and made for the foot of a tree, which he +tried to climb under the impression that he was still at the bottom of +the ocean. Then he was hauled in by the life-line. + +The pearlers thought to get some fun out of him by giving him an oyster +to open in which they had previously planted a pearl; he never saw the +pearl and threw the oyster into the scuppers with the rest, and the +pearlers had to go down on all fours and grope for that pearl among the +stinking oysters. It was funny--but not in the way they had intended. + +The pearlers go out in schooners called floating stations (their enemies +call them floating public-houses) and no man knows what hospitality +is till he has been a guest on a pearling schooner. They carry it to +extremes sometimes. Some pearlers were out in a lugger, and were passing +by one of these schooners. They determined not to go on board, as it was +late, and they were in a hurry. The captain of the schooner went below, +got his rifle and put two bullets through their foresail. Then they put +the helm down and went aboard; it was an invitation almost equivalent to +a royal command. They felt heartily ashamed of themselves as they slunk +up on deck, and the captain of the schooner eyed them reproachfully. + +“I couldn't let you disgrace yourselves by passing my schooner,” he +said; “but if it ever happens again I'll fire at the deck. A man that +would pass a schooner in broad daylight is better dead.” + +There is a fort and garrison at Thirsty Island, but they are not needed. +If an invading fleet comes this way it should be encouraged by every +possible means to land at the island; the heat, the thirst, the +horehound beer, and the Islanders may be trusted to do the rest. + + + + +DAN FITZGERALD EXPLAINS + + +The circus was having its afternoon siesta. Overhead the towering canvas +tent spread like a giant mushroom on a network of stalks--slanting +beams, interlaced with guys and wire ropes. + +The ring looked small and lonely; its circle of empty benches seemed +to stare intently at it, as though some sort of unseen performance were +going on for the benefit of a ghostly audience. Now and again a guy rope +creaked, or a loose end of canvas flapped like faint, unreal applause, +as the silence shut down again, it did not need much imagination to +people the ring with dead and gone circus riders performing for the +benefit of shadowy spectators packed on those benches. + +In the menagerie portion matters were different; here there was a free +and easy air, the animals realising that for the present the eyes of the +public were off them, and they could put in the afternoon as they chose. + +The big African apes had dropped the “business” of showing their teeth, +and pretending that they wanted to tear the spectators' faces off. They +were carefully and painstakingly trying to fix up a kind of rustic seat +in the corner of their cage with a short piece of board, which they +placed against the wall. This fell down every time they sat on it, and +the whole adjustment had to be gone through again. + +The camel had stretched himself full length on the tan, and was enjoying +a luxurious snooze, oblivious of the fact that before long he would +have to get up and assume that far-off ship-of-the-desert aspect. The +remainder of the animals were, like actors, “resting” before their +“turn” came on; even the elephant had ceased to sway about, while a +small monkey, asleep on a sloping tent pole, had an attack of nightmare +and would have fallen off his perch but for his big tail. It was a land +of the Lotus-eater + + “In which it seemed always afternoon.” + +These visions were dispelled by the entry of a person who said, “D'ye +want to see Dan?” and soon Dan Fitzgerald, the man who knows all +about the training of horses, came into the tent with Montgomery, the +ringmaster, and between them they proceeded to expound the methods of +training horseflesh. + +“What sort of horse do we buy for circus work? Well, it depends what we +want 'em for. There are three sorts of horses in use in a circus--ring +horses, trick horses, and school horses; but it doesn't matter what he +is wanted for, a horse is all the better if he knows nothing. A horse +that has been pulled about and partly trained has to unlearn a lot +before he is any use to us. The less he knows, the better it is.” + +“Then do you just try any sort of horse?” + +“Any sort, so long as he is a good sort, but it depends on what he is +wanted for. If we want a ring horse, he has to be a quiet sober-going +animal, not too well-bred and fiery. A ring horse is one that just goes +round the ring for the bareback riders and equestriennes to perform +on. The human being is the “star”, and the horse in only a secondary +performer, a sort of understudy; yes, that's it, an understudy--he has +to study how to keep under the man.” + +“Are they hard to train?” + +“Their work all depends on the men that ride them. In bareback riding +there's a knack in jumping on the horse. If a man lands awkwardly and +jars the horse's back, the horse will get out of step and flinch at each +jump, and he isn't nearly so good to perform on. A ring horse must +not swerve or change his pace; if you're up in the air, throwing a +somersault, and the horse swerves from underneath you--where are you?” + +“Some people think that horses take a lot of notice of the band--is that +so?” + +“Not that I know of. If there are any horses in the show with an ear +for music, I haven't heard of them. They take a lot of notice of the +ringmaster.” + +“Does it take them long to learn this work?” + +“Not long; a couple of months will teach a ring horse; of course, some +are better than others.” + +“First of all we teach them to come up to you, with the whip, like +horsebreakers do. Then we run them round the ring with a lunging rein +for a long time; then, when they are steady to the ring, we let them +run with the rein loose, and the trainer can catch hold of it if they go +wrong. Then we put a roller on them--a broad surcingle that goes round +the horse's body--and the boys jump on them and canter round, holding +on to the roller, or standing up, lying down, and doing tricks till the +horse gets used to it.” + +“Well?” + +“Well, you give 'em a couple of hours of it, perhaps, and then dry them +and feed them, and give them a spell, and then bring them out again. +They soon get to know what you want; but you can't break in horses on +the move. The shifting and worry and noise and excitement put it all out +of their heads. We have a fixed camp where we break them in. And a horse +may know his work perfectly well when there is no one about, but bring +him into the ring at night, and he is all abroad.” + +“Do you have to give them much whip?” + +“Not much. If a horse doesn't know what you want him to do, it only +ruins him to whip him. But once he does a thing a few times, and then +won't do it, then you must whip him.” + +“What about trick horses?” + +“A trick horse rolls a barrel, or lies down and goes to bed with the +clown, or fires a pistol--does any trick like that. Some small circuses +make the same horses do both trick and ring work, but it isn't a good +line. A horse is all the better to have only one line of business--same +as a man.” + +“How do you teach them tricks?” + +“Oh, it takes a long time and a lot of hard work and great patience. +Even to make a horse lie down when he's ordered takes a couple of months +sometimes. To make a horse lie down, you strap up one leg, and then pull +his head round; after a while he gets so tired of the strained position +that he lies down, after which he learns to do it at command. If you +want him to pick up a handkerchief, you put a bit of carrot in it, and +after a while they know that you want them to pick it up--but it takes +a long time. Then a strange hand in the ring will flurry them, and if +anything goes wrong, they get all abroad. A good active pony, with a bit +of Arab blood in him, is the best for tricks.” + +“What's a school horse?” + +“Ah, that's a line of business that isn't appreciated enough out here. +On the Continent they think a lot of them. A school horse is one that is +taught to do passaging, to change his feet at command, to move sideways +and backwards; in fact, to drill. Out here no one thinks much of it. But +in Germany, where everyone goes through military riding schools, they +do. The Germans are the best horse-trainers in the world; and the big +German circus-proprietors have men to do all their business for them, +while they just attend to the horses.” + +“How long does it take to turn out a school horse?” + +“Well, Chiarini was the best trainer out here, and he used to take two +years to get a horse to his satisfaction. For school horses, you must +have thoroughbreds, because their appearance is half their success. We +had a New Zealand thoroughbred that had raced, and was turning out a +splendid school horse, and he got burnt after costing a year's training. +That's the luck of the game, you know. You keep at it year after year, +and sometimes they die, and sometimes they get crippled--it's all in the +luck of the game. You may give fifty pounds for a horse, and find that +he can never get over his fear of the elephant, while you give ten +pounds for another, and find him a ready-made performer almost.” + +We passed out through the ghostly circus and the menagerie tent down to +the stable tent. There, among a lot of others, a tranquil-looking animal +was munching some feed, while in front of him hung a placard, “Tiger +Horse”. + +“That's a new sort! What is he, ring, trick, or school horse?” + +“Well, he's a class by himself. I suppose you'd call him a ring horse. +That's the horse that the tiger rides on.” + +“Did it take him long to learn that?” + +“Well, it did not take this horse long; but we tried eleven others +before we could get one to stand it. They're just like men, all +different. What one will stand another won't look at. Well, good-bye.” + +Just like men--no doubt; most men have to carry tigers of various sorts +through life to get a living. + + + + +THE CAT + + +Most people think that the cat is an unintelligent animal, fond of ease, +and caring little for anything but mice and milk. But a cat has really +more character than most human beings, and gets a great deal more +satisfaction out of life. Of all the animal kingdom, the cat has the +most many-sided character. + +He--or she--is an athlete, a musician, an acrobat, a Lothario, a grim +fighter, a sport of the first water. All day long the cat loafs about +the house, takes things easy, sleeps by the fire, and allows himself +to be pestered by the attentions of our womenfolk and annoyed by our +children. To pass the time away he sometimes watches a mouse-hole for +an hour or two--just to keep himself from dying of ennui; and people get +the idea that this sort of thing is all that life holds for the cat. +But watch him as the shades of evening fall, and you see the cat as he +really is. + +When the family sits down to tea, the cat usually puts in an appearance +to get his share, and purrs noisily, and rubs himself against the +legs of the family; and all the time he is thinking of a fight or a +love-affair that is coming off that evening. If there is a guest at +table the cat is particularly civil to him, because the guest is likely +to have the best of what is going. Sometimes, instead of recognizing +this civility with something to eat, the guest stoops down and strokes +the cat, and says, “Poor pussy! poor pussy!” + +The cat soon tires of that; he puts up his claw and quietly but firmly +rakes the guest in the leg. + +“Ow!” says the guest, “the cat stuck his claws into me!” The delighted +family remarks, “Isn't it sweet of him? Isn't he intelligent? _He wants +you to give him something to eat_.” + +The guest dares not do what he would like to do--kick the cat through +the window--so, with tears of rage and pain in his eyes, he affects +to be very much amused, and sorts out a bit of fish from his plate and +hands it down. The cat gingerly receives it, with a look in his +eyes that says: “Another time, my friend, you won't be so dull of +comprehension,” and purrs maliciously as he retires to a safe distance +from the guest's boot before eating it. A cat isn't a fool--not by a +long way. + +When the family has finished tea, and gathers round the fire to enjoy +the hours of indigestion, the cat slouches casually out of the room and +disappears. Life, true life, now begins for him. + +He saunters down his own backyard, springs to the top of the fence with +one easy bound, drops lightly down on the other side, trots across the +right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and skips to the roof of an empty +shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminacy of civilisation; his gait +becomes lithe and pantherlike; he looks quickly and keenly from side to +side, and moves noiselessly, for he has so many enemies--dogs, cabmen +with whips, and small boys with stones. + +Arrived on the top of the shed, the cat arches his back, rakes his claws +once or twice through the soft bark of the old roof, wheels round and +stretches himself a few times; just to see that every muscle is in full +working order; then, dropping his head nearly to his paws, he sends +across a league of backyards his call to his kindred--a call to love, or +war, or sport. + +Before long they come, gliding, graceful shadows, approaching +circuitously, and halting occasionally to reconnoitre--tortoiseshell, +tabby, and black, all domestic cats, but all transformed for the nonce +into their natural state. No longer are they the hypocritical, meek +creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk. They are now +ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of dignity. Their fights +are grim and determined, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons before he +will yield. + +Even young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human +beings, that they can work off jealousy, hatred, and malice in a +sprawling, yelling combat on a flat roof. All cats fight, and all keep +themselves more or less in training while they are young. Your cat may +be the acknowledged lightweight champion of his district--a Griffo of +the feline ring! + +Just think how much more he gets out of his life than you do out of +yours--what a hurricane of fighting and lovemaking his life is--and +blush for yourself. You have had one little love-affair, and never had a +good, all-out fight in your life! + +And the sport they have, too! As they get older and retire from the ring +they go in for sport more systematically; the suburban backyards, that +are to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting-grounds and +trysting-places where they may have more gallant adventure than ever had +King Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men. + +Grimalkin decides to kill a canary in a neighbouring verandah. Consider +the fascination of it--the stealthy reconnaissance from the top of the +fence; the care to avoid waking the house-dog, the noiseless approach +and the hurried dash, and the fierce clawing at the fluttering bird till +its mangled body is dragged through the bars of the cage; the exultant +retreat with the spoil; the growling over the feast that follows. Not +the least entertaining part of it is the demure satisfaction of arriving +home in time for breakfast and hearing the house-mistress say: “Tom must +be sick; he seems to have no appetite.” + +It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more fond +of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like +to leave his country, the land where all his friends are, and where he +knows every landmark. Exiled in a strange land, he would have to learn a +new geography, to exploit another tribe of dogs, to fight and make love +to an entirely new nation of cats. Life isn't long enough for that sort +of thing. So, when the family moves, the cat, if allowed, will stay at +the old house and attach himself to the new tenants. He will give them +the privilege of boarding him while he enjoys life in his own way. He +is not going to sacrifice his whole career for the doubtful reward which +fidelity to his old master or mistress might bring. + + + + +SITTING IN JUDGMENT + + +The show ring was a circular enclosure of about four acres, with a +spiked batten fence round it, and a listless crowd of back-country +settlers propped along the fence. Behind them were the sheds for +produce, and the machinery sections where steam threshers and earth +scoops hummed and buzzed and thundered unnoticed. Crowds of sightseers +wandered past the cattle stalls to gape at the fat bullocks; side-shows +flourished, a blase goose drew marbles out of a tin canister, and a +boxing showman displayed his muscles outside his tent, while his partner +urged the youth of the district to come in and be thumped for the +edification of the spectators. + +Suddenly a gate opened at the end of the show ring, and horses, cattle, +dogs, vehicles, motor-cars, and bicyclists crowded into the arena. This +was the general parade, but it would have been better described as a +general chaos. Trotting horses and ponies, in harness, went whirling +round the ring, every horse and every driver fully certain that +every eye was fixed on them; the horses--the vainest creatures in the +world--arching their necks and lifting their feet, whizzed past in +bewildering succession, till the onlookers grew giddy. Inside the +whirling circle blood stallions stood on their hind legs, screaming +defiance to the world at large; great shaggy-fronted bulls, with dull +vindictive eyes, paced along, looking as though they were trying to +remember who it was that struck them last. A showground bull always +seems to be nursing a grievance. + +Mixed up with the stallions and bulls were dogs and donkeys. The dogs +were led by attendants, apparently selected on the principle of the +larger the dog the smaller the custodian; while the donkeys were the +only creatures unmoved by their surroundings, for they slept peaceably +through the procession, occasionally waking up to bray their sense of +boredom. + +In the centre of the ring a few lady-riders, stern-featured women for +the most part, were being “judged” by a trembling official, who feared +to look them in the face, but hurriedly and apologetically examined +horses and saddles, whispered his award to the stewards, and fled at +top speed to the official stand--his sanctuary from the fury of spurned +beauty. The defeated ladies immediately began to “perform”--that is, to +ask the universe at large whether anyone ever heard the like of that! +But the stewards strategically slipped away, and the injured innocents +had no resource left but to ride haughtily round the ring, glaring +defiance at the spectators. + +All this time stewards and committee-men were wandering among the +competitors, trying to find the animals for judgment. The clerk of the +ring--a huge man on a small cob--galloped around, roaring like a +bull: “This way for the fourteen stone 'acks! Come on, you twelve +'and ponies!” and by degrees various classes got judged, and dispersed +grumbling. Then the bulls filed out with their grievances still +unsettled, the lady riders were persuaded to withdraw, and the clerk of +the ring sent a sonorous bellow across the ground: “Where's the jumpin' +judges?” + +From the official stand came a brisk, dark-faced, wiry little man. He +had been a steeplechase rider and a trainer in his time. Long experience +of that tricky animal, the horse, had made him reserved and slow to +express an opinion. He mounted the table, and produced a note-book. +From the bar of the booth came a large, hairy, red-faced man, whose face +showed fatuous self-complacency. He was a noted show-judge because he +refused, on principle, to listen to others' opinions; or in those rare +cases when he did, only to eject a scornful contradiction. The third +judge was a local squatter, who was overwhelmed with a sense of his own +importance. + +They seated themselves on a raised platform in the centre of the ring, +and held consultation. The small dark man produced his note-book. + +“I always keep a scale of points,” he said. “Give 'em so many points for +each fence. Then give 'em so many for make, shape, and quality, and so +many for the way they jump.” + +The fat man looked infinite contempt. “I never want any scale of +points,” he said. “One look at the 'orses is enough for me. A man that +judges by points ain't a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?” he +went on, turning to the squatter. “Do you go by points?” + +“Never,” said the squatter, firmly; which, as he had never judged before +in his life, was strictly true. + +“Well, we'll each go our own way,” said the little man. “I'll keep +points. Send 'em in.” + +“Number One, Conductor!” roared the ring steward in a voice like +thunder, and a long-legged grey horse came trotting into the ring and +sidled about uneasily. His rider pointed him for the first jump, and +went at it at a terrific pace. Nearing the fence the horse made a wild +spring, and cleared it by feet, while the crowd yelled applause. At the +second jump he raced right under the obstacle, propped dead, and rose +in the air with a leap like a goat, while the crowd yelled their delight +again, and said: “My oath! ain't he clever?” As he neared the third +fence he shifted about uneasily, and finally took it at an angle, +clearing a wholly unnecessary thirty feet. Again the hurricane of cheers +broke out. “Don't he fly 'em,” said one man, waving his hat. At the +last fence he made his spring yards too soon; his forelegs got over all +right, but his hind legs dropped on the rail with a sounding rap, and he +left a little tuft of hair sticking on it. + +“I like to see 'em feel their fences,” said the fat man. “I had a +bay 'orse once, and he felt every fence he ever jumped; shows their +confidence.” + +“I think he'll feel that last one for a while,” said the little dark +man. “What's this now?” + +“Number Two, Homeward Bound!” An old, solid chestnut horse came out and +cantered up to each jump, clearing them coolly and methodically. The +crowd was not struck by the performance, and the fat man said: “No +pace!” but surreptitiously made two strokes (to indicate Number Two) on +the cuff of his shirt. + +“Number Eleven, Spite!” This was a leggy, weedy chestnut, +half-racehorse, half-nondescript, ridden by a terrified amateur, who +went at the fence with a white, set face. The horse raced up to the +fence, and stopped dead, amid the jeers of the crowd. The rider let +daylight into him with his spurs, and rushed him at it again. This time +he got over. + +Round he went, clouting some fences with his front legs, others with +his hind legs. The crowd jeered, but the fat man, from a sheer spirit +of opposition, said: “That would be a good horse if he was rode better.” + And the squatter remarked: “Yes, he belongs to a young feller just near +me. I've seen him jump splendidly out in the bush, over brush fences.” + +The little dark man said nothing, but made a note in his book. + +“Number Twelve, Gaslight!” “Now, you'll see a horse,” said the fat man. +“I've judged this 'orse in twenty different shows, and gave him first +prize every time!” + +Gaslight turned out to be a fiddle-headed, heavy-shouldered brute, whose +long experience of jumping in shows where they give points for pace--as +if the affair was a steeplechase--had taught him to get the business +over as quickly as he could. He went thundering round the ring, pulling +double, and standing off his fences in a style that would infallibly +bring him to grief if following hounds across roads or through broken +timber. + +“Now,” said the fat man, “that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is, when +you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on if +Ned Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter.” + +The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, +while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. “I like to see a +bit of pace myself,” he ventured. + +The fat man sat on him heavily. “You don't call that pace, do you?” he +said. “He was going dead slow.” + +Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping +and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences; +not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties +by changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded +by the crowd for “cleverness” in getting themselves out of the +difficulties they had themselves created. + +A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task +of deciding was entered on. + +“I have kept a record,” said the little man, “of how they jumped each +fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make +and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward +Bound is the best, with Gaslight second.” + +“Homeward Bound!” said the fat man. “Why, the pace he went wouldn't head +a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets +of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at +'em.” Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note “No. II.”, +mistook it for “Number Eleven”, and said: “I want Number Eleven to go +another round.” + +The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling +and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn. + +“What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?” he said. + +“Why,” said the ring steward, “you said you wanted him.” + +“Well,” said the fat man, “if I said I wanted him I do want him. Let him +go the round.” + +The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair, +and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions. This put the +fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record, and all the horses were +jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea, to give the first +prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open to argument. From sheer +contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be “all right if he were +rode better,” and the squatter agreed. The little man was overruled, and +the prizes went--Gaslight, first; Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third. + +The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second +ribbon, and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that +he ought to boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the +stewards' stand, and on being asked how he came to give Spite the +second prize, remarked oracularly: “I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the +rider.” This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink. + +Over the flowing bowl the fat man said: “You see, I don't believe in +this nonsense about points. I can judge 'em without that.” + +Twenty dissatisfied competitors vowed they would never bring another +horse there in their lives. Gaslight's owner said: “Blimey, I knew it +would be all right with old Billy judging. 'E knows this 'orse.” + + + + +THE DOG + + +The dog is a member of society who likes to have his day's work, and who +does it more conscientiously than most human beings. A dog always looks +as if he ought to have a pipe in his mouth and a black bag for his +lunch, and then he would go quite happily to office every day. + +A dog without work is like a man without work, a nuisance to himself and +everybody else. People who live about town, and keep a dog to give the +children hydatids and to keep the neighbours awake at night, imagine +that the animal is fulfilling his destiny. All town dogs, fancy dogs, +show dogs, lap-dogs, and other dogs with no work to do, should be +abolished; it is only in the country that a dog has any justification +for his existence. + +The old theory that animals have only instinct, not reason, to guide +them, is knocked endways by the dog. A dog can reason as well as a human +being on some subjects, and better on others, and the best reasoning dog +of all is the sheep-dog. The sheep-dog is a professional artist with a +pride in his business. Watch any drover's dogs bringing sheep into +the yards. How thoroughly they feel their responsibility, and how very +annoyed they get if a stray dog with no occupation wants them to stop +and fool about! They snap at him and hurry off, as much as to say: “You +go about your idleness. Don't you see this is my busy day?” + +Sheep-dogs are followers of Thomas Carlyle. They hold that the only +happiness for a dog in this life is to find his work and to do it. The +idle, 'dilettante', non-working, aristocratic dog they have no use for. + +The training of a sheep-dog for his profession begins at a very early +age. The first thing is to take him out with his mother and let him see +her working. He blunders lightheartedly, frisking along in front of the +horse, and his owner tries to ride over him, and generally succeeds. It +is amusing to see how that knocks all the gas out of a puppy, and with +what a humble air he falls to the rear and glues himself to the horse's +heels, scarcely daring to look to the right or to the left, for fear of +committing some other breach of etiquette. + +He has had his first lesson--to keep behind the horse until he is +wanted. Then he watches the old slut work, and is allowed to go with her +round the sheep; and if he shows any disposition to get out of hand +and frolic about, the old lady will bite him sharply to prevent his +interfering with her work. + +By degrees, slowly, like any other professional, he learns his business. +He learns to bring sheep after a horse simply at a wave of the hand; +to force the mob up to a gate where they can be counted or drafted; +to follow the scent of lost sheep, and to drive sheep through a town +without any master, one dog going on ahead to block the sheep from +turning off into by-streets while the other drives them on from the +rear. + +How do they learn all these things? Dogs for show work are taught +painstakingly by men who are skilled in handling them; but, after all, +they teach themselves more than the men teach them. It looks as if the +acquired knowledge of generations were transmitted from dog to dog. +The puppy, descended from a race of sheep-dogs, starts with all his +faculties directed towards the working of sheep; he is half-educated +as soon as he is born. He can no more help working sheep than a born +musician can help being musical, or a Hebrew can help gathering in +shekels. It is bred in him. If he can't get sheep to work, he will +work a fowl; often and often one can see a collie pup painstakingly and +carefully driving a bewildered old hen into a stable, or a stock-yard, +or any other enclosed space on which he has fixed his mind. How does he +learn to do that? He didn't learn it at all. The knowledge was born with +him. + +When the dog has been educated, or has educated himself, he enjoys his +work; but very few dogs like work “in the yards”. The sun is hot, +the dust rises in clouds, and there is nothing to do but bark, bark, +bark--which is all very well for learners and amateurs, but is beneath +the dignity of the true professional sheep-dog. When they are hoarse +with barking and nearly choked with dust, the men lose their tempers and +swear at them, and throw clods of earth at them, and sing out to them +“Speak up, blast you!” + +Then the dogs suddenly decide that they have done enough for the day. +Watching their opportunity, they silently steal over the fence, and +hide in any cool place they can find. After a while the men notice that +hardly any are left, and operations are suspended while a great hunt is +made into outlying pieces of cover, where the dogs are sure to be found +lying low and looking as guilty as so many thieves. A clutch at the +scruff of the neck, a kick in the ribs, and they are hauled out of +hiding-places; and accompany their masters to the yard frolicking about +and pretending that they are quite delighted to be going back, and +only hid in those bushes out of sheer thoughtlessness. He is a champion +hypocrite, is the dog. + +Dogs, like horses, have very keen intuition. They know when the men +around them are frightened, though they may not know the cause. In a +great Queensland strike, when the shearers attacked and burnt Dagworth +shed, some rifle-volleys were exchanged. The air was full of human +electricity, each man giving out waves of fear and excitement. Mark now +the effect it had on the dogs. They were not in the fighting; nobody +fired at them, and nobody spoke to them; but every dog left his master, +left the sheep, and went away to the homestead, about six miles off. +There wasn't a dog about the shed next day after the fight. The noise of +the rifles had not frightened them, because they were well-accustomed to +that.* + + * The same thing happened constantly with horses in the + South African War. A loose horse would feed contentedly + while our men were firing, but when our troops were being + fired at the horses became uneasy, and the loose ones would + trot away. The excitement of the men communicated itself to + them. + +Dogs have an amazing sense of responsibility. Sometimes, when there are +sheep to be worked, an old slut who has young puppies may be greatly +exercised in her mind whether she should go out or not. On the one hand, +she does not care about leaving the puppies, on the other, she feels +that she really ought to go rather than allow the sheep to be knocked +about by those learners. Hesitatingly, with many a look behind her, she +trots out after the horses and the other dogs. An impassioned appeal +from the head boundary rider, “Go back home, will yer!” is treated with +the contempt it deserves. She goes out to the yards, works, perhaps half +the day, and then slips quietly under the fences and trots off home, +contented. + + + + +THE DOG--AS A SPORTSMAN + + +The sheep-dog and the cattle-dog are the workmen of the animal kingdom; +sporting and fighting dogs are the professionals and artists. + +A house-dog or a working-dog will only work for his master; a +professional or artistic dog will work for anybody, so long as he is +treated like an artist. A man going away for a week's shooting can +borrow a dog, and the dog will work for him loyally, just as a good +musician will do his best, though the conductor is strange to him, and +the other members of the band are not up to the mark. The musician's +art is sacred to him, and that is the case with the dog--Art before +everything. + +It is a grand sight to see a really good setter or pointer working up to +a bird, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the man with +the gun has not lost himself. He throws his whole soul into his work, +questing carefully over the cold scent, feathering eagerly when the bird +is close, and at last drawing up like a statue. Not Paganini himself +ever lost himself in his art more thoroughly than does humble Spot or +Ponto. It is not amusement and not a mere duty to him; it is a sacred +gift, which he is bound to exercise. + +A pointer in need of amusement will play with another dog--the pair +pretending to fight, and so on, but when there is work to be done, the +dog is lost in the artist. How crestfallen he looks if by any chance he +blunders on to a bird without pointing it! A fiddler who has played +a wrong note in a solo is the only creature who can look quite so +discomfited. Humanity, instead of going to the ant for wisdom, should +certainly go to the dog. + +Sporting dogs are like other artists, in that they are apt to get +careless of everything except their vocation. They are similarly quite +unreliable in their affections. They are not good watch dogs, and take +little interest in chasing cats. They look on a little dog that catches +rats much as a great musician looks on a cricketer--it's clever, but it +isn't Art. + +Hunting and fighting dogs are the gladiators of the animal world. +A fox-hound or a kangaroo-dog is always of the same opinion as Mr. +Jorrocks:--“All time is wasted what isn't spent in 'untin'.” + +A greyhound will start out in the morning with three lame legs, but as +soon as he sees a hare start he _must_ go. He utterly forgets his sorrows +in the excitement, just as a rowing-man, all over boils and blisters, +will pull a desperate race without feeling any pain. Such dogs are not +easily excited by anything but a chase, and a burglar might come and rob +the house and murder the inmates without arousing any excitement among +them. Guarding a house is “not their pidgin” as the Chinese say. That +is one great reason for the success of the dog at whatever branch of his +tribe's work he goes in for--he is so thorough. Dogs who are forced to +combine half-a-dozen professions never make a success at anything. One +dog one billet is their motto. + +The most earnest and thorough of all the dog tribe is the fighting +dog. His intense self-respect, his horror of brawling, his cool +determination, make him a pattern to humanity. The bull-dog or +bull-terrier is generally the most friendly and best-tempered dog in the +world; but when he is put down in the ring he fights till he drops, in +grim silence, though his feet are bitten through and through, his ears +are in rags, and his neck a hideous mass of wounds. + +In a well-conducted dog-fight each dog in turn has to attack the other +dog, and one can see fierce earnestness blazing in the eye of the +attacker as he hurls himself on the foe. What makes him fight like +that? It is not bloodthirstiness, because they are neither savage nor +quarrelsome dogs: a bulldog will go all his life without a fight, unless +put into a ring. It is simply their strong self-respect and stubborn +pride which will not let them give in. The greyhound snaps at his +opponent and then runs for his life, but the fighting dog stands to it +till death. + +Just occasionally one sees the same type of human being--some +quiet-spoken, good-tempered man who has taken up glove-fighting for a +living, and who, perhaps, gets pitted against a man a shade better than +himself. After a few rounds he knows he is overmatched, but there is +something at the back of his brain that will not let him cave in. Round +after round he stands punishment, and round after round he grimly comes +up, till, possibly, his opponent loses heart, or a fluky hit turns the +scale in his favour. These men are to be found in every class of life. +Many of the gamest of the game are mere gutter-bred boys who will +continue to fight long after they have endured enough punishment to +entitle them to quit. + +You can see in their eyes the same hard glitter that shows in the +bulldog's eyes as he limps across the ring, or in the eye of the +racehorse as he lies down to it when his opponent is outpacing him. It +is grit, pluck, vim, nerve force; call it what you like, and there is no +created thing that has more of it than the dog. + +The blood-lust is a dog-phase that has never been quite understood. +Every station-owner knows that sometimes the house-dogs are liable to +take a sudden fit of sheep-killing. Any kind of dog will do it, from the +collie downward. Sometimes dogs from different homesteads meet in the +paddocks, having apparently arranged the whole affair beforehand. They +are very artful about it, too. They lie round the house till dark, and +then slink off and have a wild night's blood-spree, running down the +wretched sheep and tearing their throats open; before dawn they +slink back again and lie around the house as before. Many and many a +sheep-owner has gone out with a gun and shot his neighbour's dogs for +killing sheep which his own wicked, innocent-looking dogs had slain. + + + + +CONCERNING A STEEPLECHASE RIDER + + +Of all the ways in which men get a living there is none so hard and so +precarious as that of steeplechase-riding in Australia. It is bad enough +in England, where steeplechases only take place in winter, when the +ground is soft, where the horses are properly schooled before being +raced, and where most of the obstacles will yield a little if struck and +give the horse a chance to blunder over safely. + +In Australia the men have to go at racing-speed, on very hard ground, +over the most rigid and uncompromising obstacles--ironbark rails clamped +into solid posts with bands of iron. No wonder they are always coming +to grief, and are always in and out of hospital in splints and bandages. +Sometimes one reads that a horse has fallen and the rider has “escaped +with a severe shaking.” + +That “shaking”, gentle reader, would lay you or me up for weeks, with +a doctor to look after us and a crowd of sympathetic friends calling to +know how our poor back was. But the steeplechase-rider has to be out and +about again, “riding exercise” every morning, and “schooling” all sorts +of cantankerous brutes over the fences. These men take their lives in +their hands and look at grim death between their horses' ears every time +they race or “school”. + +The death-record among Australian cross-country jockeys and horses is +very great; it is a curious instance of how custom sanctifies all things +that such horse-and-man slaughter is accepted in such a callous way. If +any theatre gave a show at which men and horses were habitually crippled +or killed in full sight of the audience, the manager would be put on his +trial for manslaughter. + +Our race-tracks use up their yearly average of horses and men without +attracting remark. One would suppose that the risk being so great the +profits were enormous; but they are not. In “the game” as played on +our racecourses there is just a bare living for a good capable horseman +while he lasts, with the certainty of an ugly smash if he keeps at it +long enough. + +And they don't need to keep at it very long. After a few good “shakings” + they begin to take a nip or two to put heart into them before they go +out, and after a while they have to increase the dose. At last they +cannot ride at all without a regular cargo of alcohol on board, and are +either “half-muzzy” or shaky according as they have taken too much or +too little. + +Then the game becomes suicidal; it is an axiom that as soon as a man +begins to funk he begins to fall. The reason is that a rider who has +lost his nerve is afraid of his horse making a mistake, and takes a +pull, or urges him onward, just at the crucial moment when the horse is +rattling up to his fence and judging his distance. That little, nervous +pull at his head or that little touch of the spur, takes his attention +from the fence, with the result that he makes his spring a foot too far +off or a foot too close in, and--smash! + +The loafers who hang about the big fences rush up to see if the jockey +is killed or stunned; if he is, they dispose of any jewellery he may +have about him; they have been known almost to tear a finger off in +their endeavours to secure a ring. The ambulance clatters up at a +canter, the poor rider is pushed in out of sight, and the ladies in the +stand say how unlucky they are--that brute of a horse falling after +they backed him. A wolfish-eyed man in the Leger-stand shouts to +a wolfish-eyed pal, “Bill, I believe that jock was killed when the +chestnut fell,” and Bill replies, “Yes, damn him, I had five bob on +him.” And the rider, gasping like a crushed chicken, is carried into the +casualty-room and laid on a little stretcher, while outside the window +the bookmakers are roaring “Four to one bar one,” and the racing is +going on merrily as ever. + +These remarks serve to introduce one of the fraternity who may be +considered as typical of all. He was a small, wiry, hard-featured +fellow, the son of a stockman on a big cattle-station, and began life as +a horse-breaker; he was naturally a horseman, able and willing to ride +anything that could carry him. He left the station to go with cattle on +the road, and having picked up a horse that showed pace, amused himself +by jumping over fences. Then he went to Wagga, entered the horse in a +steeplechase, rode him himself, won handsomely, sold the horse at a good +price to a Sydney buyer, and went down to ride it in his Sydney races. + +In Sydney he did very well; he got a name as a fearless and clever +rider, and was offered several mounts on fine animals. So he pitched +his camp in Sydney, and became a fully-enrolled member of the worst +profession in the world. I had known him in the old days on the road, +and when I met him on the course one day I enquired how he liked the new +life. + +“Well, it's a livin',” he said, “but it's no great shakes. They don't +give steeplechase-riders a chance in Sydney. There's very few races, and +the big sweepstakes keep horses out of the game.” + +“Do you get a fair share of the riding?” I asked. + +“Oh, yes; I get as much as anybody. But there's a lot of 'em got a +notion I won't take hold of a horse when I'm told (i.e., pull him to +prevent him winning). Some of these days I'll take hold of a horse when +they don't expect it.” + +I smiled as I thought there was probably a sorry day in store for some +backer when the jockey “took hold” unexpectedly. + +“Do you have to pull horses, then, to get employment?” + +“Oh, well, it's this way,” he said, rather apologetically, “if an owner +is badly treated by the handicapper, and is just giving his horse a run +to get weight off, then it's right enough to catch hold a bit. But when +a horse is favourite and the public are backing him it isn't right to +take hold of him then. _I_ would not do it.” This was his whole code of +morals--not to pull a favourite; and he felt himself very superior to +the scoundrel who would pull favourites or outsiders indiscriminately. + +“What do you get for riding?” I asked him. + +“Well,” he said, looking about uneasily, “we're supposed to get a +fiver for a losing mount and ten pounds if we win, but a lot of the +steeplechase-owners are what I call 'battlers'--men who have no money +and get along by owing everybody. They promise us all sorts of money if +we win, but they don't pay if we lose. I only got two pounds for that +last steeplechase.” + +“Two pounds!” I made a rapid calculation. He had ridden over eighteen +fences for two pounds--had chanced his life eighteen times at less than +half-a-crown a time. + +“Good Heavens!” I said, “that's a poor game. Wouldn't you be better back +on the station?” + +“Oh, I don't know--sometimes we get laid a bit to nothing, and do well +out of a race. And then, you know, a steeplechase rider is somebody--not +like an ordinary fellow that is just working.” + +I realised that I was an “ordinary fellow who was just working”, and +felt small accordingly. + +“I'm just off to weigh now,” he said--“I'm riding Contractor, and he'll +run well, but he always seems to fall at those logs. Still, I ought to +have luck to-day. I met a hearse as I was coming out. I'll get him over +the fences, somehow.” + +“Do you think it lucky, then, to meet a hearse?” + +“Oh, yes,” he said, “if you _meet_ it. You mustn't overtake it--that's +unlucky. So is a cross-eyed man unlucky. Cross-eyed men ought to be kept +off racecourses.” + +He reappeared clad in his racing rig, and we set off to see the horse +saddled. We found the owner in a great state of excitement. It seemed he +had no money--absolutely none whatever--but had borrowed enough to pay +the sweepstakes, and stood to make something if the horse won and lose +nothing if he lost, as he had nothing to lose. My friend insisted on +being paid two pounds before he would mount, and the owner nearly had a +fit in his efforts to persuade him to ride on credit. At last a backer +of the horse agreed to pay 2 pounds 10s., win or lose, and the rider was +to get 25 pounds out of the prize if he won. So up he got; and as he and +the others walked the big muscular horses round the ring, nodding gaily +to friends in the crowd, I thought of the gladiators going out to fight +in the arena with the cry of “Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute +thee!” + +The story of the race is soon told. My friend went to the front at the +start and led nearly all the way, and “Contractor!” was on every one's +lips as the big horse sailed along in front of his field. He came at the +log-fence full of running, and it looked certain that he would get over. +But at the last stride he seemed to falter, then plunged right into the +fence, striking it with his chest, and, turning right over, landed on +his unfortunate rider. + +A crowd clustered round and hid horse and rider from view, and I ran +down to the casualty-room to meet him when the ambulance came in. The +limp form was carefully taken out and laid on a stretcher while a doctor +examined the crushed ribs, the broken arm, and all the havoc that the +horse's huge weight had wrought. + +There was no hope from the first. My poor friend, who had so often faced +Death for two pounds, lay very still awhile. Then he began to talk, +wandering in his mind, “Where are the cattle?”--his mind evidently going +back to the old days on the road. Then, quickly, “Look out there--give +me room!” and again “Five-and-twenty pounds, Mary, and a sure thing if +he don't fall at the logs.” + +Mary was sobbing beside the bed, cursing the fence and the money that +had brought him to grief. At last, in a tone of satisfaction, he said, +quite clear and loud: “I know how it was--_There couldn't have been any +dead man in that hearse!_” + +And so, having solved the mystery to his own satisfaction, he drifted +away into unconsciousness--and woke somewhere on the other side of the +big fence that we can neither see through nor over, but all have to face +sooner or later. + + + + +VICTOR SECOND + + +We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races--an old grey +warrior called Tricolor--better known to the station boys as The +Trickler--and a mare for the hack race. Station horses don't get trained +quite like Carbine; some days we had no time to give them gallops at +all, so they had to gallop twice as far the next day to make up. + +One day the boy we had looking after The Trickler fell in with a mob of +sharps who told him we didn't know anything about training horses, and +that what the horse really wanted was “a twicer”--that is to say, a +gallop twice round the course. So the boy gave him “a twicer” on his own +responsibility. When we found out about it we gave the boy a twicer with +the strap, and he left and took out a summons against us. But somehow +or other we managed to get the old horse pretty fit, tried him against +hacks of different descriptions, and persuaded ourselves that we had the +biggest certainty ever known on a racecourse. + +When the horses were galloping in the morning the kangaroo-dog, Victor, +nearly always went down to the course to run round with them. It amused +him, apparently, and didn't hurt anyone, so we used to let him race; in +fact, we rather encouraged him, because it kept him in good trim to hunt +kangaroo. When we were starting for the meeting, someone said we had +better tie up Victor or he would be getting stolen at the races. We +called and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, so we started and +forgot all about him. + +Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk and +blasphemous. All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event--you had +to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards. + +The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for a quarter of an +hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight of which he was +an interested spectator. Every horse, as he did his preliminary gallop, +had a string of dogs after him, and the clerk of the course came full +cry after the dogs with a whip. + +By and by the horses strung across to the start at the far side of the +course. They fiddled about for a bit; then down went the flag and they +came sweeping along all bunched up together, one holding a nice +position on the inside. All of a sudden we heard a wild chorus of +imprecations--“Look at that dog!” Victor had chipped in with the +racehorses, and was running right in front of the field. It looked a +guinea to a gooseberry that some of them would fall on him. + +The owners danced and swore. What did we mean by bringing a something +mongrel there to trip up and kill horses that were worth a paddockful of +all the horses we had ever owned, or would ever breed or own, even if we +lived to be a thousand. We were fairly in it and no mistake. + +As the field came past the stand the first time we could hear the +riders swearing at our dog, and a wild yell of execration arose from +the public. He had got right among the ruck by this time, and was racing +alongside his friend The Trickler, thoroughly enjoying himself. After +passing the stand the pace became very merry; the dog stretched out all +he knew; when they began to make it too hot for him, he cut off corners, +and joined at odd intervals, and every time he made a fresh appearance +the people in the stand lifted up their voices and “swore cruel”. + +The horses were all at the whip as they turned into the straight, and +then The Trickler and the publican's mare singled out. We could hear +the “chop, chop!” of the whips as they came along together, but the mare +could not suffer it as long as the old fellow, and she swerved off while +he struggled home a winner by a length or so. Just as they settled down +to finish Victor dashed up on the inside, and passed the post at old +Trickler's girths. The populace immediately went for him with stones, +bottles, and other missiles, and he had to scratch gravel to save his +life. But imagine the amazement of the other owners when the judge +placed Trickler first, Victor second, and the publican's mare third! + +The publican tried to argue it out with him. He said you couldn't place +a kangaroo-dog second in a horse-race. + +The judge said it was _his_ (hiccough) business what he placed, and that +those who (hiccough) interfered with him would be sorry for it. Also he +expressed a (garnished) opinion that the publican's mare was no rotten +good, and that she was the right sort of mare for a poor man to own, +because she would keep him poor. + +Then the publican called the judge a cow. The judge was willing; a rip, +tear, and chew fight ensued, which lasted some time. The judge won. + +Fifteen protests were lodged against our win, but we didn't worry about +that--we had laid the stewards a bit to nothing. Every second man we met +wanted to run us a mile for 100 pounds a side; and a drunken shearer, +spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were “brimming over with +bally science”, and had ridden forty miles to find out. + +We didn't wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab +and stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown how a +kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate. + + + + +CONCERNING A DOG-FIGHT + + +Dog-fighting as a sport is not much in vogue now-a-days. To begin with +it is illegal. Not that _that_ matters much, for Sunday drinking is also +illegal. But dog-fighting is one of the cruel sports which the +community has decided to put down with all the force of public opinion. +Nevertheless, a certain amount of it is still carried on near Sydney, +and very neatly and scientifically carried on, too--principally by +gentlemen who live out Botany way and do not care for public opinion. + +The grey dawn was just breaking over Botany when we got to the +meeting-place. Away to the East the stars were paling in the faint flush +of coming dawn, and over the sandhills came the boom of breakers. It was +Sunday morning, and all the respectable, non-dog-fighting population of +that odoriferous suburb were sleeping their heavy, Sunday-morning +sleep. Some few people, however, were astir. In the dim light hurried +pedestrians plodded along the heavy road towards the sandhills. Now and +then a van, laden with ten or eleven of “the talent”, and drawn by a +horse that cost fifteen shillings at auction, rolled softly along in the +same direction. These were dog-fighters who had got “the office”, and +knew exactly where the match was to take place. + +The “meet” was on a main road, about half-a-mile from town; here some +two hundred people had assembled, and hung up their horses and vehicles +to the fence without the slightest concealment. They said the police +would not interfere with them--and they did not seem a nice crowd to +interfere with. + +One dog was on the ground when we arrived, having come out in a hansom +cab with his trainer. He was a white bull-terrier, weighing about forty +pounds, “trained to the hour”, with the muscles standing out all over +him. He waited in the cab, licking his trainer's face at intervals to +reassure that individual of his protection and support; the rest of the +time he glowered out of the cab and eyed the public scornfully. He knew +as well as any human being that there was sport afoot, and looked about +eagerly and wickedly to see what he could get his teeth into. + +Soon a messenger came running up to know whether they meant to sit in +the cab till the police came; the other dog, he said, had arrived and +all was ready. The trainer and dog got out of the cab; we followed them +through a fence and over a rise--and there, about twenty yards from +the main road, was a neatly-pitched enclosure like a prize-ring, a +thirty-foot-square enclosure formed with stakes and ropes. About a +hundred people were at the ringside, and in the far corner, in the arms +of his trainer, was the other dog--a brindle. + +It was wonderful to see the two dogs when they caught sight of each +other. The white dog came up to the ring straining at his leash, nearly +dragging his trainer off his feet in his efforts to get at the enemy. At +intervals he emitted a hoarse roar of challenge and defiance. + +The brindled dog never uttered a sound. He fixed his eyes on his +adversary with a look of intense hunger, of absolute yearning for +combat. He never for an instant shifted his unwinking gaze. He seemed +like an animal who saw the hopes of years about to be realised. With +painful earnestness he watched every detail of the other dog's toilet; +and while the white dog was making fierce efforts to get at him, he +stood Napoleonic, grand in his courage, waiting for the fray. + +All details were carefully attended to, and all rules strictly +observed. People may think a dog-fight is a go-as-you-please outbreak of +lawlessness, but there are rules and regulations--simple, but effective. +There were two umpires, a referee, a timekeeper, and two seconds for +each dog. The stakes were said to be ten pounds a-side. After some talk, +the dogs were carried to the centre of the ring by their seconds and put +on the ground. Like a flash of lightning they dashed at each other, and +the fight began. + +Nearly everyone has seen dogs fight--“it is their nature to”, as Dr. +Watts put it. But an ordinary worry between (say) a retriever and a +collie, terminating as soon as one or other gets his ear bitten, gives +a very faint idea of a real dog-fight. But bull-terriers are the +gladiators of the canine race. Bred and trained to fight, carefully +exercised and dieted for weeks beforehand, they come to the fray +exulting in their strength and determined to win. Each is trained to +fight for certain holds, a grip of the ear or the back of the neck being +of very slight importance. The foot is a favourite hold, the throat is, +of course, fashionable--if they can get it. + +The white and the brindle sparred and wrestled and gripped and threw +each other, fighting grimly, and disdaining to utter a sound. Their +seconds dodged round them unceasingly, giving them encouragement and +advice--“That's the style, Boxer--fight for his foot”--“Draw your foot +back, old man,” and so on. Now and again one dog got a grip of the +other's foot and chewed savagely, and the spectators danced with +excitement. The moment the dogs let each other go they were snatched up +by their seconds and carried to their corners, and a minute's time was +allowed, in which their mouths were washed out and a cloth rubbed over +their bodies. + +Then came the ceremony of “coming to scratch”. When time was called for +the second round the brindled dog was let loose in his own corner, and +was required by the rules to go across the ring of his own free will and +attack the other dog. If he failed to do this he would lose the fight. +The white dog, meanwhile, was held in his corner waiting the attack. +After the next round it was the white dog's turn to make the attack, and +so on alternately. The animals need not fight a moment longer than they +chose, as either dog could abandon the fight by failing to attack his +enemy. + +While their condition lasted they used to dash across the ring at +full run; but, after a while, when the punishment got severe and their +“fitness” began to fail, it became a very exciting question whether or +not a dog would “come to scratch”. The brindled dog's condition was not +so good as the other's. He used to lie on his stomach between the rounds +to rest himself, and several times it looked as if he would not cross +the ring when his turn came. But as soon as time was called he would +start to his feet and limp slowly across glaring steadily at his +adversary; then, as he got nearer, he would quicken his pace, make a +savage rush, and in a moment they would be locked in combat. So they +battled on for fifty-six minutes, till the white dog (who was apparently +having all the best of it), on being called to cross the ring, only went +half-way across and stood there for a minute growling savagely. So he +lost the fight. + +No doubt it was a brutal exhibition. But it was not cruel to the animals +in the same sense that pigeon-shooting or hare-hunting is cruel. The +dogs are born fighters, anxious and eager to fight, desiring nothing +better. Whatever limited intelligence they have is all directed to +this one consuming passion. They could stop when they liked, but anyone +looking on could see that they gloried in the combat. Fighting is like +breath to them--they must have it. Nature has implanted in all animals a +fighting instinct for the weeding out of the physically unfit, and these +dogs have an extra share of that fighting instinct. + +Of course, now that militarism is going to be abolished, and the +world is going to be so good and teetotal, and only fight in debating +societies, these nasty savage animals will be out of date. We will not +be allowed to keep anything more quarrelsome than a poodle--and a man +of the future, the New Man, whose fighting instincts have not been +quite bred out of him, will, perhaps, be found at grey dawn of a Sunday +morning with a crowd of other unregenerates in some backyard frantically +cheering two of them to mortal combat. + + + + +HIS MASTERPIECE + + +Greenhide Billy was a stockman on a Clarence River cattle-station, and +admittedly the biggest liar in the district. He had been for many years +pioneering in the Northern Territory, the other side of the sun-down--a +regular “furthest-out man”--and this assured his reputation among +station-hands who award rank according to amount of experience. + +Young men who have always hung around the home districts, doing a job of +shearing here or a turn at horse-breaking there, look with reverence +on Riverine or Macquarie-River shearers who come in with tales of runs +where they have 300,000 acres of freehold land and shear 250,000 +sheep; these again pale their ineffectual fires before the glory of the +Northern Territory man who has all-comers on toast, because no one can +contradict him or check his figures. When two of them meet, however, +they are not fools enough to cut down quotations and spoil the market; +they lie in support of each other, and make all other bushmen feel mean +and pitiful and inexperienced. + +Sometimes a youngster would timidly ask Greenhide Billy about the +'terra incognita': “What sort of a place is it, Billy--how big are the +properties? How many acres had you in the place you were on?” + +“Acres be d----d!” Billy would scornfully reply; “hear him talking +about acres! D'ye think we were blanked cockatoo selectors! Out there we +reckon country by the hundred miles. You orter say, 'How many thousand +miles of country?' and then I'd understand you.” + +Furthermore, according to Billy, they reckoned the rainfall in the +Territory by yards, not inches. He had seen blackfellows who could +jump at least three inches higher than anyone else had ever seen a +blackfellow jump, and every bushman has seen or personally known +a blackfellow who could jump over six feet. Billy had seen bigger +droughts, better country, fatter cattle, faster horses, and cleverer +dogs, than any other man on the Clarence River. But one night when the +rain was on the roof, and the river was rising with a moaning sound, and +the men were gathered round the fire in the hut smoking and staring at +the coals, Billy turned himself loose and gave us his masterpiece. + +“I was drovin' with cattle from Mungrybanbone to old Corlett's station +on the Buckadowntown River” (Billy always started his stories with some +paralysing bush names). “We had a thousand head of store-cattle, wild, +mountain-bred wretches that'd charge you on sight; they were that handy +with their horns they could skewer a mosquito. There was one or two +one-eyed cattle among 'em--and you know how a one-eyed beast always +keeps movin' away from the mob, pokin' away out to the edge of them so +as they won't git on his blind side, so that by stirrin' about he keeps +the others restless. + +“They had been scared once or twice, and stampeded and gave us all we +could do to keep them together; and it was wet and dark and thundering, +and it looked like a real bad night for us. It was my watch. I was on +one side of the cattle, like it might be here, with a small bit of a +fire; and my mate, Barcoo Jim, he was right opposite on the other side +of the cattle, and had gone to sleep under a log. The rest of the men +were in the camp fast asleep. Every now and again I'd get on my horse +and prowl round the cattle quiet like, and they seemed to be settled +down all right, and I was sitting by my fire holding my horse and +drowsing, when all of a sudden a blessed 'possum ran out from some +saplings and scratched up a tree right alongside me. I was half-asleep, +I suppose, and was startled; anyhow, never thinking what I was doing, I +picked up a firestick out of the fire and flung it at the 'possum. + +“Whoop! Before you could say Jack Robertson, that thousand head of +cattle were on their feet, and made one wild, headlong, mad rush right +over the place where poor old Barcoo Jim was sleeping. There was no +time to hunt up materials for the inquest; I had to keep those cattle +together, so I sprang into the saddle, dashed the spurs into the old +horse, dropped my head on his mane, and sent him as hard as he could leg +it through the scrub to get to the lead of the cattle and steady them. +It was brigalow, and you know what that is. + +“You know how the brigalow grows,” continued Bill; “saplings about as +thick as a man's arm, and that close together a dog can't open his mouth +to bark in 'em. Well, those cattle swept through that scrub, levelling +it like as if it had been cleared for a railway line. They cleared +a track a quarter of a mile wide, and smashed every stick, stump and +sapling on it. You could hear them roaring and their hoofs thundering +and the scrub smashing three or four miles off. + +“And where was I? I was racing parallel with the cattle, with my head +down on the horse's neck, letting him pick his way through the scrub in +the pitchy darkness. This went on for about four miles. Then the cattle +began to get winded, and I dug into the old stock-horse with the spurs, +and got in front, and began to crack the whip and sing out, so as to +steady them a little; after awhile they dropped slower and slower, and I +kept the whip going. I got them all together in a patch of open country, +and there I rode round and round 'em all night till daylight. + +“And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; for a man +couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark. The cattle were +all knocked about--horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; but they were +all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as the daylight broke +I took 'em back to the camp--that is, all that could travel, because I +had to leave a few broken-legged ones.” + +Billy paused in his narrative. He knew that some suggestions would be +made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, +and he prepared himself accordingly. His motto was “No surrender”; he +never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark on +them, he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out the +intruder. + +“That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy,” said one of the +men at last, admiringly. “It's a wonder you wasn't killed. I suppose +your clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?” + +“Never touched a twig,” said Billy. + +“Ah!” faltered the inquirer, “then no doubt you had a real ringin' good +stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that full-split in +the dark, and not hit you against anything.” + +“No, he wasn't a good un,” said Billy decisively, “he was the worst +horse in the camp. Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' +down on his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on +him and pull his ears.” + +Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best. After a pause +another took up the running. + +“How did your mate get on, Billy? I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!” + +“No,” said Billy, “he wasn't hurt a bit. I told you he was sleeping +under the shelter of a log. Well, when those cattle rushed they swept +over that log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd took the +log in his stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy by about four +inches.” + +The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well into +their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try. + +“It's a wonder then, Billy,” he said, “that your mate didn't come after +you and give you a hand to steady the cattle.” + +“Well, perhaps it was,” said Billy, “only that there was a bigger wonder +than that at the back of it.” + +“What was that?” + +“My mate never woke up all through it.” + +Then the men knocked the ashes out of their pipes and went to bed. + + + + +DONE FOR THE DOUBLE + +by Knott Gold + +Author of “Flogged for a Furlong”, “Won by a Winker”, etc., etc. + + + + +Chapter I.--WANTED, A PONY + + +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy beyond the +dreams of avarice. Other merchants might dress more lavishly, and wear +larger watch chains; but the bank balance is the true test of mercantile +superiority, and in a trial of bank balances Algernon de Montgomery +Smythers represented Tyson at seven stone. He was unbeatable. + +He lived in comfort, not to say luxury. He had champagne for breakfast +every morning, and his wife always slept with a pair of diamond earrings +worth a small fortune in her ears. It is things like these that show +true gentility. + +Though they had been married many years, the A. de M. Smythers had but +one child--a son and heir. No Christmas Day was allowed to pass by his +doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle worth about +150 pounds, less the discount for cash. He had six play-rooms, all +filled with the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices. +He had a phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, and a +mechanical parrot that sang “The Wearing of the Green”. And still he was +not happy. + +Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses and six +under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about with the +little boys he met there. One day he gave one of them a sovereign for +a locust. Certainly the locust was a “double-drummer”, and could deafen +the German Band when shaken up judiciously; still, it was dear at a +sovereign. + +It is ever thus. + +What we have we do not value, and what other people have we are not +strong enough to take from them. + +Such is life. + +Christmas was approaching, and the question of Algy's Christmas present +agitated the bosom of his parents. He already had nearly everything a +child could want; but one morning a bright inspiration struck Algy's +father. Algy should have a pony. + +With Mr. Smythers to think was to act. He was not a man who believed +in allowing grass to grow under his feet. His motto was, “Up and be +doing--somebody.” So he put an advertisement in the paper that same day. + +“Wanted, a boy's pony. Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, +intelligent. Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, and motor +'buses. Any failure in above respects will disqualify. Certificate of +birth required as well as references from last place. Price no object.” + + + + +Chapter II.--BLINKY BILL'S SACRIFICE + + +Down in a poverty-stricken part of the city lived Blinky Bill, the +horse-dealer. + +His yard was surrounded by loose-boxes made of any old timber, +galvanized iron, sheets of roofing-felt, and bark he could gather +together. + +He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts. There were harness +horses, that wouldn't pull, and saddle horses that wouldn't go--or, if +they went, used to fall down. Nearly every animal about the place had +something the matter with it. + +When the bailiff dropped in, as he did every two or three weeks, Bill +and he would go out together, and “have a punt” on some of Bill's +ponies, or on somebody else's ponies--the latter for choice. But +periodical punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf +from the door. Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not and +Blinky Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation when he +saw the advertisement mentioned at the end of last chapter. + +It was like a ray of hope to him. At once there flashed upon him what he +must do. + +He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II. + +Sausage II. was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day. Time and +again he had gone out to race when, to use William's own words, it was +a blue duck for Bill's chance of keeping afloat; and every time did the +gallant race pony pull his owner through. + +Bill owed more to Sausage II. than he owed to his creditors. + +Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy. He +would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, it was quite +a common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky to a country +meeting and look about him for a likely “mark”. If he could find a fleet +youth with a reputedly fast pony, Bill would offer to “pull the little +cuddy out of the sulky and run yer for a fiver.” Sometimes he got +beaten; but as he never paid, that didn't matter. He did not believe in +fighting; but he would always sooner fight than pay. + +But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end. He had +no feed for his ponies, and no money to buy it; the corn merchant had +written his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse. +Under the circumstances, what was he to do? Sausage II. must be sold. + +With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected. He saw Mr. +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers, and measured him with his eye. He saw +it would be no use to talk about racing to him, so he went on the other +track. + +He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, who used to +drive him in a “shay”. There are no shays in this country; but Bill had +read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable. “Yus, sir,” + he said, “'e goes lovely in a shay,” and he was just starting off at +twenty words a second, when he was stopped. + +Mr. A. de M. Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this he +made a mistake. Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, and +disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk. + +“If you want to sell this pony, dry up,” he said. “I don't believe a +word you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying.” + +Fatal mistake! You should never stop a horse-dealer's talk. And call him +anything you like, but never say you doubt his word. + +Both these things Mr. Smythers did; and, though he bought the pony at a +high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill. + +As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered to +himself, “Ha! ha! Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II., +the greatest 13.2 pony of the century. Let him beware how he gets +alongside anything. That's all! Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!” + + + + +Chapter III.--EXIT ALGY + + +Christmas Day came. Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled, +and led round to the front door. Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers, +spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the principal +event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate agreed +with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter. + +The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those who +are fat--the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long, +miserable walks. Well has one of our greatest poets written, “Take up +the fat man's burden.” But we digress. + +When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was +riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave to go +out in the street--and that was where the trouble began. + +Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till +suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. With +a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second there +was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. Sausage II. +was off after them with his precious burden. + +The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead +for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he +was left yelping far behind. Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the +flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while +the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way were just +one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard +of Blinky Bill. + + + + +Chapter IV.--RUNNING THE RULE + + +As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted. + +“You here,” he said, “Ha, ha, revenge is mine! I'll get a tidy reward +for taking you back, my young shaver.” + +Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three +sovereigns. These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he +was going home again. He expected to get at least a tenner ready money +for bringing Algy back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the +watch into the bargain. + +With a light heart he went down town with Algy's watch and sovereigns in +his pocket. He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife with +bad news. + +“Can't give the boy up,” he said. “I moskenoed his block and tackle, and +blued it in the school.” In other words, he had pawned the boy's watch +and chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss. + +“Nothing for it but to move,” he said, “and take the kid with us.” + +So move they did. + +The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother +of little Algy sought for their lost one. They put the matter into the +hands of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses of +the force to get in their fine work. There was nothing doing. + +Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy was yet +unsolved. The horse-dealer's revenge was complete. + +The boy's mother consulted a clairvoyant, who murmured mystically “What +went by the ponies, will come by the ponies;” and with that they had to +remain satisfied. + + + + +Chapter V.--THE TRICKS OF THE TURF + + +It was race day at Pulling'em Park, and the ponies were doing their +usual performances. + +Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond +earrings. Does the reader recognize her? It is little Algy's mother. +Her husband is dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, and, +having developed a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in “doing it +in on the ponies”. She is one of the biggest bettors in the game. + +When women take to betting they are worse than men. + +But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings. She +remembers the clairvoyant's “What went by the ponies will come by the +ponies.” And always she searches in the ranks of the talent for her lost +Algy. + +Here enters another of our dramatis personae--Blinky Bill, prosperous +once more. He has got a string of ponies and punters together. The +first are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of all +temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters the +mother of the child he stole. But the poor lady regularly punts on his +ponies, and just as regularly is “sent up”--in other words, loses her +money. + +To-day she has backed Blinky's pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the +double. Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, can +win the second half of the double. Is he on the job? The prices are +lengthening against him, and the poor lady recognises that once more she +is “in the cart”. + +Just then she meets Tin Can's jockey, Dodger Smith, face to face. A +piercing scream rends the atmosphere, as if a thousand school children +drew a thousand slate pencils down a thousand slates simultaneously. “Me +cheild! Me cheild! Me long-lost Algy!” + +It did not take long to convince Algy that he would be better off as a +son to a wealthy lady than as a jockey, subject to the fiendish caprices +of Blinky Bill. + +“All right, mother,” he said. “Put all you can raise on Tin Can. I'm +going to send Blinky up. It's time I had a cut on me own, anyway.” + +The horses went to the post. Tons of money were at the last moment +hurled on to Tin Can. The books, knowing he was “dead”, responded +gamely, and wrote his name till their wrists gave out. Blinky Bill had +a half-share in all the bookies' winnings, so he chuckled grimly as he +went to the rails to watch the race. + +They're off. And what is this that flashes to the front, while the howls +of the bookies rise like the yelping of fiends in torment? It is Dodger +Smith on Tin Can, and from the grandstand there is a shrill feminine +yell of triumph as the gallant pony sails past the post. + +The bookies thought that Blinky Bill had sold them, and they discarded +him for ever. + +Algy and his mother were united, and backed horses together happily ever +after, and sometimes out in the back yard of their palatial mansion +they hand the empty bottles, free of charge, to a poor old broken-down +bottle-O, called Blinky Bill. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Elephant Power, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + +***** This file should be named 307-0.txt or 307-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/307/ + +Produced by A. Light and L. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/307-0.zip b/307-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..415ce17 --- /dev/null +++ b/307-0.zip diff --git a/307-h.zip b/307-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8429a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/307-h.zip diff --git a/307-h/307-h.htm b/307-h/307-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ebffe34 --- /dev/null +++ b/307-h/307-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4783 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Three Elephant Power and Other Stories, by Andrew Barton 'banjo' Paterson + and by Knott Gold + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Three Elephant Power, by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Elephant Power + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #307] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THREE ELEPHANT POWER <br /> AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <h2> + by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + </h2> + <h4> + [Australian Poet, Reporter—1864-1941.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1917 Edition + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h5> + [Note on text: These stories appeared originally <br /> in several + Australian journals.] + </h5> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THREE ELEPHANT POWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE ORACLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE CAST-IRON CANVASSER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE MERINO SHEEP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE BULLOCK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> WHITE-WHEN-HE'S-WANTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE DOWNFALL OF MULLIGAN'S </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE AMATEUR GARDENER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THIRSTY ISLAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> DAN FITZGERALD EXPLAINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE CAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> SITTING IN JUDGMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE DOG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DOG—AS A SPORTSMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> CONCERNING A STEEPLECHASE RIDER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> VICTOR SECOND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> CONCERNING A DOG-FIGHT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> HIS MASTERPIECE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> DONE FOR THE DOUBLE, By Knott Gold </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter I.—WANTED, A PONY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter II.—BLINKY BILL'S SACRIFICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter III.—EXIT ALGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter IV.—RUNNING THE RULE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter V.—THE TRICKS OF THE TURF </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THREE ELEPHANT POWER + </h2> + <p> + “Them things,” said Alfred the chauffeur, tapping the speed indicator with + his fingers, “them things are all right for the police. But, Lord, you can + fix 'em up if you want to. Did you ever hear about Henery, that used to + drive for old John Bull—about Henery and the elephant?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred was chauffeur to a friend of mine who owned a very powerful car. + Alfred was part of that car. Weirdly intelligent, of poor physique, he + might have been any age from fifteen to eighty. His education had been + somewhat hurried, but there was no doubt as to his mechanical ability. He + took to a car like a young duck to water. He talked motor, thought motor, + and would have accepted—I won't say with enthusiasm, for Alfred's + motto was 'Nil admirari'—but without hesitation, an offer to drive + in the greatest race in the world. He could drive really well, too; as for + belief in himself, after six months' apprenticeship in a garage he was + prepared to vivisect a six-cylinder engine with the confidence of a + diplomaed bachelor of engineering. + </p> + <p> + Barring a tendency to flash driving, and a delight in persecuting slow + cars by driving just in front of them and letting them come up and enjoy + his dust, and then shooting away again, he was a respectable member of + society. When his boss was in the car he cloaked the natural ferocity of + his instincts; but this day, with only myself on board, and a clear run of + a hundred and twenty miles up to the station before him, he let her loose, + confident that if any trouble occurred I would be held morally + responsible. + </p> + <p> + As we flew past a somnolent bush pub, Alfred, whistling softly, leant + forward and turned on a little more oil. + </p> + <p> + “You never heard about Henery and the elephant?” he said. “It was dead + funny. Henery was a bushwacker, but clean mad on motorin'. He was wood and + water joey at some squatter's place until he seen a motor-car go past one + day, the first that ever they had in the districk. + </p> + <p> + “'That's my game,' says Henery; 'no more wood and water joey for me.' + </p> + <p> + “So he comes to town and gets a job off Miles that had that garage at the + back of Allison's. An old cove that they called John Bull—I don't + know his right name, he was a fat old cove—he used to come there to + hire cars, and Henery used to drive him. And this old John Bull he had + lots of stuff, so at last he reckons he's going to get a car for himself, + and he promises Henery a job to drive it. A queer cove this Henery was—half + mad, I think, but the best hand with a car ever I see.” + </p> + <p> + While he had been talking we topped a hill, and opened up a new stretch of + blue-grey granite-like road. Down at the foot of the hill was a teamster's + waggon in camp; the horses in their harness munching at their nose-bags, + while the teamster and a mate were boiling a billy a little off to the + side of the road. There was a turn in the road just below the waggon which + looked a bit sharp, so of course Alfred bore down on it like a whirlwind. + The big stupid team-horses huddled together and pushed each other + awkwardly as we passed. A dog that had been sleeping in the shade of the + waggon sprang out right in front of the car, and was exterminated without + ever knowing what struck him. + </p> + <p> + There was just room to clear the tail of the waggon and negotiate the + turn. Alfred, with the calm decision of a Napoleon, swung round the bend + to find that the teamster's hack, fast asleep, was tied to the tail of the + waggon. Nothing but a lightning-like twist of the steering-wheel prevented + our scooping the old animal up, and taking him on board as a passenger. As + it was, we carried off most of his tail as a trophy on the brass of the + lamp. The old steed, thus rudely awakened, lashed out good and hard, but + by that time we were gone, and he missed the car by a quarter of a mile. + </p> + <p> + During this strenuous episode Alfred never relaxed his professional + stolidity, and, when we were clear, went on with his story in the tone of + a man who found life wanting in animation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, at fust, the old man would only buy one of these little eight-horse + rubby-dubbys that go strugglin' up 'ills with a death-rattle in its + throat, and all the people in buggies passin' it. O' course that didn't + suit Henery. He used to get that spiked when a car passed him, he'd nearly + go mad. And one day he nearly got the sack for dodgin' about up a steep + 'ill in front of one o' them big twenty-four Darracqs, full of 'owlin' + toffs, and not lettin' 'em get a chance to go past till they got to the + top. But at last he persuaded old John Bull to let him go to England and + buy a car for him. He was to do a year in the shops, and pick up all the + wrinkles, and get a car for the old man. Bit better than wood and water + joeying, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Our progress here was barred by our rounding a corner right on to a flock + of sheep, that at once packed together into a solid mass in front of us, + blocking the whole road from fence to fence. + </p> + <p> + “Silly cows o' things, ain't they?” said Alfred, putting on his emergency + brake, and skidding up till the car came softly to rest against the + cushion-like mass—a much quicker stop than any horse-drawn vehicle + could have made. A few sheep were crushed somewhat, but it is well known + that a sheep is practically indestructible by violence. Whatever Alfred's + faults were, he certainly could drive. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he went on, lighting a cigarette, unheeding the growls of the + drovers, who were trying to get the sheep to pass the car, “well, as I was + sayin', Henery went to England, and he got a car. Do you know wot he got?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't.” + </p> + <p> + “'E got a ninety,” said Alfred slowly, giving time for the words to soak + in. + </p> + <p> + “A ninety! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “'E got a ninety—a ninety-horse-power racin' engine wot was made for + some American millionaire and wasn't as fast as wot some other millionaire + had, so he sold it for the price of the iron, and Henery got it, and had a + body built for it, and he comes out here and tells us all it's a twenty + mongrel—you know, one of them cars that's made part in one place and + part in another, the body here and the engine there, and the radiator + another place. There's lots of cheap cars made like that. + </p> + <p> + “So Henery he says that this is a twenty mongrel—only a + four-cylinder engine; and nobody drops to what she is till Henery goes out + one Sunday and waits for the big Napier that Scotty used to drive—it + belonged to the same bloke wot owned that big racehorse wot won all the + races. So Henery and Scotty they have a fair go round the park while both + their bosses is at church, and Henery beat him out o' sight—fair + lost him—and so Henery was reckoned the boss of the road. No one + would take him on after that.” + </p> + <p> + A nasty creek-crossing here required Alfred's attention. A little girl, + carrying a billy-can of water, stood by the stepping stones, and smiled + shyly as we passed. Alfred waved her a salute quite as though he were an + ordinary human being. I felt comforted. He had his moments of relaxation + evidently, and his affections like other people. + </p> + <p> + “What happened to Henry and the ninety-horse machine?” I asked. “And where + does the elephant come in?” + </p> + <p> + Alfred smiled pityingly. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't I tellin' yer,” he said. “You wouldn't understand if I didn't tell + yer how he got the car and all that. So here's Henery,” he went on, “with + old John Bull goin' about in the fastest car in Australia, and old John, + he's a quiet old geezer, that wouldn't drive faster than the regulations + for anything, and that short-sighted he can't see to the side of the road. + So what does Henery do? He fixes up the speed-indicator—puts a new + face on it, so that when the car is doing thirty, the indicator only shows + fifteen, and twenty for forty, and so on. So out they'd go, and if Henery + knew there was a big car in front of him, he'd let out to forty-five, and + the pace would very near blow the whiskers off old John; and every now and + again he'd look at the indicator, and it'd be showin' twenty-two and a + half, and he'd say: + </p> + <p> + “'Better be careful, Henery, you're slightly exceedin' the speed limit; + twenty miles an hour, you know, Henery, should be fast enough for anybody, + and you're doing over twenty-two.' + </p> + <p> + “Well, one day, Henery told me, he was tryin' to catch up a big car that + just came out from France, and it had a half-hour start of him, and he was + just fairly flyin', and there was a lot of cars on the road, and he flies + past 'em so fast the old man says, 'It's very strange, Henery,' he says, + 'that all the cars that are out to-day are comin' this way,' he says. You + see he was passin' 'em so fast he thought they were all comin' towards + him. + </p> + <p> + “And Henery sees a mate of his comin', so he lets out a notch or two, and + the two cars flew by each other like chain lightnin'. They were each doin' + about forty, and the old man, he says, 'There's a driver must be + travellin' a hundred miles an hour,' he says. 'I never see a car go by so + fast in my life,' he says. 'If I could find out who he is, I'd report + him,' he says. 'Did you know the car, Henery?' But of course Henery, he + doesn't know, so on they goes. + </p> + <p> + “The owner of the big French car thinks he has the fastest car in + Australia, and when he sees Henery and the old man coming, he tells his + driver to let her out a little; but Henery gives the ninety-horse the full + of the lever, and whips up alongside in one jump. And then he keeps there + just half a length ahead of him, tormentin' him like. And the owner of the + French car he yells out to old John Bull, 'You're going a nice pace for an + old 'un,' he says. Old John has a blink down at the indicator. 'We're + doing twenty-five,' he yells out. 'Twenty-five grandmothers,' says the + bloke; but Henery he put on his accelerator, and left him. It wouldn't do + to let the old man get wise to it, you know.” + </p> + <p> + We topped a big hill, and Alfred cut off the engine and let the car swoop, + as swiftly and noiselessly as an eagle, down to the flat country below. + </p> + <p> + “You're a long while coming to the elephant, Alfred,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, I'll tell you about the elephant,” said Alfred, letting his + clutch in again, and taking up the story to the accompaniment of the + rhythmic throb of the engine. + </p> + <p> + “One day Henery and the old man were going out a long trip over the + mountain, and down the Kangaroo Valley Road that's all cut out of the side + of the 'ill. And after they's gone a mile or two, Henery sees a track in + the road—the track of the biggest car he ever seen or 'eard of. An' + the more he looks at it, the more he reckons he must ketch that car and + see what she's made of. So he slows down passin' two yokels on the road, + and he says, 'Did you see a big car along 'ere?' + </p> + <p> + “'Yes, we did,' they says. + </p> + <p> + “'How big is she?' says Henery. + </p> + <p> + “'Biggest car ever we see,' says the yokels, and they laughed that silly + way these yokels always does. + </p> + <p> + “'How many horse-power do you think she was?' says Henery. + </p> + <p> + “'Horse-power,' they says; 'elephant-power, you mean! She was three + elephant-power,' they says; and they goes 'Haw, haw!' and Henery drops his + clutch in, and off he goes after that car.” + </p> + <p> + Alfred lit another cigarette as a preliminary to the climax. + </p> + <p> + “So they run for miles, and all the time there's the track ahead of 'em, + and Henery keeps lettin' her out, thinkin' that he'll never ketch that + car. They went through a town so fast, the old man he says, 'What house + was that we just passed,' he says. At last they come to the top of the big + 'ill, and there's the tracks of the big car goin' straight down ahead of + 'em. + </p> + <p> + “D'you know that road? It's all cut out of the side of the mountain, and + there's places where if she was to side-slip you'd go down 'undreds of + thousands of feet. And there's sharp turns, too; but the surface is good, + so Henery he lets her out, and down they go, whizzin' round the turns and + skatin' out near the edge, and the old cove sittin' there enjoyin' it, + never knowin' the danger. And comin' to one turn Henery gives a toot on + the 'orn, and then he heard somethin' go 'toot, toot' right away down the + mountain. + </p> + <p> + “'Bout a mile ahead it seemed to be, and Henery reckoned he'd go another + four miles before he'd ketch it, so he chances them turns more than ever. + And she was pretty hot, too; but he kept her at it, and he hadn't gone a + full mile till he come round a turn about forty miles an hour, and before + he could stop he run right into it, and wot do you think it was?” + </p> + <p> + I hadn't the faintest idea. + </p> + <p> + “A circus. One of them travellin' circuses, goin' down the coast; and one + of the elephants had sore feet, so they put him in a big waggon, and + another elephant pulled in front and one pushed behind. Three + elephant-power it was, right enough. That was the waggon wot made the big + track. Well, it was all done so sudden. Before Henery could stop, he runs + the radiator—very near boiling she was—up against the + elephant's tail, and prints the pattern of the latest honeycomb radiator + on the elephant as clear as if you done it with a stencil. + </p> + <p> + “The elephant, he lets a roar out of him like one of them bulls bellerin', + and he puts out his nose and ketches Henery round the neck, and yanks him + out of the car, and chucks him right clean over the cliff, 'bout a + thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course, and the old + man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady, trustworthy man. + 'Never get another like him,' he says.” + </p> + <p> + We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate into the + home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle, came frisking and + cantering after the car, and the rough bush track took all Alfred's + attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing from the wheels, and + began the long pull up to the homestead. Over the clamour of the + little-used second speed, Alfred concluded his narrative. + </p> + <p> + “The old bloke advertised,” he said, “for another driver, a steady, + reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car. + Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car to fetch + 'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive the Napier I was + tellin' you about.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running a racing + car?” + </p> + <p> + “He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he? He's drivin' + about the country now, the boss of the roads, but he won't chance her near + a circus. Thinks he might bump the same elephant. And that elephant, every + time he smells a car passin' in the road, he goes near mad with fright. If + he ever sees that car again, do you think he'd know it?” + </p> + <p> + Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ORACLE + </h2> + <p> + No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat, hairy, + and assertive; he is generally one of a party, and takes the centre of the + stage all the time—collects and hands over the fares, adjusts the + change, chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic stranger next + him into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if they had asked + for his opinion. + </p> + <p> + He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the impression + that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his race book, and one of + his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a deferential way: + </p> + <p> + “What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?” + </p> + <p> + The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else ventures to + speak. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he says, at last, “of course there's only one in it—if he's + wanted. But that's it—will they spin him? I don't think they will. + They's only a lot o' cuddies, any'ow.” + </p> + <p> + No one likes to expose his own ignorance by asking which horse he refers + to as the “only one in it”; and the Oracle goes on to deal out some more + wisdom in a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + “Billy K—— told me” (he probably hardly knows Billy K—— + by sight) “Billy K—— told me that that bay 'orse ran the best + mile-an'-a-half ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a + chance, for all that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know + when their horses are well—half of 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, who is + crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” says the thin man, “that that horse of Flannery's ought to run + well in the Handicap.” + </p> + <p> + The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort, wheels + half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back to the compartment + full of people, and says: “No 'ope.” + </p> + <p> + The thin man makes a last effort. “Well, they backed him last night, + anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Who backed 'im?” says the Oracle. + </p> + <p> + “In Tattersall's,” says the thin man. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure,” says the Oracle; and the thin man collapses. + </p> + <p> + On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by his + string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the horses. + Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the Oracle + doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge. + </p> + <p> + “'Ere's Blue Fire,” he says, stopping at that animal's stall, and swinging + his race book. “Good old Blue Fire!” he goes on loudly, as a little court + collects. “Jimmy B——” (mentioning a popular jockey) “told me + he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only been ridden + different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day. Lor', the races that + has been chucked away on this horse. They will not ride him right.” + </p> + <p> + A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. “This isn't Blue Fire,” + he says. “Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old filly + that's in the stall——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can see that, can't I,” says the Oracle, crushingly. “You don't + suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?” and he moves off + hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Now, look here, you chaps,” he says to his followers at last. “You wait + here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do to have a + crowd with you. There's Jimmy M—— over there now” (pointing to + a leading trainer). “I'll get hold of him in a minute. He couldn't tell me + anything with so many about. Just you wait here.” + </p> + <p> + He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall, and + overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, “What do you like?” to + which the other answers, “Well, either this or Royal Scot. I think I'll + put a bit on Royal Scot.” This is enough for the Oracle. He doesn't know + either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses from the great + original pachyderm, but the information will do to go on with. He rejoins + his followers, and looks very mysterious. + </p> + <p> + “Well, did you hear anything?” they say. + </p> + <p> + The Oracle talks low and confidentially. + </p> + <p> + “The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid of + anything but Royal Scot,” he says. “I think we'd better put a bit on + both.” + </p> + <p> + “What did the Royal Scot crowd say?” asks an admirer deferentially. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, and he + told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, you needn't + say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell.” And the satellites + beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think what a privilege it is to go + to the races with such a knowing man. + </p> + <p> + They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a pound, + others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to invest, + half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the favourite + is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one being offered + against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a Whisperer (one of + those broken-down followers of the turf who get their living in various + mysterious ways, but partly by giving “tips” to backers) pulls his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “What are you backing?” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Favourite and Royal Scot,” says the Oracle. + </p> + <p> + “Put a pound on Bendemeer,” says the tipster. “It's a certainty. Meet me + here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something for the next race. Don't + miss it now. Get on quick!” + </p> + <p> + The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. A bookmaker + roars “10 to 1 Bendemeer;” he suddenly fishes out a sovereign of his own—and + he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness—and puts it on + Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite and Royal Scot as + arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race. + </p> + <p> + The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals with + little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple, French + grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner, and though + the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out where Bendemeer + has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite he has lost interest in, and + secretly hopes that they will be left at the post or break their necks; + but he does not confide his sentiment to his companions. + </p> + <p> + They're off! The long line of colours across the track becomes a shapeless + clump and then draws out into a long string. “What's that in front?” yells + someone at the rails. “Oh, that thing of Hart's,” says someone else. But + the Oracle hears them not; he is looking in the mass of colour for a + purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands. He cannot see it + anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass swings round the turn into + the straight. + </p> + <p> + Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of “Bendemeer! + Bendemeer!” and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, takes up + the cry feverishly. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” he yells, waggling his glasses + about, trying to see where the animal is. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?” screams one of his + friends, in agony. “'Ow's he doin'?” + </p> + <p> + “No 'ope!” says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. “Bendemeer! Bendemeer!” + </p> + <p> + The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses + seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be a dozen + nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front of the + others, and a small man at the Oracle's side emits a deafening series of + yells right by the Oracle's ear: + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It's a cake-walk! A cake-walk!” + The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, seems to stick his body clear + of his opponents, and passes the post a winner by a length. The Oracle + doesn't know what has won, but fumbles with his book. The number on the + saddle-cloth catches his eye—No. 7; he looks hurriedly down the + page. No. 7—Royal Scot. Second is No. 24—Bendemeer. Favourite + nowhere. + </p> + <p> + Hardly has he realised it, before his friends are cheering and clapping + him on the back. “By George, Charley, it takes you to pick 'em.” “Come and + 'ave a wet!” “You 'ad a quid in, didn't you, Charley?” The Oracle feels + very sick at having missed the winner, but he dies game. “Yes, rather; I + had a quid on,” he says. “And” (here he nerves himself to smile) “I had a + saver on the second, too.” + </p> + <p> + His comrades gasp with astonishment. “D'you hear that, eh? Charley backed + first and second. That's pickin' 'em if you like.” They have a wet, and + pour fulsome adulation on the Oracle when he collects their money. + </p> + <p> + After the Oracle has collected the winnings for his friends he meets the + Whisperer again. + </p> + <p> + “It didn't win?” he says to the Whisperer in inquiring tones. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't win,” says the Whisperer, who has determined to brazen the matter + out. “How could he win? Did you see the way he was ridden? That horse was + stiffened just after I seen you, and he never tried a yard. Did you see + the way he was pulled and hauled about at the turn? It'd make a man sick. + What was the stipendiary stewards doing, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + This fills the Oracle with a new idea. All that he remembers of the race + at the turn was a jumble of colours, a kaleidoscope of horses and of + riders hanging on to the horses' necks. But it wouldn't do to admit that + he didn't see everything, and didn't know everything; so he plunges in + boldly. + </p> + <p> + “O' course I saw it,” he says. “And a blind man could see it. They ought + to rub him out.” + </p> + <p> + “Course they ought,” says the Whisperer. “But, look here, put two quid on + Tell-tale; you'll get it all back!” + </p> + <p> + The Oracle does put on “two quid”, and doesn't get it all back. Neither + does he see any more of this race than he did of the last one—in + fact, he cheers wildly when the wrong horse is coming in. But when the + public begin to hoot he hoots as loudly as anybody—louder if + anything; and all the way home in the tram he lays down the law about + stiff running, and wants to know what the stipendiaries are doing. + </p> + <p> + If you go into any barber's shop, you can hear him at it, and he + flourishes in suburban railway carriages; but he has a tremendous local + reputation, having picked first and second in the handicap, and it would + be a bold man who would venture to question the Oracle's knowledge of + racing and of all matters relating to it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CAST-IRON CANVASSER + </h2> + <p> + The firm of Sloper and Dodge, publishers and printers, was in great + distress. These two enterprising individuals had worked up an enormous + business in time-payment books, which they sold all over Australia by + means of canvassers. They had put all the money they had into the + business; and now, just when everything was in thorough working order, the + public had revolted against them. + </p> + <p> + Their canvassers were molested by the country folk in divers strange bush + ways. One was made drunk, and then a two-horse harrow was run over him; + another was decoyed into the ranges on pretence of being shown a + gold-mine, and his guide galloped away and left him to freeze all night in + the bush. In mining localities the inhabitants were called together by + beating a camp-oven lid with a pick, and the canvasser was given ten + minutes in which to get out of the town alive. If he disregarded the hint + he would, as likely as not, fall accidentally down a disused shaft. + </p> + <p> + The people of one district applied to their M.P. to have canvassers + brought under the “Noxious Animals Act”, and demanded that a reward should + be offered for their scalps. Reports appeared in the country press about + strange, gigantic birds that appeared at remote selections and frightened + the inhabitants to death—these were Sloper and Dodge's sober and + reliable agents, wearing neat, close-fitting suits of tar and feathers. + </p> + <p> + In fact, it was altogether too hot for the canvassers, and they came in + from North and West and South, crippled and disheartened, to tender their + resignations. To make matters worse, Sloper and Dodge had just got out a + large Atlas of Australasia, and if they couldn't sell it, ruin stared them + in the face; and how could they sell it without canvassers? + </p> + <p> + The members of the firm sat in their private office. Sloper was a long, + sanctimonious individual, very religious and very bald. Dodge was a + little, fat American, with bristly, black hair and beard, and quick, beady + eyes. He was eternally smoking a reeking black pipe, and puffing the smoke + through his nose in great whiffs, like a locomotive on a steep grade. + Anybody walking into one of those whiffs was liable to get paralysis. + </p> + <p> + Just as things were at their very blackest, something had turned up that + promised to relieve all their difficulties. An inventor had offered to + supply them with a patent cast-iron canvasser—a figure which (he + said) when wound up would walk, talk, collect orders, and stand any amount + of ill-usage and wear and tear. If this could indeed be done, they were + saved. They had made an appointment with the genius; but he was + half-an-hour late, and the partners were steeped in gloom. + </p> + <p> + They had begun to despair of his appearing at all, when a cab rattled up + to the door. Sloper and Dodge rushed unanimously to the window. A young + man, very badly dressed, stepped out of the cab, holding over his shoulder + what looked like the upper half of a man's body. In his disengaged hand he + held a pair of human legs with boots and trousers on. Thus burdened he + turned to ask his fare, but the cabman gave a yell of terror, whipped up + his horse, and disappeared at a hand-gallop; and a woman who happened to + be going by, ran down the street, howling that Jack the Ripper had come to + town. The man bolted in at the door, and toiled up the dark stairs + tramping heavily, the legs and feet, which he dragged after him, making an + unearthly clatter. He came in and put his burden down on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “There you are, gents,” he said; “there's your canvasser.” + </p> + <p> + Sloper and Dodge recoiled in horror. The upper part of the man had a waxy + face, dull, fishy eyes, and dark hair; he lounged on the sofa like a + corpse at ease, while his legs and feet stood by, leaning stiffly against + the wall. The partners gazed at him for a while in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Fix him together, for God's sake,” said Dodge. “He looks awful.” + </p> + <p> + The Genius grinned, and fixed the legs on. + </p> + <p> + “Now he looks better,” said Dodge, poking about the figure—“looks as + much like life as most—ah, would you, you brute!” he exclaimed, + springing back in alarm, for the figure had made a violent La Blanche + swing at him. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” said the Inventor. “It's no good having his face + knocked about, you know—lot of trouble to make that face. His head + and body are full of springs, and if anybody hits him in the face, or in + the pit of the stomach—favourite places to hit canvassers, the pit + of the stomach—it sets a strong spring in motion, and he fetches his + right hand round with a swipe that'll knock them into the middle of next + week. It's an awful hit. Griffo couldn't dodge it, and Slavin couldn't + stand up against it. No fear of any man hitting <i>him</i> twice. + </p> + <p> + “And he's dog-proof, too. His legs are padded with tar and oakum, and if a + dog bites a bit out of him, it will take that dog weeks to pick his teeth + clean. Never bite anybody again, that dog won't. And he'll talk, talk, + talk, like a suffragist gone mad; his phonograph can be charged for + 100,000 words, and all you've got to do is to speak into it what you want + him to say, and he'll say it. He'll go on saying it till he talks his man + silly, or gets an order. He has an order-form in his hand, and as soon as + anyone signs it and gives it back to him, that sets another spring in + motion, and he puts the order in his pocket, turns round, and walks away. + Grand idea, isn't he? Lor' bless you, I fairly love him.” + </p> + <p> + He beamed affectionately on his monster. + </p> + <p> + “What about stairs?” said Dodge. + </p> + <p> + “No stairs in the bush,” said the Inventor, blowing a speck of dust off + his apparition; “all ground-floor houses. Anyhow, if there were stairs we + could carry him up and let him fall down afterwards, or get flung down + like any other canvasser.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! Let's see him walk,” said Dodge. + </p> + <p> + The figure walked all right, stiff and erect. + </p> + <p> + “Now let's hear him yabber.” + </p> + <p> + The Genius touched a spring, and instantly, in a queer, tin-whistly voice, + he began to sing, “Little Annie Rooney”. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said Dodge; “he'll do. We'll give you your price. Leave him here + to-night, and come in to-morrow. We'll send you off to the back country + with him. Ninemile would be a good place to start in. Have a cigar?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dodge, much elated, sucked at his pipe, and blew through his nose a + cloud of nearly solid smoke, through which the Genius sidled out. They + could hear him sneezing and choking all the way down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Ninemile is a quiet little place, sleepy beyond description. When the + mosquitoes in that town settle on anyone, they usually go to sleep, and + forget to bite him. The climate is so hot that the very grasshoppers crawl + into the hotel parlours out of the sun, climb up the window curtains, and + then go to sleep. The Riot Act never had to be read in Ninemile. The only + thing that can arouse the inhabitants out of their lethargy is the + prospect of a drink at somebody else's expense. + </p> + <p> + For these reasons it had been decided to start the Cast-iron Canvasser + there, and then move him on to more populous and active localities if he + proved a success. They sent up the Genius, and one of their men who knew + the district well. The Genius was to manage the automaton, and the other + was to lay out the campaign, choose the victims, and collect the money, + geniuses being notoriously unreliable and loose in their cash. They got + through a good deal of whisky on the way up, and when they arrived at + Ninemile were in a cheerful mood, and disposed to take risks. + </p> + <p> + “Who'll we begin on?” said the Genius. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it all,” said the other, “let's make a start with Macpherson.” + </p> + <p> + Macpherson was a Land Agent, and the big bug of the place. He was a + gigantic Scotchman, six feet four in his socks, and freckled all over with + freckles as big as half-crowns. His eyebrows would have made decent-sized + moustaches for a cavalryman, and his moustaches looked like horns. He was + a fighter from the ground up, and had a desperate “down” on canvassers + generally, and on Sloper and Dodge's canvassers in particular. + </p> + <p> + Sloper and Dodge had published a book called “Remarkable Colonials”, and + Macpherson had written out his own biography for it. He was intensely + proud of his pedigree and his relations, and in his narrative made out + that he was descended from the original Fhairshon who swam round Noah's + Ark with his title-deeds in his teeth. He showed how his people had fought + under Alexander the Great and Timour, and had come over to Scotland some + centuries before William the Conqueror landed in England. He proved that + he was related in a general way to one emperor, fifteen kings, twenty-five + dukes, and earls and lords and viscounts innumerable. And then, after all, + the editor of “Remarkable Colonials” managed to mix him up with some other + fellow, some low-bred Irish McPherson, born in Dublin of poor but honest + parents. + </p> + <p> + It was a terrible outrage. Macpherson became president of the Western + District Branch of the “Remarkable Colonials” Defence League, a fierce and + homicidal association got up to resist, legally and otherwise, paying for + the book. He had further sworn by all he held sacred that every canvasser + who came to harry him in future should die, and had put up a notice on his + office-door, “Canvassers come in at their own risk.” + </p> + <p> + He had a dog of what he called the Hold'em breed, who could tell a + canvasser by his walk, and would go for him on sight. The reader will + understand, therefore, that, when the Genius and his mate proposed to + start on Macpherson, they were laying out a capacious contract for the + Cast-iron Canvasser, and could only have been inspired by a morbid craving + for excitement, aided by the influence of backblock whisky. + </p> + <p> + The Inventor wound the figure up in the back parlour of the pub. There + were a frightful lot of screws to tighten before the thing would work, but + at last he said it was ready, and they shambled off down the street, the + figure marching stiffly between them. It had a book tucked under its arm + and an order-form in its hand. When they arrived opposite Macpherson's + office, the Genius started the phonograph working, pointed the figure + straight at Macpherson's door, and set it going. Then the two conspirators + waited, like Guy Fawkes in his cellar. + </p> + <p> + The automaton marched across the road and in at the open door, talking to + itself loudly in a hoarse, unnatural voice. + </p> + <p> + Macpherson was writing at his table, and looked up. + </p> + <p> + The figure walked bang through a small collection of flower-pots, sent a + chair flying, tramped heavily in the spittoon, and then brought up against + the table with a loud crash and stood still. It was talking all the time. + </p> + <p> + “I have here,” it said, “a most valuable work, an Atlas of Australia, + which I desire to submit to your notice. The large and increasing demand + of bush residents for time-payment works has induced the publishers of + this——” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said Macpherson, “it's a canvasser. Here, Tom Sayers, Tom + Sayers!” and he whistled and called for his dog. “Now,” he said, “will you + go out of this office quietly, or will you be thrown out? It's for + yourself to decide, but you've only got while a duck wags his tail to + decide in. Which'll it be?” + </p> + <p> + “—— works of modern ages,” said the canvasser. “Every person + subscribing to this invaluable work will receive, in addition, a + flat-iron, a railway pass for a year, and a pocket-compass. If you will + please sign this order——” + </p> + <p> + Just here Tom Sayers came tearing through the office, and without waiting + for orders hitched straight on to the canvasser's calf. To Macpherson's + amazement the piece came clear away, and Tom Sayers rolled about on the + floor with his mouth full of a sticky substance which seemed to surprise + him badly. + </p> + <p> + The long Scotchman paused awhile before this mystery, but at last he + fancied he had got the solution. “Got a cork leg, have you?” said he—“Well, + let's see if your ribs are cork too,” and he struck the canvasser an awful + blow on the fifth button of the waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + Quicker than lightning came that terrific right-hand cross-counter. + Macpherson never even knew what happened to him. The canvasser's right + hand, which had been adjusted by his inventor for a high blow, had landed + on the butt of Macpherson's ear and dropped him like a fowl. The gasping, + terrified bull-dog fled the scene, and the canvasser stood over his fallen + foe, still intoning the virtues of his publication. He had come there + merely as a friend, he said, to give the inhabitants of Ninemile a chance + to buy a book which had recently earned the approval of King O'Malley and + His Excellency the Governor-General. + </p> + <p> + The Genius and his mate watched this extraordinary drama through the + window. The stimulant habitually consumed by the Ninemilers had induced in + them a state of superlative Dutch courage, and they looked upon the whole + affair as a wildly hilarious joke. + </p> + <p> + “By Gad! he's done him,” said the Genius, as Macpherson went down, “done + him in one hit. If he don't pay as a canvasser I'll take him to town and + back him to fight Les Darcy. Look out for yourself; don't you handle him!” + he continued as the other approached the figure. “Leave him to me. As like + as not, if you get fooling about him, he'll give you a clout that'll + paralyse you.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he guided the automaton out of the office and into the street, + and walked straight into a policeman. + </p> + <p> + By a common impulse the Genius and his mate ran rapidly away in different + directions, leaving the figure alone with the officer. + </p> + <p> + He was a fully-ordained sergeant—by name Aloysius O'Grady; a squat, + rosy little Irishman. He hated violent arrests and all that sort of thing, + and had a faculty of persuading drunks and disorderlies and other + fractious persons to “go quietly along wid him,” that was little short of + marvellous. Excited revellers, who were being carried by their mates, + struggling violently, would break away to prance gaily along to the + lock-up with the sergeant. Obstinate drunks who had done nothing but lie + on the ground and kick their feet in the air, would get up like birds, + serpent-charmed, to go with him to durance vile. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he saw the canvasser, and noted his fixed, unearthly stare, and + listened to his hoarse, unnatural voice, the sergeant knew what was the + matter; it was a man in the horrors, a common enough spectacle at + Ninemile. He resolved to decoy him into the lock-up, and accosted him in a + friendly, free-and-easy way. + </p> + <p> + “Good day t'ye,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “—— most magnificent volume ever published, jewelled in + fourteen holes, working on a ruby roller, and in a glass case,” said the + book-canvasser. “The likenesses of the historical personages are so + natural that the book must not be left open on the table, or the + mosquitoes will ruin it by stinging the portraits.” + </p> + <p> + It then dawned on the sergeant that this was no mere case of the horrors—he + was dealing with a book-canvasser. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, sure,” he said, “fwhat's the use uv tryin' to sell books at all, at + all; folks does be peltin' them out into the street, and the nanny-goats + lives on them these times. Oi send the childer out to pick 'em up, and we + have 'em at me place in barrow-loads. Come along wid me now, and Oi'll + make you nice and comfortable for the night,” and he laid his hand on the + outstretched palm of the figure. + </p> + <p> + It was a fatal mistake. He had set in motion the machinery which operated + the figure's left arm, and it moved that limb in towards its body, and + hugged the sergeant to its breast, with a vice-like grip. Then it started + in a faltering and uneven, but dogged, way to walk towards the river. + </p> + <p> + “Immortial Saints!” gasped the sergeant, “he's squazin' the livin' breath + out uv me. Lave go now loike a dacent sowl, lave go. And oh, for the love + uv God, don't be shpakin' into me ear that way;” for the figure's mouth + was pressed tight against the sergeant's ear, and its awful voice went + through and through the little man's head, as it held forth about the + volume. The sergeant struggled violently, and by so doing set some more + springs in motion, and the figure's right arm made terrific swipes in the + air. A following of boys and loafers had collected by this time. “Blimey, + how does he lash out!” was the remark they made. But they didn't + interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's frantic appeals, and things were + going hard with him when his subordinate, Constable Dooley, appeared on + the scene. + </p> + <p> + Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition, was + a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney, and + had fought many bitter battles with the notorious “pushes” of Bondi, Surry + Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's play, and he + never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; it was beneath his dignity + to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. If they wouldn't come any other + way, he would take them by the ankles and drag them after him. When the + Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp of an inebriate he bore down on the + fray full of fight. + </p> + <p> + “I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant,” he said, and he caught hold of the + figure's right arm, to put on the “police twist”. Unfortunately, at that + exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in the creature's + breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, it lashed out + with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley a thud on the jaw, + and sending him to grass as if he had been shot. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes he “lay as only dead men lie”. Then he got up bit by + bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, and mentioned casually to + his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, and had taken the + sergeant away to drown him. After which, having given orders that anybody + who called was to be told that he had gone fifteen miles out of town to + serve a summons on a man for not registering a dog, he locked himself up + in a cell for the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant tightly + clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river. Something + had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now positively + shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled, the little man yelled + still louder. + </p> + <p> + “Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!” He beat with his + fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail. A short, staggering + rush, a wild shriek from the officer, and they both toppled over the steep + bank and went souse into the depths of Ninemile Creek. + </p> + <p> + That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate returned to town + hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted for murder. Constable + Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police which contained so many + strange statements that the Police department concluded the sergeant must + have got drunk and drowned himself, and that Dooley saw him do it, but was + too drunk to pull him out. + </p> + <p> + Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report of the + occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers. As a matter of fact the + storekeeper did think of writing one, but decided that it was too much + trouble. There was some idea of asking the Government to fish the two + bodies out of the river; but about that time an agitation was started in + Ninemile to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else + mattered. + </p> + <p> + The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand of + whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became a Sub-Inspector of + Police; Sloper entered the Christian ministry; Dodge was elected to the + Federal Parliament; and a vague tradition about “a bloke who came up here + in the horrors, and drownded poor old O'Grady,” is the only memory that + remains of that wonderful creation, the Cast-iron Canvasser. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MERINO SHEEP + </h2> + <p> + People have got the impression that the merino is a gentle, bleating + animal that gets its living without trouble to anybody, and comes up every + year to be shorn with a pleased smile upon its amiable face. It is my + purpose here to exhibit the merino sheep in its true light. + </p> + <p> + First let us give him his due. No one can accuse him of being a ferocious + animal. No one could ever say that a sheep attacked him without + provocation; although there is an old bush story of a man who was + discovered in the act of killing a neighbour's wether. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” said the neighbour, “What's this? Killing my sheep! What have you + got to say for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the man, with an air of virtuous indignation. “I <i>am</i> + killing your sheep. I'll kill <i>any</i> man's sheep that bites <i>me</i>!” + </p> + <p> + But as a rule the merino refrains from using his teeth on people. He goes + to work in another way. + </p> + <p> + The truth is that he is a dangerous monomaniac, and his one idea is to + ruin the man who owns him. With this object in view he will display a + talent for getting into trouble and a genius for dying that are almost + incredible. + </p> + <p> + If a mob of sheep see a bush fire closing round them, do they run away out + of danger? Not at all, they rush round and round in a ring till the fire + burns them up. If they are in a river-bed, with a howling flood coming + down, they will stubbornly refuse to cross three inches of water to save + themselves. Dogs may bark and men may shriek, but the sheep won't move. + They will wait there till the flood comes and drowns them all, and then + their corpses go down the river on their backs with their feet in the air. + </p> + <p> + A mob will crawl along a road slowly enough to exasperate a snail, but let + a lamb get away in a bit of rough country, and a racehorse can't head him + back again. If sheep are put into a big paddock with water in three + corners of it, they will resolutely crowd into the fourth, and die of + thirst. + </p> + <p> + When being counted out at a gate, if a scrap of bark be left on the ground + in the gateway, they will refuse to step over it until dogs and men have + sweated and toiled and sworn and “heeled 'em up”, and “spoke to 'em”, and + fairly jammed them at it. At last one will gather courage, rush at the + fancied obstacle, spring over it about six feet in the air, and dart away. + The next does exactly the same, but jumps a bit higher. Then comes a rush + of them following one another in wild bounds like antelopes, until one + overjumps himself and alights on his head. This frightens those still in + the yard, and they stop running out. + </p> + <p> + Then the dogging and shrieking and hustling and tearing have to be gone + through all over again. (This on a red-hot day, mind you, with clouds of + blinding dust about, the yolk of wool irritating your eyes, and, perhaps, + three or four thousand sheep to put through). The delay throws out the man + who is counting, and he forgets whether he left off at 45 or 95. The dogs, + meanwhile, have taken the first chance to slip over the fence and hide in + the shade somewhere, and then there are loud whistlings and oaths, and + calls for Rover and Bluey. At last a dirt-begrimed man jumps over the + fence, unearths Bluey, and hauls him back by the ear. Bluey sets to work + barking and heeling-'em up again, and pretends that he thoroughly enjoys + it; but all the while he is looking out for another chance to “clear”. And + <i>this</i> time he won't be discovered in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + There is a well-authenticated story of a ship-load of sheep that was lost + because an old ram jumped overboard, and all the rest followed him. No + doubt they did, and were proud to do it. A sheep won't go through an open + gate on his own responsibility, but he would gladly and proudly “follow + the leader” through the red-hot portals of Hades: and it makes no + difference whether the lead goes voluntarily, or is hauled struggling and + kicking and fighting every inch of the way. + </p> + <p> + For pure, sodden stupidity there is no animal like the merino. A lamb will + follow a bullock-dray, drawn by sixteen bullocks and driven by a profane + person with a whip, under the impression that the aggregate monstrosity is + his mother. A ewe never knows her own lamb by sight, and apparently has no + sense of colour. She can recognise its voice half a mile off among a + thousand other voices apparently exactly similar; but when she gets within + five yards of it she starts to smell all the other lambs within reach, + including the black ones—though her own may be white. + </p> + <p> + The fiendish resemblance which one sheep bears to another is a great + advantage to them in their struggles with their owners. It makes it more + difficult to draft them out of a strange flock, and much harder to tell + when any are missing. + </p> + <p> + Concerning this resemblance between sheep, there is a story told of a fat + old Murrumbidgee squatter who gave a big price for a famous ram called Sir + Oliver. He took a friend out one day to inspect Sir Oliver, and overhauled + that animal with a most impressive air of sheep-wisdom. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he said, “at the fineness of the wool. See the serrations in + each thread of it. See the density of it. Look at the way his legs and + belly are clothed—he's wool all over, that sheep. Grand animal, + grand animal!” + </p> + <p> + Then they went and had a drink, and the old squatter said, “Now, I'll show + you the difference between a champion ram and a second-rater.” So he + caught a ram and pointed out his defects. “See here—not half the + serrations that other sheep had. No density of fleece to speak of. + Bare-bellied as a pig, compared with Sir Oliver. Not that this isn't a + fair sheep, but he'd be dear at one-tenth Sir Oliver's price. By the way, + Johnson” (to his overseer), “what ram <i>is</i> this?” + </p> + <p> + “That, sir,” replied the astounded functionary—“that <i>is</i> Sir + Oliver, sir!” + </p> + <p> + There is another kind of sheep in Australia, as great a curse in his own + way as the merino—namely, the cross-bred, or + half-merino-half-Leicester animal. The cross-bred will get through, under, + or over any fence you like to put in front of him. He is never satisfied + with his owner's run, but always thinks other people's runs must be + better, so he sets off to explore. He will strike a course, say, + south-east, and so long as the fit takes him he will keep going south-east + through all obstacles—rivers, fences, growing crops, anything. The + merino relies on passive resistance for his success; the cross-bred + carries the war into the enemy's camp, and becomes a living curse to his + owner day and night. + </p> + <p> + Once there was a man who was induced in a weak moment to buy twenty + cross-bred rams. From that hour the hand of Fate was upon him. They got + into all the paddocks they shouldn't have been in. They scattered + themselves over the run promiscuously. They visited the cultivation + paddock and the vegetable-garden at their own sweet will. And then they + took to roving. In a body they visited the neighbouring stations, and + played havoc with the sheep all over the district. + </p> + <p> + The wretched owner was constantly getting fiery letters from his + neighbours: “Your blanky rams are here. Come and take them away at once,” + and he would have to go nine or ten miles to drive them home. Any man who + has tried to drive rams on a hot day knows what purgatory is. He was + threatened every week with actions for trespass. + </p> + <p> + He tried shutting them up in the sheep-yard. They got out and went back to + the garden. Then he gaoled them in the calf-pen. Out again and into a + growing crop. Then he set a boy to watch them; but the boy went to sleep, + and they were four miles away across country before he got on to their + tracks. + </p> + <p> + At length, when they happened accidentally to be at home on their owner's + run, there came a big flood. His sheep, mostly merinos, had plenty of time + to get on to high ground and save their lives; but, of course, they + didn't, and were almost all drowned. The owner sat on a rise above the + waste of waters and watched the dead animals go by. He was a ruined man. + But he said, “Thank God, those cross-bred rams are drowned, anyhow.” Just + as he spoke there was a splashing in the water, and the twenty rams + solemnly swam ashore and ranged themselves in front of him. They were the + only survivors of his twenty thousand sheep. He broke down, and was taken + to an asylum for insane paupers. The cross-breds had fulfilled their + destiny. + </p> + <p> + The cross-bred drives his owner out of his mind, but the merino ruins his + man with greater celerity. Nothing on earth will kill cross-breds; nothing + will keep merinos alive. If they are put on dry salt-bush country they die + of drought. If they are put on damp, well-watered country they die of + worms, fluke, and foot-rot. They die in the wet seasons and they die in + the dry ones. + </p> + <p> + The hard, resentful look on the faces of all bushmen comes from a long + course of dealing with merino sheep. The merino dominates the bush, and + gives to Australian literature its melancholy tinge, its despairing + pathos. The poems about dying boundary-riders, and lonely graves under + mournful she-oaks, are the direct outcome of the poet's too close + association with that soul-destroying animal. A man who could write + anything cheerful after a day in the drafting-yards would be a freak of + nature. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BULLOCK + </h2> + <p> + The typical Australian bullock—long-horned, sullen-eyed, stupid, and + vindictive—is bred away out in Queensland, on remote stations in the + Never Never land, where men live on damper and beef, and occasionally eat + a whole bottle of hot pickles at a sitting, simply to satisfy their + craving for vegetable food. Here, under the blazing tropic sun, among + flies and dust and loneliness, they struggle with the bullock from year's + end to year's end. It is not to be supposed that they take up this kind of + thing for fun. The man who worked cattle for sport would wheel bricks for + amusement. + </p> + <p> + At periodical intervals a boom in cattle-country arises in the cities, and + syndicates are formed to take up country and stock it. It looks so + beautifully simple—<i>on paper</i>. + </p> + <p> + You get your country, thousands of miles of it, for next to nothing. You + buy your breeding herd for a ridiculously small sum, on long-dated bills. + Your staff consists of a manager, who toils for a share of the profits, a + couple of half-civilized white stockmen at low wages, and a handful of + blacks, who work harder for a little opium ash than they would for much + money. Plant costs nothing, improvements nothing—no woolshed is + needed, there are no shearers to pay, and no carriage to market, for the + bullock walks himself down to his doom. Granted that prices are low, still + it is obvious that there must be huge profits in the business. So the + cattle start away out to “the country”, where they are supposed to + increase and multiply, and enrich their owners. Alas! for such hopes. + There is a curse on cattle. + </p> + <p> + No one has ever been able to explain exactly how the deficit arises. Put + the figures before the oldest and most experienced cattleman, and he will + fail to show why they don't work out right. And yet they never do. It is + not the fault of the cattle themselves. Sheep would rather die than live—and + when one comes to think of the life they lead, one can easily understand + their preference for death; but cattle, if given half a chance, will do + their best to prolong their existence. + </p> + <p> + If they are running on low-lying country and are driven off when a flood + comes, they will probably walk back into the flood-water and get drowned + as soon as their owner turns his back. But, as a rule, cattle are not + suicidal. They sort themselves into mobs, they pick out the best bits of + country, they find their way to the water, they breed habitually; but it + always ends in the same way. The hand of Fate is against them. + </p> + <p> + If a drought comes, they eat off the grass near the water and have to + travel far out for a feed. Then they fall away and get weak, and when they + come down to drink they get bogged in the muddy waterholes and die there. + </p> + <p> + Or Providence sends the pleuro, and big strong beasts slink away by + themselves, and stand under trees glaring savagely till death comes. Or + else the tick attacks them, and soon a fine, strong beast becomes a + miserable, shrunken, tottering wreck. Once cattle get really low in + condition they are done for. Sheep can be shifted when their pasture + fails, but you can't shift cattle. They die quicker on the roads than on + the run. The only thing is to watch and pray for rain. It always comes—after + the cattle are dead. + </p> + <p> + As for describing the animals themselves, it would take volumes. Sheep are + all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road get to + know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock—the + one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, the inquisitive + bullock that is always walking over towards the drover as if he were going + to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always trying to get up a + stampede and prodding the others with his horns. + </p> + <p> + In poor Boake's “Where the Dead Men Lie” he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Only the hand of Night can free them— + That's when the dead men fly! + Only the frightened cattle see them— + See the dead men go by! + Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, + Bidding the stockman know no leisure— + That's when the dead men take their pleasure! + That's when the dead men fly! +</pre> + <p> + Cattle on a camp see ghosts, sure enough—else, why is it that, when + hundreds are in camp at night—some standing, some lying asleep, all + facing different ways—in an instant, at some invisible cause of + alarm, the whole mob are on their feet and all racing <i>in the same + direction</i>, away from some unseen terror? + </p> + <p> + It doesn't do to sneak round cattle at night; it is better to whistle and + sing than to surprise them by a noiseless appearance. Anyone sneaking + about frightens them, and then they will charge right over the top of + somebody on the opposite side, and away into the darkness, becoming more + and more frightened as they go, smashing against trees and stumps, + breaking legs and ribs, and playing the dickens with themselves generally. + Cattle “on the road” are unaccountable animals; one cannot say for certain + what they will do. In this respect they differ from sheep, whose movements + can be predicted with absolute certainty. + </p> + <p> + All the cussedness of the bovine race is centred in the cow. In Australia + the most opprobious epithet one can apply to a man or other object is + “cow”. In the whole range of a bullock-driver's vocabulary there is no + word that expresses his blistering scorn so well as “cow”. To an + exaggerated feminine perversity the cow adds a fiendish ingenuity in + making trouble. + </p> + <p> + A quiet milking-cow will “plant” her calf with such skill that ten + stockmen cannot find him in a one-mile paddock. While the search goes on + she grazes unconcernedly, as if she never had a calf in her life. If by + chance he be discovered, then one notices a curious thing. The very + youngest calf, the merest staggering-Bob two days old, will not move till + the old lady gives him orders to do so. One may pull him about without + getting a move out of him. If sufficiently persecuted he will at last sing + out for help, and then his mother will arrive full-gallop, charge men and + horses indiscriminately, and clear out with him to the thickest timber in + the most rugged part of the creek-bed, defying man to get her to the yard. + </p> + <p> + While in his mother's company he seconds her efforts with great judgment. + But, if he be separated from her, he will follow a horse and rider up to + the yard thinking he is following his mother, though she bellow + instructions to him from the rear. Then the guileless agriculturist, + having penned him up, sets a dog on him, and his cries soon fetch the old + cow full-run to his assistance. Once in the yard she is roped, hauled into + the bail, propped up to prevent her throwing herself down, and milked by + sheer brute-force. After a while she steadies down and will walk into the + bail, knowing her turn and behaving like a respectable female. + </p> + <p> + Cows and calves have no idea of sound or distance. If a cow is on the + opposite side of the fence, and wishes to communicate with her calf, she + will put her head through the fence, place her mouth against his ear as if + she were going to whisper, and then utter a roar that can be heard two + miles off. It would stun a human being; but the calf thinks it over for a + moment, and then answers with a prolonged yell in the old cow's ear. So + the dialogue goes on for hours without either party dropping dead. + </p> + <p> + There is an element of danger in dealing with cattle that makes men smart + and self-reliant and independent. Men who deal with sheep get gloomy and + morbid, and are for ever going on strike. Nobody ever heard of a + stockman's strike. The true stockrider thinks himself just as good a man + as his boss, and inasmuch as “the boss” never makes any money, while the + stockman gets his wages, the stockman may be considered as having the + better position of the two. + </p> + <p> + Sheepmen like to think that they know all about cattle, and could work + them if they chose. A Queensland drover once took a big mob from the Gulf + right down through New South Wales, selling various lots as he went. He + had to deliver some to a small sheep-man, near Braidwood, who was buying a + few hundred cattle as a spec. By the time they arrived, the cattle had + been on the road eight months, and were quiet as milkers. But the + sheep-man and his satellites came out, riding stable-fed horses and + brandishing twenty-foot whips, all determined to sell their lives dearly. + They galloped round the astonished cattle and spurred their horses and + cracked their whips, till they roused the weary mob. Then they started to + cut out the beasts they wanted. The horses rushed and pulled, and the + whips maddened the cattle, and all was turmoil and confusion. + </p> + <p> + The Queensland drovers looked on amazed, sitting their patient leg-weary + horses they had ridden almost continuously for eight months. At last, + seeing the hash the sheep-men were making of it, the drovers set to work, + and in a little while, without a shout, or crack of a whip, had cut out + the required number. These the head drover delivered to the buyer, simply + remarking, “Many's the time <i>you</i> never cut-out cattle.” + </p> + <p> + As I write, there rises a vision of a cattle-camp on an open plain, the + blue sky overhead, the long grass rustling below, the great mob of + parti-coloured cattle eddying restlessly about, thrusting at each other + with their horns; and in among the sullen half-savage animals go the + light, wiry stock-riders, horse and man working together, watchful, quick, + and resolute. + </p> + <p> + A white steer is wanted that is right in the throng. Way!—make way! + and horse and rider edge into the restless sea of cattle, the man with his + eye fixed on the selected animal, the horse, glancing eagerly about him, + trying to discover which is the wanted one. The press divides and the + white steer scuttles along the edge of the mob trying to force his way in + again. Suddenly he and two or three others are momentarily eddied out to + the outskirts of the mob, and in that second the stockman dashes his horse + between them and the main body. The lumbering beasts rush hither and + thither in a vain attempt to return to their comrades. Those not wanted + are allowed to return, but the white steer finds, to his dismay, that + wherever he turns that horse and man and dreaded whip are confronting him. + He doubles and dodges and makes feints to charge, but the horse + anticipates every movement and wheels quicker than the bullock. At last + the white steer sees the outlying mob he is required to join, and trots + off to them quite happy, while horse and rider return to cut out another. + </p> + <p> + It is a pretty exhibition of skill and intelligence, doubly pleasant to + watch because of the undoubted interest that the horses take in it. Big, + stupid creatures that they are, cursed with highly-strung nerves, and + blessed with little sense, they are pathetically anxious to do such work + as they can understand. So they go into the cutting-out camp with a zest, + and toil all day edging lumbering bullocks out of the mob, but as soon as + a bad rider gets on them and begins to haul their mouths about, their + nerves overcome them, and they get awkward and frightened. A horse that is + a crack camp-horse in one man's hands may be a hopeless brute in the hands + of another. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHITE-WHEN-HE'S-WANTED + </h2> + <p> + Buckalong was a big freehold of some 80,000 acres, belonging to an + absentee syndicate, and therefore run in most niggardly style. There was a + manager on 200 pounds a year, Sandy M'Gregor to wit—a hard-headed + old Scotchman known as “four-eyed M'Gregor”, because he wore spectacles. + For assistants, he had half-a-dozen of us—jackaroos and + colonial-experiencers—who got nothing a year, and earned it. + </p> + <p> + We had, in most instances, paid premiums to learn the noble art of + squatting—which now appears to me hardly worth studying, for so much + depends on luck that a man with a head as long as a horse's has little + better chance than the fool just imported. Besides the manager and the + jackaroos, there were a few boundary riders to prowl round the fences of + the vast paddocks. This constituted the whole station staff. + </p> + <p> + Buckalong was on one of the main routes by which stock were taken to + market, or from the plains to the tablelands, and vice versa. Great mobs + of travelling sheep constantly passed through the run, eating up the grass + and vexing the soul of the manager. By law, sheep must travel six miles + per day, and they must be kept to within half-a-mile of the road. Of + course we kept all the grass near the road eaten bare, to discourage + travellers from coming that way. + </p> + <p> + Such hapless wretches as did venture through Buckalong used to try hard to + stray from the road and pick up a feed, but old Sandy was always ready for + them, and would have them dogged right through the run. This bred feuds, + and bad language, and personal combats between us and the drovers, whom we + looked upon as natural enemies. + </p> + <p> + The men who came through with mobs of cattle used to pull down the paddock + fences at night, and slip the cattle in for refreshments, but old Sandy + often turned out at 2 or 3 a.m. to catch a mob of bullocks in the + horse-paddock, and then off they went to Buckalong pound. The drovers, as + in duty bound, attributed the trespass to accident—broken rails, and + so on—and sometimes they tried to rescue the cattle, which again + bred strife and police-court summonses. + </p> + <p> + Besides having a particular aversion to drovers, old M'Gregor had a + general “down” on the young Australians whom he comprehensively described + as a “feckless, horrse-dealin', horrse-stealin', crawlin' lot o' + wretches.” According to him, a native-born would sooner work a horse to + death than work for a living any day. He hated any man who wanted to sell + him a horse. + </p> + <p> + “As aw walk the street,” he used to say, “the fouk disna stawp me to buy + claes nor shoon, an' wheerfore should they stawp me to buy horrses? It's + 'Mister M'Gregor, will ye purrchase a horrse?' Let them wait till I ask + them to come wi' their horrses.” + </p> + <p> + Such being his views on horseflesh and drovers, we felt no little + excitement when one Sunday, at dinner, the cook came in to say there was + “a drover-chap outside wanted the boss to come and have a look at a + horse.” M'Gregor simmered a while, and muttered something about the + “Sawbath day”; but at last he went out, and we filed after him to see the + fun. + </p> + <p> + The drover stood by the side of his horse, beneath the acacia trees in the + yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result of collision + with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed poverty-stricken enough + to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down on his luck. Had it not been + for that indefinable self-reliant look which drovers—the Ishmaels of + the bush—always acquire, one might have taken him for a swagman. His + horse was in much the same plight. It was a ragged, unkempt pony, + pitifully poor and very footsore, at first sight, an absolute “moke”; but + a second glance showed colossal round ribs, square hips, and a great + length of rein, the rest hidden beneath a wealth of loose hair. He looked + like “a good journey horse”, possibly something better. + </p> + <p> + We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover. The man was + monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are. It is only + the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech. + </p> + <p> + “Guid mornin',” said M'Gregor. + </p> + <p> + “Mornin', boss,” said the drover, shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike + don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs, and + opened the passive creature's mouth. “H'm,” he said. Then he turned to the + drover. “Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. Ye're thin like. What's been the + matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Been sick with fever—Queensland fever. Just come through from the + North. Been out on the Diamantina last.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay. I was there mysel',” said M'Gregor. “Hae ye the fever on ye still?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—goin' home to get rid of it.” + </p> + <p> + A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he can + carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his strength + and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, the malady moves + with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at regular intervals to + rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually it wears itself out, + often wearing its patient out at the same time. M'Gregor had been through + the experience, and there was a slight change in his voice as he went on + with his palaver. + </p> + <p> + “Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?” + </p> + <p> + “Monaro—my people live in Monaro.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?” + </p> + <p> + “Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin',” said the drover, while a + wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. “I've rode him far + enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. I wouldn't sell him, only + I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now to get the money to go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoo auld is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a guid horrse on a camp?” asked M'Gregor. + </p> + <p> + “No better camp-horse in Queensland,” said the drover. “You can chuck the + reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself.” + </p> + <p> + M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time crawling + after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us as + side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow off the + place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took so much + interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover and the old camp-horse + appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us. We had never been on the + Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered with the fever, nor lived + the roving life of the overlanders. M'Gregor had done all this, and his + heart (I can see it all now) went out to the man who brought the old days + back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, weel,” he said, “we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here, ye ken; + wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han' cuttin' oot the + milkers' cawves frae their mithers.” And the old man laughed + contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man from far + back. “An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?” asked M'Gregor. + </p> + <p> + “Reckon he's worth fifteen notes,” said the drover. + </p> + <p> + This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between thirty + shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations would close abruptly; + but M'Gregor, after a little more examination, agreed to give the price, + provided the saddle and bridle, both grand specimens of ancient art, were + given in. This was agreed to, and the drover was sent off to get his meals + in the hut before leaving by the coach. + </p> + <p> + “The mon is verra harrd up, an' it's a sair thing that Queensland fever,” + was the only remark M'Gregor made. But we knew now that there was a soft + spot in his heart somewhere. + </p> + <p> + Next morning the drover got a crisp-looking cheque. He said no word while + the cheque was being written, but, as he was going away, the horse + happened to be in the yard, and he went over to the old comrade that had + carried him so many miles, and laid a hand on his neck. + </p> + <p> + “He ain't much to look at,” said the drover, speaking slowly and + awkwardly, “but he's white when he's wanted.” And just before the coach + rattled off, the man of few words leant down from the box and nodded + impressively, and repeated, “Yes, he's white when he's wanted.” + </p> + <p> + We didn't trouble to give the new horse a name. Station horses are + generally called after the man from whom they are bought. “Tom Devine”, + “The Regan mare”, “Black M'Carthy” and “Bay M'Carthy” were among the + appellations of our horses at that time. As we didn't know the drover's + name, we simply called the animal “The new horse” until a still newer + horse was one day acquired. Then, one of the hands being told to take the + new horse, said, “D'yer mean the <i>new</i> new horse or the <i>old</i> + new horse?” + </p> + <p> + “Naw,” said the boss, “not the new horrse—that bay horrse we bought + frae the drover. The ane he said was white when he's wanted.” + </p> + <p> + And so, by degrees, the animal came to be referred to as the horse that's + white when he's wanted, and at last settled down to the definite name of + “White-when-he's-wanted”. + </p> + <p> + White-when-he's-wanted didn't seem much of an acquisition. He was sent out + to do slavery for Greenhide Billy, a boundary-rider who plumed himself on + having once been a cattle-man. After a week's experience of “White”, Billy + came in to the homestead disgusted. The pony was so lazy that he had to + build a fire under him to get him to move, and so rough that it made a + man's nose bleed to ride him more than a mile. “The boss must have been + off his head to give fifteen notes for such a cow.” + </p> + <p> + M'Gregor heard this complaint. “Verra weel, Mr. Billy,” said he, hotly, + “ye can juist tak' ane of the young horrses in yon paddock, an' if he + bucks wi' ye an' kills ye, it's yer ain fault. Ye're a cattleman—so + ye say—dommed if ah believe it. Ah believe ye're a dairy-farmin' + body frae Illawarra. Ye ken neither horrse nor cattle. Mony's the time ye + never rode buckjumpers, Mr. Billy”—and with this parting-shot the + old man turned into the house, and White-when-he's-wanted came back to the + head station. + </p> + <p> + For a while he was a sort of pariah. He used to yard the horses, fetch up + the cows, and hunt travelling sheep through the run. He really was lazy + and rough, and we all decided that Billy's opinion of him was correct, + until the day came to make one of our periodical raids on the wild horses + in the hills at the back of the run. + </p> + <p> + Every now and again we formed parties to run in some of these animals, + and, after nearly galloping to death half-a-dozen good horses, we would + capture three or four brumbies, and bring them in triumph to the homestead + to be broken in. By the time they had thrown half the crack riders on the + station, broken all the bridles, rolled on all the saddles, and kicked all + the dogs, they would be marketable (and no great bargains) at about thirty + shillings a head. + </p> + <p> + Yet there is no sport in the world to be mentioned in the same volume as + “running horses”, and we were very keen on it. All the crack nags were got + as fit as possible, and fed up beforehand; and on this particular occasion + White-when-he's-wanted, being in good trim, was given a week's hard feed + and lent to a harum-scarum fellow from the Upper Murray, who happened to + be working in a survey camp on the run. How he did open our eyes! + </p> + <p> + He ran the mob from hill to hill, from range to range, across open country + and back again to the hills, over flats and gullies, through hop-scrub and + stringybark ridges; and all the time White-when-he's-wanted was on the + wing of the mob, pulling double. The mares and foals dropped out, the + colts and young stock pulled up dead beat, and only the seasoned veterans + were left. Most of our horses caved in altogether; one or two were kept in + the hunt by judicious nursing and shirking the work; but + White-when-he's-wanted was with the quarry from end to end of the run, + doing double his share; and at the finish, when a chance offered to wheel + them into the trapyard, he simply smothered them for pace, and slewed them + into the wings before they knew where they were. Such a capture had not + fallen to our lot for many a day, and the fame of White-when-he's-wanted + was speedily noised abroad. + </p> + <p> + He was always fit for work, always hungry, always ready to lie down and + roll, and always lazy. But when he heard the rush of the brumbies' feet in + the scrub he became frantic with excitement. He could race over the + roughest ground without misplacing a hoof or altering his stride, and he + could sail over fallen timber and across gullies like a kangaroo. Nearly + every Sunday we were after the brumbies, until they got as lean as + greyhounds and as cunning as policemen. We were always ready to back + White-when-he's-wanted to run-down, single-handed, any animal in the bush + that we liked to put him after—wild horses, wild cattle, kangaroos, + emus, dingoes, kangaroo-rats—we barred nothing, for, if he couldn't + beat them for pace, he would outlast them. + </p> + <p> + And then one day he disappeared from the paddock, and we never saw him + again. We knew there were plenty of men in the district who would steal + him; but, as we knew also of many more who would “inform” for a pound or + two, we were sure that it could not have been local “talent” that had + taken him. We offered good rewards and set some of the right sort to work, + but heard nothing of him for about a year. + </p> + <p> + Then the surveyor's assistant turned up again, after a trip to the + interior. He told us the usual string of back-block lies, and wound up by + saying that out on the very fringe of settlement he had met an old + acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “Who was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that little bay horse that I rode after the brumbies that time. The + one you called White-when-he's-wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce you did! Are you sure? Who had him?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure! I'd swear to him anywhere. A little drover fellow had him. A little + fellow, with a big scar across his forehead. Came from Monaro way + somewhere. He said he bought the horse from you for fifteen notes.” + </p> + <p> + The King's warrant doesn't run much out west of Boulia, and it is not + likely that any of us will ever see the drover again, or will ever again + cross the back of “White-when-he's-wanted”. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOWNFALL OF MULLIGAN'S + </h2> + <p> + The sporting men of Mulligan's were an exceedingly knowing lot; in fact, + they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours of being a little bit + too knowing. They had “taken down” the adjoining town in a variety of + ways. They were always winning maiden plates with horses which were + shrewdly suspected to be old and well-tried performers in disguise. + </p> + <p> + When the sports of Paddy's Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the shape + of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent + immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfellow of their own, and + they made a match and won all the Paddy's Flat money with ridiculous ease; + then their blackfellow turned out to be a well-known Sydney performer. + They had a man who could fight, a man who could be backed to jump + five-feet-ten, a man who could kill eight pigeons out of nine at thirty + yards, a man who could make a break of fifty or so at billiards if he + tried; they could all drink, and they all had that indefinite look of + infinite wisdom and conscious superiority which belongs only to those who + know something about horseflesh. + </p> + <p> + They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday-school. They were + experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble to work off + any small swindle in the sporting line. In short the general consensus of + opinion was that they were a very “fly” crowd at Mulligan's, and if you + went there you wanted to “keep your eyes skinned” or they'd “have” you + over a threepenny-bit. + </p> + <p> + There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of the + Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high feather, + having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at pigeon-shooting, + by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into his gun when he + wasn't looking, and then backing the bird. + </p> + <p> + They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, and admirers who + came to see them off only asked them as a favour to leave money enough in + Sydney to make it worth while for another detachment to go down later on. + Just as the train was departing a priest came running on to the platform, + and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan friends were; the + door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence was hot and + perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a handkerchief, + while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the train. + </p> + <p> + After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards and + proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter in the + carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, and + the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities if they + did not try to “get a bit to go on with” from him. He agreed to play, and, + just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest whether he would take + a hand. + </p> + <p> + “What game d'ye play?” he asked, in a melodious brogue. + </p> + <p> + They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, but they + thought it right to add that they generally played for money. + </p> + <p> + “Sure an' it don't matter for wanst in a way,” said he—“Oi'll take a + hand bedad—Oi'm only going about fifty miles, so Oi can't lose a + fortune.” + </p> + <p> + They lifted a light portmanteau on to their knees to make a table, and + five of them—three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers—started + to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy for the Mulligan boys, + who chuckled as they thought how soon they were making a beginning, and + what a magnificent yarn they would have to tell about how they rooked a + priest on the way down. + </p> + <p> + Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest + began to ask questions. + </p> + <p> + “Be ye going to the races?” + </p> + <p> + They said they were. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! and Oi suppose ye'll be betting wid thim bookmakers—betting on + the horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, thim bookmakers, + they tell me. I wouldn't bet much if Oi was ye,” he said, with an affable + smile. “If ye go bettin' ye will be took in wid thim bookmakers.” + </p> + <p> + The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time they + parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able to look after + themselves. They went steadily on with the game, and the priest and the + young squatter won slightly; this was part of the plan to lead them on to + plunge. They neared the station where the priest was to get out. He had + won rather more than they liked, so the signal was passed round to “put + the cross on”. Poker is a game at which a man need not risk much unless he + feels inclined, and on this deal the priest stood out. Consequently, when + they drew up at his station he was still a few pounds in. + </p> + <p> + “Bedad,” he said, “Oi don't loike goin' away wid yer money. Oi'll go on to + the next station so as ye can have revinge.” Then he sat down again, and + play went on in earnest. + </p> + <p> + The man of religion seemed to have the Devil's own luck. When he was dealt + a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one he would + not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious as they saw him + getting further and further ahead of them, prattling away all the time + like a big schoolboy. The squatter was the biggest loser so far, but the + priest was the only winner. All the others were out of pocket. His + reverence played with great dash, and seemed to know a lot about the game, + so that on arrival at the second station he was a good round sum in + pocket. + </p> + <p> + He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly + promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage door, + one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage-whisper: “He's a blanky + sink-pocket. If he can come this far, let him come on to Sydney and play + for double the stakes.” Like a shot the priest turned on him. + </p> + <p> + “Bedad, an' if <i>that's</i> yer talk, Oi'll play ye fer double stakes + from here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice because + they eat cheese? It isn't one of the Ryans would be fearing to give any + man his revinge!” + </p> + <p> + He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. The others + felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play in a dead silence. + But the priest kept on winning steadily, and the “old man” of the Mulligan + push saw that something decisive must be done, and decided on a big plunge + to get all the money back on one hand. By a dexterous manipulation of the + cards he dealt himself four kings, almost the best hand at poker. Then he + began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, raising the stake little + by little. + </p> + <p> + “Sure ye're trying to bluff, so ye are!” said the priest, and immediately + raised it. + </p> + <p> + The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest + the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful certainty + that the “old man” had made things safe, and regarded themselves as + mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation. The priest went on + doggedly raising the stake in response to his antagonist's challenges + until it had attained huge dimensions. + </p> + <p> + “Sure that's high enough,” said he, putting into the pool sufficient to + entitle him to see his opponent's hand. + </p> + <p> + The “old man” with great gravity laid down his four kings, whereat the + Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them. + </p> + <p> + Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool. + </p> + <p> + The sportsmen of Mulligan's never quite knew how they got out to Randwick. + They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves in the + saddling-paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realize what had + happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end of the lawn + near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, small + bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, plying their + trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one that sounded + familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, and they knew that it was + the voice of “Father” Ryan. They walked to the fence and looked over. This + is what he was saying:— + </p> + <p> + “Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don't put down a brick you can't + pick up a castle! I'll bet no one here can pick the knave of hearts out of + these three cards. I'll bet half-a-sovereign no one here can find the + knave!” + </p> + <p> + Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening they could see him + distinctly, doing a great business and showing wonderful dexterity with + the pasteboard. + </p> + <p> + There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worth while for another + detachment to come down from Mulligan's; but the next lot will hesitate + about playing poker with priests in the train. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AMATEUR GARDENER + </h2> + <p> + The first step in amateur gardening is to sit down and consider what good + you are going to get by it. If you are only a tenant by the month, as most + people are, it is obviously not of much use for you to plant a fruit + orchard or an avenue of oak trees. What you want is something that will + grow quickly, and will stand transplanting, for when you move it would be + a sin to leave behind you the plants on which you have spent so much + labour and so much patent manure. + </p> + <p> + We knew a man once who was a bookmaker by trade—and a Leger + bookmaker at that—but had a passion for horses and flowers. When he + “had a big win”, as he occasionally did, it was his custom to have movable + wooden stables, built on skids, put up in the yard, and to have tons of + the best soil that money could buy carted into the garden of the premises + which he was occupying. + </p> + <p> + Then he would keep splendid horses, and grow rare roses and show-bench + chrysanthemums. His landlord passing by would see the garden in a blaze of + colour, and promise himself to raise the bookmaker's rent next quarter + day. + </p> + <p> + However, when the bookmaker “took the knock”, as he invariably did at + least twice a year, it was his pleasing custom to move without giving + notice. He would hitch two cart-horses to the stables, and haul them right + away at night. He would not only dig up the roses, trees, and + chrysanthemums he had planted, but would also cart away the soil he had + brought in; in fact, he used to shift the garden bodily. He had one garden + that he shifted to nearly every suburb in Sydney; and he always argued + that the change of air was invaluable for chrysanthemums. + </p> + <p> + Being determined, then, to go in for gardening on common-sense principles, + and having decided on the shrubs you mean to grow, the next consideration + is your chance of growing them. + </p> + <p> + If your neighbour keeps game fowls, it may be taken for granted that + before long they will pay you a visit, and you will see the rooster + scratching your pot plants out by the roots as if they were so much straw, + just to make a nice place to lie down and fluff the dust over himself. + Goats will also stray in from the street, and bite the young shoots off, + selecting the most valuable plants with a discrimination that would do + credit to a professional gardener. + </p> + <p> + It is therefore useless to think of growing delicate or squeamish plants. + Most amateur gardeners maintain a lifelong struggle against the devices of + Nature; but when the forces of man and the forces of Nature come into + conflict Nature wins every time. Nature has decreed that certain plants + shall be hardy, and therefore suitable to suburban amateur gardeners; the + suburban amateur gardener persists in trying to grow quite other plants, + and in despising those marked out by Nature for his use. It is to correct + this tendency that this article is written. + </p> + <p> + The greatest standby to the amateur gardener should undoubtedly be the + blue-flowered shrub known as “plumbago”. This homely but hardy plant will + grow anywhere. It naturally prefers a good soil, and a sufficient + rainfall, but if need be it will worry along without either. Fowls cannot + scratch it up, and even the goat turns away dismayed from its + hard-featured branches. The flower is not strikingly beautiful nor + ravishingly scented, but it flowers nine months out of the year; smothered + with street dust and scorched by the summer sun, you will find that + faithful old plumbago plugging along undismayed. A plant like this should + be encouraged—but the misguided amateur gardener as a rule despises + it. + </p> + <p> + The plant known as the churchyard geranium is also one marked out by + Providence for the amateur; so is Cosmea, which comes up year after year + where once planted. In creepers, bignonia and lantana will hold their own + under difficulties perhaps as well as any that can be found. In trees the + Port Jackson fig is a patriotic one to grow. It is a fine plant to provide + exercise, as it sheds its leaves unsparingly, and requires the whole + garden to be swept up every day. + </p> + <p> + Your aim as a student of Nature should be to encourage the survival of the + fittest. There is a grass called nut grass, and another called Parramatta + grass, either of which holds its own against anything living or dead. The + average gardening manual gives you recipes for destroying these. Why + should you destroy them in favour of a sickly plant that needs constant + attention? No. The Parramatta grass is the selected of Nature, and who are + you to interfere with Nature? + </p> + <p> + Having decided to go in for strong, simple plants that will hold their + own, and a bit over, you must get your implements of husbandry. + </p> + <p> + The spade is the first thing, but the average ironmonger will show you an + unwieldy weapon only meant to be used by navvies. Don't buy it. Get a + small spade, about half-size—it is nice and light and doesn't tire + the wrist, and with it you can make a good display of enthusiasm, and earn + the hypocritical admiration of your wife. After digging for half-an-hour + or so, get her to rub your back with any of the backache cures. From that + moment you will have no further need for the spade. + </p> + <p> + A barrow is about the only other thing needed; anyhow, it is almost a + necessity for wheeling cases of whisky up to the house. A rake is useful + when your terrier dog has bailed up a cat, and will not attack it until + the cat is made to run. + </p> + <p> + Talking of terrier dogs, an acquaintance of ours has a dog that does all + his gardening. The dog is a small elderly terrier with a failing memory. + As soon as the terrier has planted a bone in the garden the owner slips + over, digs it up and takes it away. When that terrier goes back and finds + the bone gone, he distrusts his memory, and begins to think that perhaps + he has made a mistake, and has dug in the wrong place; so he sets to work, + and digs patiently all over the garden, turning over acres of soil in the + course of his search. This saves his master a lot of backache. + </p> + <p> + The sensible amateur gardener, then, will not attempt to fight with Nature + but will fall in with her views. What more pleasant than to get out of bed + at 11.30 on a Sunday morning; to look out of your window at a lawn waving + with the feathery plumes of Parramatta grass, and to see beyond it the + churchyard geranium flourishing side by side with the plumbago and the + Port Jackson fig? + </p> + <p> + The garden gate blows open, and the local commando of goats, headed by an + aged and fragrant patriarch, locally known as De Wet, rushes in; but their + teeth will barely bite through the wiry stalks of the Parramatta grass, + and the plumbago and the figtree fail to attract them, and before long + they stand on one another's shoulders, scale the fence, and disappear into + the next-door garden, where a fanatic is trying to grow show roses. + </p> + <p> + After the last goat has scaled your neighbour's fence, and only De Wet is + left, your little dog discovers him. De Wet beats a hurried retreat, + apparently at full speed, with the dog exactly one foot behind him in + frantic pursuit. We say apparently at full speed, because experience has + taught that De Wet can run as fast as a greyhound when he likes; but he + never exerts himself to go faster than is necessary to keep just in front + of whatever dog is after him. + </p> + <p> + Hearing the scrimmage, your neighbour comes on to his verandah, and sees + the chase going down the street. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! that wretched old De Wet again!” he says. “Small hope your dog has of + catching him! Why don't you get a garden gate like mine, so that he won't + get in?” + </p> + <p> + “No; he can't get in at your gate,” is the reply; “but I think his + commando are in your back garden now.” + </p> + <p> + Then follows a frantic rush. Your neighbour falls downstairs in his haste, + and the commando, after stopping to bite some priceless pot plants of your + neighbour's as they come out, skips easily back over the fence and through + your gate into the street again. + </p> + <p> + If a horse gets in his hoofs make no impression on the firm turf of the + Parramatta grass, and you get quite a hearty laugh by dropping a chair on + him from the first-floor window. + </p> + <p> + The game fowls of your other neighbour come fluttering into your garden, + and scratch and chuckle and fluff themselves under your plumbago bush; but + you don't worry. Why should you? They can't hurt it; and, besides, you + know that the small black hen and the big yellow one, who have disappeared + from the throng, are even now laying their daily egg for you behind the + thickest bush. + </p> + <p> + Your little dog rushes frantically up and down the front bed of your + garden, barking and racing, and tearing up the ground, because his rival + little dog, who lives down the street, is going past with his master, and + each pretends that he wants to be at the other—as they have + pretended every day for the past three years. The performance he is going + through doesn't disturb you. Why should it? By following the directions in + this article you have selected plants he cannot hurt. + </p> + <p> + After breakfasting at noon, you stroll out, and, perhaps, smooth with your + foot, or with your spade, the inequalities made by the hens; you gather up + casually the eggs they have laid; you whistle to your little dog, and go + out for a stroll with a light heart. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THIRSTY ISLAND + </h2> + <p> + Travellers approaching a bush township are sure to find some distance from + the town a lonely public-house waiting by the roadside to give them + welcome. Thirsty (miscalled Thursday) Island is the outlying pub of + Australia. + </p> + <p> + When the China and British-India steamers arrive from the North the first + place they come to is Thirsty Island, the sentinel at the gate of Torres + Straits. New chums on the steamers see a fleet of white-sailed pearling + luggers, a long pier clustered with a hybrid crowd of every colour, caste + and creed under Heaven, and at the back of it all a little galvanized-iron + town shining in the sun. + </p> + <p> + For nine months of the year a crisp, cool south-east wind blows, the + snow-white beach is splashed with spray and dotted with the picturesque + figures of Japanese divers and South Sea Island boatmen. Coco-nut palms + line the roads by the beach, and back of the town are the barracks and a + fort nestling among the trees on the hillside. Thirsty Island is a nice + place—to look at. + </p> + <p> + When a vessel makes fast the Thirsty Islanders come down to greet the + new-comers and give them welcome to Australia. The new-chums are inclined + to patronise these simple, outlying people. Fresh from the iniquities of + the China-coast cocktail and the unhallowed orgies of the Sourabaya Club, + new-chums think they have little to learn in the way of drink; at any + rate, they haven't come all the way to Thursday Island to be taught + anything. Poor new-chums! Little do they know the kind of people they are + up against. + </p> + <p> + The following description of a night at Thursday Island is taken from a + new-chum's note book: + </p> + <p> + “Passed Proudfoot shoal and arrived at Thursday Island. First sight of + Australia. Lot of men came aboard, all called Captain. They are all + pearl-fishers or pilots, not a bit like the bushmen I expected. When they + came aboard they divided into parties. Some invaded the Captain's cabin; + others sat in the smoking room; the rest crowded into the saloon. They + talked to the passengers about the Boer War, and told us about pearls + worth 1000 pounds that had been found lately. + </p> + <p> + “One captain pulled a handful of loose pearls out of a jar and handed them + round in a casual way for us to look at. The stewards opened bottles and + we all sat down for a drink and a smoke. I spoke to one captain—an + oldish man—and he grinned amiably, but did not answer. Another + captain leaned over to me and said, 'Don't take any notice of him, he's + boozed all this week.' + </p> + <p> + “Conversation and drink became general. The night was very hot and close, + and some of the passengers seemed to be taking more than was good for + them. A contagious thirst spread round the ship, and before long the + stewards and firemen were at it. The saloon became an inferno of drink and + sweat and tobacco smoke. Perfect strangers were talking to each other at + the top of their voices. + </p> + <p> + “Young MacTavish, who is in a crack English regiment, asked the captain of + a pearling lugger whether he didn't know Talbot de Cholmondeley in the + Blues. + </p> + <p> + “The pearler said very likely he had met 'em, and no doubt he'd remember + their faces if he saw them, but he never could remember names. + </p> + <p> + “Another passenger—a Jew—was trying to buy some pearls cheap + from the captains, but the more the captains drank the less anxious they + became to talk about pearls. + </p> + <p> + “The night wore on, and still the drinks circulated. Young MacTavish slept + profoundly. + </p> + <p> + “One passenger gave his steward a sovereign as he was leaving the ship, + and in half an hour the steward was carried to his berth in a fit—alcoholic + in its origin. Another steward was observed openly drinking the + passengers' whisky. When accused, he didn't even attempt to defend + himself; the great Thursday Island thirst seemed to have communicated + itself to everyone on board, and he simply <i>had</i> to drink. + </p> + <p> + “About three in the morning a tour of the ship disclosed the following + state of affairs: Captain's room full of captains solemnly tight; + smoking-room empty, except for the inanimate form of the captain who had + been boozed all the week, and was now sleeping peacefully with his feet on + the sofa and his head on the floor. The saloon was full of captains and + passengers—the latter mostly in a state of collapse or laughing and + singing deliriously; the rails lined with firemen who had business over + the side; stewards ditto. + </p> + <p> + “At last the Thursday Islanders departed, unsteadily, but still on their + feet, leaving a demoralized ship behind them. And young MacTavish, who has + seen a thing or two in his brief span, staggered to his berth, saying, 'My + God! Is <i>all</i> Australia like this place?'” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + When no ships arrive, the Islanders just drop into the pubs, as a matter + of routine, for their usual evening soak. They drink weird compounds—horehound + beer, known as “lady dog”, and things like that. About two in the morning + they go home speechless, but still able to travel. It is very rarely that + an Islander gets helplessly drunk, but strangers generally have to be put + to bed. + </p> + <p> + The Japanese on the island are a strong faction. They have a club of their + own, and once gave a dinner to mark the death of one of their members. He + was shrewdly suspected of having tried to drown another member by cutting + his airpipe, so, when he died, the club celebrated the event. The Japanese + are not looked upon with favor by the white islanders. They send their + money to Japan—thousands of pounds a year go through the little + office in money-orders—and so they are not “good for trade”. + </p> + <p> + The Manilamen and Kanakas and Torres Strait islanders, on the other hand, + bring all the money they do not spend on the pearling schooner to the + island, and “blow it in”, like men. They knife each other sometimes, and + now and again have to be run in wholesale, but they are “good for trade”. + The local lock-up has a record of eighteen drunks run in in seven minutes. + They weren't taken along in carriages-and-four, either; they were mostly + dragged along by the scruff of the neck. + </p> + <p> + Billy Malkeela, the South Sea diver, summed up the Japanese question—“Seems + to me dis Islan' soon b'long Japanee altogedder. One time pa-lenty + rickatta (plenty regatta), all same Isle of Wight. Now no more rickatta. + All money go Japan!” + </p> + <p> + An English new-chum made his appearance there lately—a most + undefeated sportsman. He was put down in a diving dress in about eight + feet of water, where he bubbled and struggled about in great style. + Suddenly he turned, rushed for the beach, and made for the foot of a tree, + which he tried to climb under the impression that he was still at the + bottom of the ocean. Then he was hauled in by the life-line. + </p> + <p> + The pearlers thought to get some fun out of him by giving him an oyster to + open in which they had previously planted a pearl; he never saw the pearl + and threw the oyster into the scuppers with the rest, and the pearlers had + to go down on all fours and grope for that pearl among the stinking + oysters. It was funny—but not in the way they had intended. + </p> + <p> + The pearlers go out in schooners called floating stations (their enemies + call them floating public-houses) and no man knows what hospitality is + till he has been a guest on a pearling schooner. They carry it to extremes + sometimes. Some pearlers were out in a lugger, and were passing by one of + these schooners. They determined not to go on board, as it was late, and + they were in a hurry. The captain of the schooner went below, got his + rifle and put two bullets through their foresail. Then they put the helm + down and went aboard; it was an invitation almost equivalent to a royal + command. They felt heartily ashamed of themselves as they slunk up on + deck, and the captain of the schooner eyed them reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't let you disgrace yourselves by passing my schooner,” he said; + “but if it ever happens again I'll fire at the deck. A man that would pass + a schooner in broad daylight is better dead.” + </p> + <p> + There is a fort and garrison at Thirsty Island, but they are not needed. + If an invading fleet comes this way it should be encouraged by every + possible means to land at the island; the heat, the thirst, the horehound + beer, and the Islanders may be trusted to do the rest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DAN FITZGERALD EXPLAINS + </h2> + <p> + The circus was having its afternoon siesta. Overhead the towering canvas + tent spread like a giant mushroom on a network of stalks—slanting + beams, interlaced with guys and wire ropes. + </p> + <p> + The ring looked small and lonely; its circle of empty benches seemed to + stare intently at it, as though some sort of unseen performance were going + on for the benefit of a ghostly audience. Now and again a guy rope + creaked, or a loose end of canvas flapped like faint, unreal applause, as + the silence shut down again, it did not need much imagination to people + the ring with dead and gone circus riders performing for the benefit of + shadowy spectators packed on those benches. + </p> + <p> + In the menagerie portion matters were different; here there was a free and + easy air, the animals realising that for the present the eyes of the + public were off them, and they could put in the afternoon as they chose. + </p> + <p> + The big African apes had dropped the “business” of showing their teeth, + and pretending that they wanted to tear the spectators' faces off. They + were carefully and painstakingly trying to fix up a kind of rustic seat in + the corner of their cage with a short piece of board, which they placed + against the wall. This fell down every time they sat on it, and the whole + adjustment had to be gone through again. + </p> + <p> + The camel had stretched himself full length on the tan, and was enjoying a + luxurious snooze, oblivious of the fact that before long he would have to + get up and assume that far-off ship-of-the-desert aspect. The remainder of + the animals were, like actors, “resting” before their “turn” came on; even + the elephant had ceased to sway about, while a small monkey, asleep on a + sloping tent pole, had an attack of nightmare and would have fallen off + his perch but for his big tail. It was a land of the Lotus-eater + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In which it seemed always afternoon.” + </pre> + <p> + These visions were dispelled by the entry of a person who said, “D'ye want + to see Dan?” and soon Dan Fitzgerald, the man who knows all about the + training of horses, came into the tent with Montgomery, the ringmaster, + and between them they proceeded to expound the methods of training + horseflesh. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of horse do we buy for circus work? Well, it depends what we + want 'em for. There are three sorts of horses in use in a circus—ring + horses, trick horses, and school horses; but it doesn't matter what he is + wanted for, a horse is all the better if he knows nothing. A horse that + has been pulled about and partly trained has to unlearn a lot before he is + any use to us. The less he knows, the better it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do you just try any sort of horse?” + </p> + <p> + “Any sort, so long as he is a good sort, but it depends on what he is + wanted for. If we want a ring horse, he has to be a quiet sober-going + animal, not too well-bred and fiery. A ring horse is one that just goes + round the ring for the bareback riders and equestriennes to perform on. + The human being is the “star”, and the horse in only a secondary + performer, a sort of understudy; yes, that's it, an understudy—he + has to study how to keep under the man.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they hard to train?” + </p> + <p> + “Their work all depends on the men that ride them. In bareback riding + there's a knack in jumping on the horse. If a man lands awkwardly and jars + the horse's back, the horse will get out of step and flinch at each jump, + and he isn't nearly so good to perform on. A ring horse must not swerve or + change his pace; if you're up in the air, throwing a somersault, and the + horse swerves from underneath you—where are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Some people think that horses take a lot of notice of the band—is + that so?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of. If there are any horses in the show with an ear for + music, I haven't heard of them. They take a lot of notice of the + ringmaster.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it take them long to learn this work?” + </p> + <p> + “Not long; a couple of months will teach a ring horse; of course, some are + better than others.” + </p> + <p> + “First of all we teach them to come up to you, with the whip, like + horsebreakers do. Then we run them round the ring with a lunging rein for + a long time; then, when they are steady to the ring, we let them run with + the rein loose, and the trainer can catch hold of it if they go wrong. + Then we put a roller on them—a broad surcingle that goes round the + horse's body—and the boys jump on them and canter round, holding on + to the roller, or standing up, lying down, and doing tricks till the horse + gets used to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you give 'em a couple of hours of it, perhaps, and then dry them + and feed them, and give them a spell, and then bring them out again. They + soon get to know what you want; but you can't break in horses on the move. + The shifting and worry and noise and excitement put it all out of their + heads. We have a fixed camp where we break them in. And a horse may know + his work perfectly well when there is no one about, but bring him into the + ring at night, and he is all abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you have to give them much whip?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much. If a horse doesn't know what you want him to do, it only ruins + him to whip him. But once he does a thing a few times, and then won't do + it, then you must whip him.” + </p> + <p> + “What about trick horses?” + </p> + <p> + “A trick horse rolls a barrel, or lies down and goes to bed with the + clown, or fires a pistol—does any trick like that. Some small + circuses make the same horses do both trick and ring work, but it isn't a + good line. A horse is all the better to have only one line of business—same + as a man.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you teach them tricks?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it takes a long time and a lot of hard work and great patience. Even + to make a horse lie down when he's ordered takes a couple of months + sometimes. To make a horse lie down, you strap up one leg, and then pull + his head round; after a while he gets so tired of the strained position + that he lies down, after which he learns to do it at command. If you want + him to pick up a handkerchief, you put a bit of carrot in it, and after a + while they know that you want them to pick it up—but it takes a long + time. Then a strange hand in the ring will flurry them, and if anything + goes wrong, they get all abroad. A good active pony, with a bit of Arab + blood in him, is the best for tricks.” + </p> + <p> + “What's a school horse?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that's a line of business that isn't appreciated enough out here. On + the Continent they think a lot of them. A school horse is one that is + taught to do passaging, to change his feet at command, to move sideways + and backwards; in fact, to drill. Out here no one thinks much of it. But + in Germany, where everyone goes through military riding schools, they do. + The Germans are the best horse-trainers in the world; and the big German + circus-proprietors have men to do all their business for them, while they + just attend to the horses.” + </p> + <p> + “How long does it take to turn out a school horse?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Chiarini was the best trainer out here, and he used to take two + years to get a horse to his satisfaction. For school horses, you must have + thoroughbreds, because their appearance is half their success. We had a + New Zealand thoroughbred that had raced, and was turning out a splendid + school horse, and he got burnt after costing a year's training. That's the + luck of the game, you know. You keep at it year after year, and sometimes + they die, and sometimes they get crippled—it's all in the luck of + the game. You may give fifty pounds for a horse, and find that he can + never get over his fear of the elephant, while you give ten pounds for + another, and find him a ready-made performer almost.” + </p> + <p> + We passed out through the ghostly circus and the menagerie tent down to + the stable tent. There, among a lot of others, a tranquil-looking animal + was munching some feed, while in front of him hung a placard, “Tiger + Horse”. + </p> + <p> + “That's a new sort! What is he, ring, trick, or school horse?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's a class by himself. I suppose you'd call him a ring horse. + That's the horse that the tiger rides on.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it take him long to learn that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it did not take this horse long; but we tried eleven others before + we could get one to stand it. They're just like men, all different. What + one will stand another won't look at. Well, good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Just like men—no doubt; most men have to carry tigers of various + sorts through life to get a living. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CAT + </h2> + <p> + Most people think that the cat is an unintelligent animal, fond of ease, + and caring little for anything but mice and milk. But a cat has really + more character than most human beings, and gets a great deal more + satisfaction out of life. Of all the animal kingdom, the cat has the most + many-sided character. + </p> + <p> + He—or she—is an athlete, a musician, an acrobat, a Lothario, a + grim fighter, a sport of the first water. All day long the cat loafs about + the house, takes things easy, sleeps by the fire, and allows himself to be + pestered by the attentions of our womenfolk and annoyed by our children. + To pass the time away he sometimes watches a mouse-hole for an hour or two—just + to keep himself from dying of ennui; and people get the idea that this + sort of thing is all that life holds for the cat. But watch him as the + shades of evening fall, and you see the cat as he really is. + </p> + <p> + When the family sits down to tea, the cat usually puts in an appearance to + get his share, and purrs noisily, and rubs himself against the legs of the + family; and all the time he is thinking of a fight or a love-affair that + is coming off that evening. If there is a guest at table the cat is + particularly civil to him, because the guest is likely to have the best of + what is going. Sometimes, instead of recognizing this civility with + something to eat, the guest stoops down and strokes the cat, and says, + “Poor pussy! poor pussy!” + </p> + <p> + The cat soon tires of that; he puts up his claw and quietly but firmly + rakes the guest in the leg. + </p> + <p> + “Ow!” says the guest, “the cat stuck his claws into me!” The delighted + family remarks, “Isn't it sweet of him? Isn't he intelligent? <i>He wants + you to give him something to eat</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The guest dares not do what he would like to do—kick the cat through + the window—so, with tears of rage and pain in his eyes, he affects + to be very much amused, and sorts out a bit of fish from his plate and + hands it down. The cat gingerly receives it, with a look in his eyes that + says: “Another time, my friend, you won't be so dull of comprehension,” + and purrs maliciously as he retires to a safe distance from the guest's + boot before eating it. A cat isn't a fool—not by a long way. + </p> + <p> + When the family has finished tea, and gathers round the fire to enjoy the + hours of indigestion, the cat slouches casually out of the room and + disappears. Life, true life, now begins for him. + </p> + <p> + He saunters down his own backyard, springs to the top of the fence with + one easy bound, drops lightly down on the other side, trots across the + right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and skips to the roof of an empty + shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminacy of civilisation; his gait + becomes lithe and pantherlike; he looks quickly and keenly from side to + side, and moves noiselessly, for he has so many enemies—dogs, cabmen + with whips, and small boys with stones. + </p> + <p> + Arrived on the top of the shed, the cat arches his back, rakes his claws + once or twice through the soft bark of the old roof, wheels round and + stretches himself a few times; just to see that every muscle is in full + working order; then, dropping his head nearly to his paws, he sends across + a league of backyards his call to his kindred—a call to love, or + war, or sport. + </p> + <p> + Before long they come, gliding, graceful shadows, approaching + circuitously, and halting occasionally to reconnoitre—tortoiseshell, + tabby, and black, all domestic cats, but all transformed for the nonce + into their natural state. No longer are they the hypocritical, meek + creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk. They are now + ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of dignity. Their fights + are grim and determined, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons before he + will yield. + </p> + <p> + Even young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human beings, + that they can work off jealousy, hatred, and malice in a sprawling, + yelling combat on a flat roof. All cats fight, and all keep themselves + more or less in training while they are young. Your cat may be the + acknowledged lightweight champion of his district—a Griffo of the + feline ring! + </p> + <p> + Just think how much more he gets out of his life than you do out of yours—what + a hurricane of fighting and lovemaking his life is—and blush for + yourself. You have had one little love-affair, and never had a good, + all-out fight in your life! + </p> + <p> + And the sport they have, too! As they get older and retire from the ring + they go in for sport more systematically; the suburban backyards, that are + to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting-grounds and + trysting-places where they may have more gallant adventure than ever had + King Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men. + </p> + <p> + Grimalkin decides to kill a canary in a neighbouring verandah. Consider + the fascination of it—the stealthy reconnaissance from the top of + the fence; the care to avoid waking the house-dog, the noiseless approach + and the hurried dash, and the fierce clawing at the fluttering bird till + its mangled body is dragged through the bars of the cage; the exultant + retreat with the spoil; the growling over the feast that follows. Not the + least entertaining part of it is the demure satisfaction of arriving home + in time for breakfast and hearing the house-mistress say: “Tom must be + sick; he seems to have no appetite.” + </p> + <p> + It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more fond + of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like to + leave his country, the land where all his friends are, and where he knows + every landmark. Exiled in a strange land, he would have to learn a new + geography, to exploit another tribe of dogs, to fight and make love to an + entirely new nation of cats. Life isn't long enough for that sort of + thing. So, when the family moves, the cat, if allowed, will stay at the + old house and attach himself to the new tenants. He will give them the + privilege of boarding him while he enjoys life in his own way. He is not + going to sacrifice his whole career for the doubtful reward which fidelity + to his old master or mistress might bring. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SITTING IN JUDGMENT + </h2> + <p> + The show ring was a circular enclosure of about four acres, with a spiked + batten fence round it, and a listless crowd of back-country settlers + propped along the fence. Behind them were the sheds for produce, and the + machinery sections where steam threshers and earth scoops hummed and + buzzed and thundered unnoticed. Crowds of sightseers wandered past the + cattle stalls to gape at the fat bullocks; side-shows flourished, a blase + goose drew marbles out of a tin canister, and a boxing showman displayed + his muscles outside his tent, while his partner urged the youth of the + district to come in and be thumped for the edification of the spectators. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a gate opened at the end of the show ring, and horses, cattle, + dogs, vehicles, motor-cars, and bicyclists crowded into the arena. This + was the general parade, but it would have been better described as a + general chaos. Trotting horses and ponies, in harness, went whirling round + the ring, every horse and every driver fully certain that every eye was + fixed on them; the horses—the vainest creatures in the world—arching + their necks and lifting their feet, whizzed past in bewildering + succession, till the onlookers grew giddy. Inside the whirling circle + blood stallions stood on their hind legs, screaming defiance to the world + at large; great shaggy-fronted bulls, with dull vindictive eyes, paced + along, looking as though they were trying to remember who it was that + struck them last. A showground bull always seems to be nursing a + grievance. + </p> + <p> + Mixed up with the stallions and bulls were dogs and donkeys. The dogs were + led by attendants, apparently selected on the principle of the larger the + dog the smaller the custodian; while the donkeys were the only creatures + unmoved by their surroundings, for they slept peaceably through the + procession, occasionally waking up to bray their sense of boredom. + </p> + <p> + In the centre of the ring a few lady-riders, stern-featured women for the + most part, were being “judged” by a trembling official, who feared to look + them in the face, but hurriedly and apologetically examined horses and + saddles, whispered his award to the stewards, and fled at top speed to the + official stand—his sanctuary from the fury of spurned beauty. The + defeated ladies immediately began to “perform”—that is, to ask the + universe at large whether anyone ever heard the like of that! But the + stewards strategically slipped away, and the injured innocents had no + resource left but to ride haughtily round the ring, glaring defiance at + the spectators. + </p> + <p> + All this time stewards and committee-men were wandering among the + competitors, trying to find the animals for judgment. The clerk of the + ring—a huge man on a small cob—galloped around, roaring like a + bull: “This way for the fourteen stone 'acks! Come on, you twelve 'and + ponies!” and by degrees various classes got judged, and dispersed + grumbling. Then the bulls filed out with their grievances still unsettled, + the lady riders were persuaded to withdraw, and the clerk of the ring sent + a sonorous bellow across the ground: “Where's the jumpin' judges?” + </p> + <p> + From the official stand came a brisk, dark-faced, wiry little man. He had + been a steeplechase rider and a trainer in his time. Long experience of + that tricky animal, the horse, had made him reserved and slow to express + an opinion. He mounted the table, and produced a note-book. From the bar + of the booth came a large, hairy, red-faced man, whose face showed fatuous + self-complacency. He was a noted show-judge because he refused, on + principle, to listen to others' opinions; or in those rare cases when he + did, only to eject a scornful contradiction. The third judge was a local + squatter, who was overwhelmed with a sense of his own importance. + </p> + <p> + They seated themselves on a raised platform in the centre of the ring, and + held consultation. The small dark man produced his note-book. + </p> + <p> + “I always keep a scale of points,” he said. “Give 'em so many points for + each fence. Then give 'em so many for make, shape, and quality, and so + many for the way they jump.” + </p> + <p> + The fat man looked infinite contempt. “I never want any scale of points,” + he said. “One look at the 'orses is enough for me. A man that judges by + points ain't a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?” he went on, + turning to the squatter. “Do you go by points?” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” said the squatter, firmly; which, as he had never judged before + in his life, was strictly true. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll each go our own way,” said the little man. “I'll keep points. + Send 'em in.” + </p> + <p> + “Number One, Conductor!” roared the ring steward in a voice like thunder, + and a long-legged grey horse came trotting into the ring and sidled about + uneasily. His rider pointed him for the first jump, and went at it at a + terrific pace. Nearing the fence the horse made a wild spring, and cleared + it by feet, while the crowd yelled applause. At the second jump he raced + right under the obstacle, propped dead, and rose in the air with a leap + like a goat, while the crowd yelled their delight again, and said: “My + oath! ain't he clever?” As he neared the third fence he shifted about + uneasily, and finally took it at an angle, clearing a wholly unnecessary + thirty feet. Again the hurricane of cheers broke out. “Don't he fly 'em,” + said one man, waving his hat. At the last fence he made his spring yards + too soon; his forelegs got over all right, but his hind legs dropped on + the rail with a sounding rap, and he left a little tuft of hair sticking + on it. + </p> + <p> + “I like to see 'em feel their fences,” said the fat man. “I had a bay + 'orse once, and he felt every fence he ever jumped; shows their + confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “I think he'll feel that last one for a while,” said the little dark man. + “What's this now?” + </p> + <p> + “Number Two, Homeward Bound!” An old, solid chestnut horse came out and + cantered up to each jump, clearing them coolly and methodically. The crowd + was not struck by the performance, and the fat man said: “No pace!” but + surreptitiously made two strokes (to indicate Number Two) on the cuff of + his shirt. + </p> + <p> + “Number Eleven, Spite!” This was a leggy, weedy chestnut, half-racehorse, + half-nondescript, ridden by a terrified amateur, who went at the fence + with a white, set face. The horse raced up to the fence, and stopped dead, + amid the jeers of the crowd. The rider let daylight into him with his + spurs, and rushed him at it again. This time he got over. + </p> + <p> + Round he went, clouting some fences with his front legs, others with his + hind legs. The crowd jeered, but the fat man, from a sheer spirit of + opposition, said: “That would be a good horse if he was rode better.” And + the squatter remarked: “Yes, he belongs to a young feller just near me. + I've seen him jump splendidly out in the bush, over brush fences.” + </p> + <p> + The little dark man said nothing, but made a note in his book. + </p> + <p> + “Number Twelve, Gaslight!” “Now, you'll see a horse,” said the fat man. + “I've judged this 'orse in twenty different shows, and gave him first + prize every time!” + </p> + <p> + Gaslight turned out to be a fiddle-headed, heavy-shouldered brute, whose + long experience of jumping in shows where they give points for pace—as + if the affair was a steeplechase—had taught him to get the business + over as quickly as he could. He went thundering round the ring, pulling + double, and standing off his fences in a style that would infallibly bring + him to grief if following hounds across roads or through broken timber. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said the fat man, “that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is, when + you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on if Ned + Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter.” + </p> + <p> + The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, while + the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. “I like to see a bit of + pace myself,” he ventured. + </p> + <p> + The fat man sat on him heavily. “You don't call that pace, do you?” he + said. “He was going dead slow.” + </p> + <p> + Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping and + bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences; not + one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties by + changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded by the + crowd for “cleverness” in getting themselves out of the difficulties they + had themselves created. + </p> + <p> + A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task of + deciding was entered on. + </p> + <p> + “I have kept a record,” said the little man, “of how they jumped each + fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make and + shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward Bound + is the best, with Gaslight second.” + </p> + <p> + “Homeward Bound!” said the fat man. “Why, the pace he went wouldn't head a + duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets of + stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at 'em.” Here + he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note “No. II.”, mistook it + for “Number Eleven”, and said: “I want Number Eleven to go another round.” + </p> + <p> + The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling and + snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn. + </p> + <p> + “What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said the ring steward, “you said you wanted him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the fat man, “if I said I wanted him I do want him. Let him + go the round.” + </p> + <p> + The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair, and + narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions. This put the fat man + in a quandary. He had kept no record, and all the horses were jumbled up + in his head; but he had one fixed idea, to give the first prize to + Gaslight; as to the second he was open to argument. From sheer + contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be “all right if he were + rode better,” and the squatter agreed. The little man was overruled, and + the prizes went—Gaslight, first; Spite, second; Homeward Bound, + third. + </p> + <p> + The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second + ribbon, and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that he + ought to boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the + stewards' stand, and on being asked how he came to give Spite the second + prize, remarked oracularly: “I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the rider.” + This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink. + </p> + <p> + Over the flowing bowl the fat man said: “You see, I don't believe in this + nonsense about points. I can judge 'em without that.” + </p> + <p> + Twenty dissatisfied competitors vowed they would never bring another horse + there in their lives. Gaslight's owner said: “Blimey, I knew it would be + all right with old Billy judging. 'E knows this 'orse.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOG + </h2> + <p> + The dog is a member of society who likes to have his day's work, and who + does it more conscientiously than most human beings. A dog always looks as + if he ought to have a pipe in his mouth and a black bag for his lunch, and + then he would go quite happily to office every day. + </p> + <p> + A dog without work is like a man without work, a nuisance to himself and + everybody else. People who live about town, and keep a dog to give the + children hydatids and to keep the neighbours awake at night, imagine that + the animal is fulfilling his destiny. All town dogs, fancy dogs, show + dogs, lap-dogs, and other dogs with no work to do, should be abolished; it + is only in the country that a dog has any justification for his existence. + </p> + <p> + The old theory that animals have only instinct, not reason, to guide them, + is knocked endways by the dog. A dog can reason as well as a human being + on some subjects, and better on others, and the best reasoning dog of all + is the sheep-dog. The sheep-dog is a professional artist with a pride in + his business. Watch any drover's dogs bringing sheep into the yards. How + thoroughly they feel their responsibility, and how very annoyed they get + if a stray dog with no occupation wants them to stop and fool about! They + snap at him and hurry off, as much as to say: “You go about your idleness. + Don't you see this is my busy day?” + </p> + <p> + Sheep-dogs are followers of Thomas Carlyle. They hold that the only + happiness for a dog in this life is to find his work and to do it. The + idle, 'dilettante', non-working, aristocratic dog they have no use for. + </p> + <p> + The training of a sheep-dog for his profession begins at a very early age. + The first thing is to take him out with his mother and let him see her + working. He blunders lightheartedly, frisking along in front of the horse, + and his owner tries to ride over him, and generally succeeds. It is + amusing to see how that knocks all the gas out of a puppy, and with what a + humble air he falls to the rear and glues himself to the horse's heels, + scarcely daring to look to the right or to the left, for fear of + committing some other breach of etiquette. + </p> + <p> + He has had his first lesson—to keep behind the horse until he is + wanted. Then he watches the old slut work, and is allowed to go with her + round the sheep; and if he shows any disposition to get out of hand and + frolic about, the old lady will bite him sharply to prevent his + interfering with her work. + </p> + <p> + By degrees, slowly, like any other professional, he learns his business. + He learns to bring sheep after a horse simply at a wave of the hand; to + force the mob up to a gate where they can be counted or drafted; to follow + the scent of lost sheep, and to drive sheep through a town without any + master, one dog going on ahead to block the sheep from turning off into + by-streets while the other drives them on from the rear. + </p> + <p> + How do they learn all these things? Dogs for show work are taught + painstakingly by men who are skilled in handling them; but, after all, + they teach themselves more than the men teach them. It looks as if the + acquired knowledge of generations were transmitted from dog to dog. The + puppy, descended from a race of sheep-dogs, starts with all his faculties + directed towards the working of sheep; he is half-educated as soon as he + is born. He can no more help working sheep than a born musician can help + being musical, or a Hebrew can help gathering in shekels. It is bred in + him. If he can't get sheep to work, he will work a fowl; often and often + one can see a collie pup painstakingly and carefully driving a bewildered + old hen into a stable, or a stock-yard, or any other enclosed space on + which he has fixed his mind. How does he learn to do that? He didn't learn + it at all. The knowledge was born with him. + </p> + <p> + When the dog has been educated, or has educated himself, he enjoys his + work; but very few dogs like work “in the yards”. The sun is hot, the dust + rises in clouds, and there is nothing to do but bark, bark, bark—which + is all very well for learners and amateurs, but is beneath the dignity of + the true professional sheep-dog. When they are hoarse with barking and + nearly choked with dust, the men lose their tempers and swear at them, and + throw clods of earth at them, and sing out to them “Speak up, blast you!” + </p> + <p> + Then the dogs suddenly decide that they have done enough for the day. + Watching their opportunity, they silently steal over the fence, and hide + in any cool place they can find. After a while the men notice that hardly + any are left, and operations are suspended while a great hunt is made into + outlying pieces of cover, where the dogs are sure to be found lying low + and looking as guilty as so many thieves. A clutch at the scruff of the + neck, a kick in the ribs, and they are hauled out of hiding-places; and + accompany their masters to the yard frolicking about and pretending that + they are quite delighted to be going back, and only hid in those bushes + out of sheer thoughtlessness. He is a champion hypocrite, is the dog. + </p> + <p> + Dogs, like horses, have very keen intuition. They know when the men around + them are frightened, though they may not know the cause. In a great + Queensland strike, when the shearers attacked and burnt Dagworth shed, + some rifle-volleys were exchanged. The air was full of human electricity, + each man giving out waves of fear and excitement. Mark now the effect it + had on the dogs. They were not in the fighting; nobody fired at them, and + nobody spoke to them; but every dog left his master, left the sheep, and + went away to the homestead, about six miles off. There wasn't a dog about + the shed next day after the fight. The noise of the rifles had not + frightened them, because they were well-accustomed to that.* + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * The same thing happened constantly with horses in the + South African War. A loose horse would feed contentedly + while our men were firing, but when our troops were being + fired at the horses became uneasy, and the loose ones would + trot away. The excitement of the men communicated itself to + them. +</pre> + <p> + Dogs have an amazing sense of responsibility. Sometimes, when there are + sheep to be worked, an old slut who has young puppies may be greatly + exercised in her mind whether she should go out or not. On the one hand, + she does not care about leaving the puppies, on the other, she feels that + she really ought to go rather than allow the sheep to be knocked about by + those learners. Hesitatingly, with many a look behind her, she trots out + after the horses and the other dogs. An impassioned appeal from the head + boundary rider, “Go back home, will yer!” is treated with the contempt it + deserves. She goes out to the yards, works, perhaps half the day, and then + slips quietly under the fences and trots off home, contented. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOG—AS A SPORTSMAN + </h2> + <p> + The sheep-dog and the cattle-dog are the workmen of the animal kingdom; + sporting and fighting dogs are the professionals and artists. + </p> + <p> + A house-dog or a working-dog will only work for his master; a professional + or artistic dog will work for anybody, so long as he is treated like an + artist. A man going away for a week's shooting can borrow a dog, and the + dog will work for him loyally, just as a good musician will do his best, + though the conductor is strange to him, and the other members of the band + are not up to the mark. The musician's art is sacred to him, and that is + the case with the dog—Art before everything. + </p> + <p> + It is a grand sight to see a really good setter or pointer working up to a + bird, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the man with the + gun has not lost himself. He throws his whole soul into his work, questing + carefully over the cold scent, feathering eagerly when the bird is close, + and at last drawing up like a statue. Not Paganini himself ever lost + himself in his art more thoroughly than does humble Spot or Ponto. It is + not amusement and not a mere duty to him; it is a sacred gift, which he is + bound to exercise. + </p> + <p> + A pointer in need of amusement will play with another dog—the pair + pretending to fight, and so on, but when there is work to be done, the dog + is lost in the artist. How crestfallen he looks if by any chance he + blunders on to a bird without pointing it! A fiddler who has played a + wrong note in a solo is the only creature who can look quite so + discomfited. Humanity, instead of going to the ant for wisdom, should + certainly go to the dog. + </p> + <p> + Sporting dogs are like other artists, in that they are apt to get careless + of everything except their vocation. They are similarly quite unreliable + in their affections. They are not good watch dogs, and take little + interest in chasing cats. They look on a little dog that catches rats much + as a great musician looks on a cricketer—it's clever, but it isn't + Art. + </p> + <p> + Hunting and fighting dogs are the gladiators of the animal world. A + fox-hound or a kangaroo-dog is always of the same opinion as Mr. Jorrocks:—“All + time is wasted what isn't spent in 'untin'.” + </p> + <p> + A greyhound will start out in the morning with three lame legs, but as + soon as he sees a hare start he <i>must</i> go. He utterly forgets his + sorrows in the excitement, just as a rowing-man, all over boils and + blisters, will pull a desperate race without feeling any pain. Such dogs + are not easily excited by anything but a chase, and a burglar might come + and rob the house and murder the inmates without arousing any excitement + among them. Guarding a house is “not their pidgin” as the Chinese say. + That is one great reason for the success of the dog at whatever branch of + his tribe's work he goes in for—he is so thorough. Dogs who are + forced to combine half-a-dozen professions never make a success at + anything. One dog one billet is their motto. + </p> + <p> + The most earnest and thorough of all the dog tribe is the fighting dog. + His intense self-respect, his horror of brawling, his cool determination, + make him a pattern to humanity. The bull-dog or bull-terrier is generally + the most friendly and best-tempered dog in the world; but when he is put + down in the ring he fights till he drops, in grim silence, though his feet + are bitten through and through, his ears are in rags, and his neck a + hideous mass of wounds. + </p> + <p> + In a well-conducted dog-fight each dog in turn has to attack the other + dog, and one can see fierce earnestness blazing in the eye of the attacker + as he hurls himself on the foe. What makes him fight like that? It is not + bloodthirstiness, because they are neither savage nor quarrelsome dogs: a + bulldog will go all his life without a fight, unless put into a ring. It + is simply their strong self-respect and stubborn pride which will not let + them give in. The greyhound snaps at his opponent and then runs for his + life, but the fighting dog stands to it till death. + </p> + <p> + Just occasionally one sees the same type of human being—some + quiet-spoken, good-tempered man who has taken up glove-fighting for a + living, and who, perhaps, gets pitted against a man a shade better than + himself. After a few rounds he knows he is overmatched, but there is + something at the back of his brain that will not let him cave in. Round + after round he stands punishment, and round after round he grimly comes + up, till, possibly, his opponent loses heart, or a fluky hit turns the + scale in his favour. These men are to be found in every class of life. + Many of the gamest of the game are mere gutter-bred boys who will continue + to fight long after they have endured enough punishment to entitle them to + quit. + </p> + <p> + You can see in their eyes the same hard glitter that shows in the + bulldog's eyes as he limps across the ring, or in the eye of the racehorse + as he lies down to it when his opponent is outpacing him. It is grit, + pluck, vim, nerve force; call it what you like, and there is no created + thing that has more of it than the dog. + </p> + <p> + The blood-lust is a dog-phase that has never been quite understood. Every + station-owner knows that sometimes the house-dogs are liable to take a + sudden fit of sheep-killing. Any kind of dog will do it, from the collie + downward. Sometimes dogs from different homesteads meet in the paddocks, + having apparently arranged the whole affair beforehand. They are very + artful about it, too. They lie round the house till dark, and then slink + off and have a wild night's blood-spree, running down the wretched sheep + and tearing their throats open; before dawn they slink back again and lie + around the house as before. Many and many a sheep-owner has gone out with + a gun and shot his neighbour's dogs for killing sheep which his own + wicked, innocent-looking dogs had slain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONCERNING A STEEPLECHASE RIDER + </h2> + <p> + Of all the ways in which men get a living there is none so hard and so + precarious as that of steeplechase-riding in Australia. It is bad enough + in England, where steeplechases only take place in winter, when the ground + is soft, where the horses are properly schooled before being raced, and + where most of the obstacles will yield a little if struck and give the + horse a chance to blunder over safely. + </p> + <p> + In Australia the men have to go at racing-speed, on very hard ground, over + the most rigid and uncompromising obstacles—ironbark rails clamped + into solid posts with bands of iron. No wonder they are always coming to + grief, and are always in and out of hospital in splints and bandages. + Sometimes one reads that a horse has fallen and the rider has “escaped + with a severe shaking.” + </p> + <p> + That “shaking”, gentle reader, would lay you or me up for weeks, with a + doctor to look after us and a crowd of sympathetic friends calling to know + how our poor back was. But the steeplechase-rider has to be out and about + again, “riding exercise” every morning, and “schooling” all sorts of + cantankerous brutes over the fences. These men take their lives in their + hands and look at grim death between their horses' ears every time they + race or “school”. + </p> + <p> + The death-record among Australian cross-country jockeys and horses is very + great; it is a curious instance of how custom sanctifies all things that + such horse-and-man slaughter is accepted in such a callous way. If any + theatre gave a show at which men and horses were habitually crippled or + killed in full sight of the audience, the manager would be put on his + trial for manslaughter. + </p> + <p> + Our race-tracks use up their yearly average of horses and men without + attracting remark. One would suppose that the risk being so great the + profits were enormous; but they are not. In “the game” as played on our + racecourses there is just a bare living for a good capable horseman while + he lasts, with the certainty of an ugly smash if he keeps at it long + enough. + </p> + <p> + And they don't need to keep at it very long. After a few good “shakings” + they begin to take a nip or two to put heart into them before they go out, + and after a while they have to increase the dose. At last they cannot ride + at all without a regular cargo of alcohol on board, and are either + “half-muzzy” or shaky according as they have taken too much or too little. + </p> + <p> + Then the game becomes suicidal; it is an axiom that as soon as a man + begins to funk he begins to fall. The reason is that a rider who has lost + his nerve is afraid of his horse making a mistake, and takes a pull, or + urges him onward, just at the crucial moment when the horse is rattling up + to his fence and judging his distance. That little, nervous pull at his + head or that little touch of the spur, takes his attention from the fence, + with the result that he makes his spring a foot too far off or a foot too + close in, and—smash! + </p> + <p> + The loafers who hang about the big fences rush up to see if the jockey is + killed or stunned; if he is, they dispose of any jewellery he may have + about him; they have been known almost to tear a finger off in their + endeavours to secure a ring. The ambulance clatters up at a canter, the + poor rider is pushed in out of sight, and the ladies in the stand say how + unlucky they are—that brute of a horse falling after they backed + him. A wolfish-eyed man in the Leger-stand shouts to a wolfish-eyed pal, + “Bill, I believe that jock was killed when the chestnut fell,” and Bill + replies, “Yes, damn him, I had five bob on him.” And the rider, gasping + like a crushed chicken, is carried into the casualty-room and laid on a + little stretcher, while outside the window the bookmakers are roaring + “Four to one bar one,” and the racing is going on merrily as ever. + </p> + <p> + These remarks serve to introduce one of the fraternity who may be + considered as typical of all. He was a small, wiry, hard-featured fellow, + the son of a stockman on a big cattle-station, and began life as a + horse-breaker; he was naturally a horseman, able and willing to ride + anything that could carry him. He left the station to go with cattle on + the road, and having picked up a horse that showed pace, amused himself by + jumping over fences. Then he went to Wagga, entered the horse in a + steeplechase, rode him himself, won handsomely, sold the horse at a good + price to a Sydney buyer, and went down to ride it in his Sydney races. + </p> + <p> + In Sydney he did very well; he got a name as a fearless and clever rider, + and was offered several mounts on fine animals. So he pitched his camp in + Sydney, and became a fully-enrolled member of the worst profession in the + world. I had known him in the old days on the road, and when I met him on + the course one day I enquired how he liked the new life. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's a livin',” he said, “but it's no great shakes. They don't give + steeplechase-riders a chance in Sydney. There's very few races, and the + big sweepstakes keep horses out of the game.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you get a fair share of the riding?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I get as much as anybody. But there's a lot of 'em got a notion + I won't take hold of a horse when I'm told (i.e., pull him to prevent him + winning). Some of these days I'll take hold of a horse when they don't + expect it.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled as I thought there was probably a sorry day in store for some + backer when the jockey “took hold” unexpectedly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you have to pull horses, then, to get employment?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, it's this way,” he said, rather apologetically, “if an owner is + badly treated by the handicapper, and is just giving his horse a run to + get weight off, then it's right enough to catch hold a bit. But when a + horse is favourite and the public are backing him it isn't right to take + hold of him then. <i>I</i> would not do it.” This was his whole code of + morals—not to pull a favourite; and he felt himself very superior to + the scoundrel who would pull favourites or outsiders indiscriminately. + </p> + <p> + “What do you get for riding?” I asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, looking about uneasily, “we're supposed to get a fiver + for a losing mount and ten pounds if we win, but a lot of the + steeplechase-owners are what I call 'battlers'—men who have no money + and get along by owing everybody. They promise us all sorts of money if we + win, but they don't pay if we lose. I only got two pounds for that last + steeplechase.” + </p> + <p> + “Two pounds!” I made a rapid calculation. He had ridden over eighteen + fences for two pounds—had chanced his life eighteen times at less + than half-a-crown a time. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” I said, “that's a poor game. Wouldn't you be better back + on the station?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know—sometimes we get laid a bit to nothing, and do + well out of a race. And then, you know, a steeplechase rider is somebody—not + like an ordinary fellow that is just working.” + </p> + <p> + I realised that I was an “ordinary fellow who was just working”, and felt + small accordingly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm just off to weigh now,” he said—“I'm riding Contractor, and + he'll run well, but he always seems to fall at those logs. Still, I ought + to have luck to-day. I met a hearse as I was coming out. I'll get him over + the fences, somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it lucky, then, to meet a hearse?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” he said, “if you <i>meet</i> it. You mustn't overtake it—that's + unlucky. So is a cross-eyed man unlucky. Cross-eyed men ought to be kept + off racecourses.” + </p> + <p> + He reappeared clad in his racing rig, and we set off to see the horse + saddled. We found the owner in a great state of excitement. It seemed he + had no money—absolutely none whatever—but had borrowed enough + to pay the sweepstakes, and stood to make something if the horse won and + lose nothing if he lost, as he had nothing to lose. My friend insisted on + being paid two pounds before he would mount, and the owner nearly had a + fit in his efforts to persuade him to ride on credit. At last a backer of + the horse agreed to pay 2 pounds 10s., win or lose, and the rider was to + get 25 pounds out of the prize if he won. So up he got; and as he and the + others walked the big muscular horses round the ring, nodding gaily to + friends in the crowd, I thought of the gladiators going out to fight in + the arena with the cry of “Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute thee!” + </p> + <p> + The story of the race is soon told. My friend went to the front at the + start and led nearly all the way, and “Contractor!” was on every one's + lips as the big horse sailed along in front of his field. He came at the + log-fence full of running, and it looked certain that he would get over. + But at the last stride he seemed to falter, then plunged right into the + fence, striking it with his chest, and, turning right over, landed on his + unfortunate rider. + </p> + <p> + A crowd clustered round and hid horse and rider from view, and I ran down + to the casualty-room to meet him when the ambulance came in. The limp form + was carefully taken out and laid on a stretcher while a doctor examined + the crushed ribs, the broken arm, and all the havoc that the horse's huge + weight had wrought. + </p> + <p> + There was no hope from the first. My poor friend, who had so often faced + Death for two pounds, lay very still awhile. Then he began to talk, + wandering in his mind, “Where are the cattle?”—his mind evidently + going back to the old days on the road. Then, quickly, “Look out there—give + me room!” and again “Five-and-twenty pounds, Mary, and a sure thing if he + don't fall at the logs.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was sobbing beside the bed, cursing the fence and the money that had + brought him to grief. At last, in a tone of satisfaction, he said, quite + clear and loud: “I know how it was—<i>There couldn't have been any + dead man in that hearse!</i>” + </p> + <p> + And so, having solved the mystery to his own satisfaction, he drifted away + into unconsciousness—and woke somewhere on the other side of the big + fence that we can neither see through nor over, but all have to face + sooner or later. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VICTOR SECOND + </h2> + <p> + We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races—an old grey + warrior called Tricolor—better known to the station boys as The + Trickler—and a mare for the hack race. Station horses don't get + trained quite like Carbine; some days we had no time to give them gallops + at all, so they had to gallop twice as far the next day to make up. + </p> + <p> + One day the boy we had looking after The Trickler fell in with a mob of + sharps who told him we didn't know anything about training horses, and + that what the horse really wanted was “a twicer”—that is to say, a + gallop twice round the course. So the boy gave him “a twicer” on his own + responsibility. When we found out about it we gave the boy a twicer with + the strap, and he left and took out a summons against us. But somehow or + other we managed to get the old horse pretty fit, tried him against hacks + of different descriptions, and persuaded ourselves that we had the biggest + certainty ever known on a racecourse. + </p> + <p> + When the horses were galloping in the morning the kangaroo-dog, Victor, + nearly always went down to the course to run round with them. It amused + him, apparently, and didn't hurt anyone, so we used to let him race; in + fact, we rather encouraged him, because it kept him in good trim to hunt + kangaroo. When we were starting for the meeting, someone said we had + better tie up Victor or he would be getting stolen at the races. We called + and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, so we started and forgot all + about him. + </p> + <p> + Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk and + blasphemous. All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event—you + had to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards. + </p> + <p> + The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for a quarter of an + hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight of which he was + an interested spectator. Every horse, as he did his preliminary gallop, + had a string of dogs after him, and the clerk of the course came full cry + after the dogs with a whip. + </p> + <p> + By and by the horses strung across to the start at the far side of the + course. They fiddled about for a bit; then down went the flag and they + came sweeping along all bunched up together, one holding a nice position + on the inside. All of a sudden we heard a wild chorus of imprecations—“Look + at that dog!” Victor had chipped in with the racehorses, and was running + right in front of the field. It looked a guinea to a gooseberry that some + of them would fall on him. + </p> + <p> + The owners danced and swore. What did we mean by bringing a something + mongrel there to trip up and kill horses that were worth a paddockful of + all the horses we had ever owned, or would ever breed or own, even if we + lived to be a thousand. We were fairly in it and no mistake. + </p> + <p> + As the field came past the stand the first time we could hear the riders + swearing at our dog, and a wild yell of execration arose from the public. + He had got right among the ruck by this time, and was racing alongside his + friend The Trickler, thoroughly enjoying himself. After passing the stand + the pace became very merry; the dog stretched out all he knew; when they + began to make it too hot for him, he cut off corners, and joined at odd + intervals, and every time he made a fresh appearance the people in the + stand lifted up their voices and “swore cruel”. + </p> + <p> + The horses were all at the whip as they turned into the straight, and then + The Trickler and the publican's mare singled out. We could hear the “chop, + chop!” of the whips as they came along together, but the mare could not + suffer it as long as the old fellow, and she swerved off while he + struggled home a winner by a length or so. Just as they settled down to + finish Victor dashed up on the inside, and passed the post at old + Trickler's girths. The populace immediately went for him with stones, + bottles, and other missiles, and he had to scratch gravel to save his + life. But imagine the amazement of the other owners when the judge placed + Trickler first, Victor second, and the publican's mare third! + </p> + <p> + The publican tried to argue it out with him. He said you couldn't place a + kangaroo-dog second in a horse-race. + </p> + <p> + The judge said it was <i>his</i> (hiccough) business what he placed, and + that those who (hiccough) interfered with him would be sorry for it. Also + he expressed a (garnished) opinion that the publican's mare was no rotten + good, and that she was the right sort of mare for a poor man to own, + because she would keep him poor. + </p> + <p> + Then the publican called the judge a cow. The judge was willing; a rip, + tear, and chew fight ensued, which lasted some time. The judge won. + </p> + <p> + Fifteen protests were lodged against our win, but we didn't worry about + that—we had laid the stewards a bit to nothing. Every second man we + met wanted to run us a mile for 100 pounds a side; and a drunken shearer, + spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were “brimming over with bally + science”, and had ridden forty miles to find out. + </p> + <p> + We didn't wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab and + stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown how a + kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONCERNING A DOG-FIGHT + </h2> + <p> + Dog-fighting as a sport is not much in vogue now-a-days. To begin with it + is illegal. Not that <i>that</i> matters much, for Sunday drinking is also + illegal. But dog-fighting is one of the cruel sports which the community + has decided to put down with all the force of public opinion. + Nevertheless, a certain amount of it is still carried on near Sydney, and + very neatly and scientifically carried on, too—principally by + gentlemen who live out Botany way and do not care for public opinion. + </p> + <p> + The grey dawn was just breaking over Botany when we got to the + meeting-place. Away to the East the stars were paling in the faint flush + of coming dawn, and over the sandhills came the boom of breakers. It was + Sunday morning, and all the respectable, non-dog-fighting population of + that odoriferous suburb were sleeping their heavy, Sunday-morning sleep. + Some few people, however, were astir. In the dim light hurried pedestrians + plodded along the heavy road towards the sandhills. Now and then a van, + laden with ten or eleven of “the talent”, and drawn by a horse that cost + fifteen shillings at auction, rolled softly along in the same direction. + These were dog-fighters who had got “the office”, and knew exactly where + the match was to take place. + </p> + <p> + The “meet” was on a main road, about half-a-mile from town; here some two + hundred people had assembled, and hung up their horses and vehicles to the + fence without the slightest concealment. They said the police would not + interfere with them—and they did not seem a nice crowd to interfere + with. + </p> + <p> + One dog was on the ground when we arrived, having come out in a hansom cab + with his trainer. He was a white bull-terrier, weighing about forty + pounds, “trained to the hour”, with the muscles standing out all over him. + He waited in the cab, licking his trainer's face at intervals to reassure + that individual of his protection and support; the rest of the time he + glowered out of the cab and eyed the public scornfully. He knew as well as + any human being that there was sport afoot, and looked about eagerly and + wickedly to see what he could get his teeth into. + </p> + <p> + Soon a messenger came running up to know whether they meant to sit in the + cab till the police came; the other dog, he said, had arrived and all was + ready. The trainer and dog got out of the cab; we followed them through a + fence and over a rise—and there, about twenty yards from the main + road, was a neatly-pitched enclosure like a prize-ring, a + thirty-foot-square enclosure formed with stakes and ropes. About a hundred + people were at the ringside, and in the far corner, in the arms of his + trainer, was the other dog—a brindle. + </p> + <p> + It was wonderful to see the two dogs when they caught sight of each other. + The white dog came up to the ring straining at his leash, nearly dragging + his trainer off his feet in his efforts to get at the enemy. At intervals + he emitted a hoarse roar of challenge and defiance. + </p> + <p> + The brindled dog never uttered a sound. He fixed his eyes on his adversary + with a look of intense hunger, of absolute yearning for combat. He never + for an instant shifted his unwinking gaze. He seemed like an animal who + saw the hopes of years about to be realised. With painful earnestness he + watched every detail of the other dog's toilet; and while the white dog + was making fierce efforts to get at him, he stood Napoleonic, grand in his + courage, waiting for the fray. + </p> + <p> + All details were carefully attended to, and all rules strictly observed. + People may think a dog-fight is a go-as-you-please outbreak of + lawlessness, but there are rules and regulations—simple, but + effective. There were two umpires, a referee, a timekeeper, and two + seconds for each dog. The stakes were said to be ten pounds a-side. After + some talk, the dogs were carried to the centre of the ring by their + seconds and put on the ground. Like a flash of lightning they dashed at + each other, and the fight began. + </p> + <p> + Nearly everyone has seen dogs fight—“it is their nature to”, as Dr. + Watts put it. But an ordinary worry between (say) a retriever and a + collie, terminating as soon as one or other gets his ear bitten, gives a + very faint idea of a real dog-fight. But bull-terriers are the gladiators + of the canine race. Bred and trained to fight, carefully exercised and + dieted for weeks beforehand, they come to the fray exulting in their + strength and determined to win. Each is trained to fight for certain + holds, a grip of the ear or the back of the neck being of very slight + importance. The foot is a favourite hold, the throat is, of course, + fashionable—if they can get it. + </p> + <p> + The white and the brindle sparred and wrestled and gripped and threw each + other, fighting grimly, and disdaining to utter a sound. Their seconds + dodged round them unceasingly, giving them encouragement and advice—“That's + the style, Boxer—fight for his foot”—“Draw your foot back, old + man,” and so on. Now and again one dog got a grip of the other's foot and + chewed savagely, and the spectators danced with excitement. The moment the + dogs let each other go they were snatched up by their seconds and carried + to their corners, and a minute's time was allowed, in which their mouths + were washed out and a cloth rubbed over their bodies. + </p> + <p> + Then came the ceremony of “coming to scratch”. When time was called for + the second round the brindled dog was let loose in his own corner, and was + required by the rules to go across the ring of his own free will and + attack the other dog. If he failed to do this he would lose the fight. The + white dog, meanwhile, was held in his corner waiting the attack. After the + next round it was the white dog's turn to make the attack, and so on + alternately. The animals need not fight a moment longer than they chose, + as either dog could abandon the fight by failing to attack his enemy. + </p> + <p> + While their condition lasted they used to dash across the ring at full + run; but, after a while, when the punishment got severe and their + “fitness” began to fail, it became a very exciting question whether or not + a dog would “come to scratch”. The brindled dog's condition was not so + good as the other's. He used to lie on his stomach between the rounds to + rest himself, and several times it looked as if he would not cross the + ring when his turn came. But as soon as time was called he would start to + his feet and limp slowly across glaring steadily at his adversary; then, + as he got nearer, he would quicken his pace, make a savage rush, and in a + moment they would be locked in combat. So they battled on for fifty-six + minutes, till the white dog (who was apparently having all the best of + it), on being called to cross the ring, only went half-way across and + stood there for a minute growling savagely. So he lost the fight. + </p> + <p> + No doubt it was a brutal exhibition. But it was not cruel to the animals + in the same sense that pigeon-shooting or hare-hunting is cruel. The dogs + are born fighters, anxious and eager to fight, desiring nothing better. + Whatever limited intelligence they have is all directed to this one + consuming passion. They could stop when they liked, but anyone looking on + could see that they gloried in the combat. Fighting is like breath to them—they + must have it. Nature has implanted in all animals a fighting instinct for + the weeding out of the physically unfit, and these dogs have an extra + share of that fighting instinct. + </p> + <p> + Of course, now that militarism is going to be abolished, and the world is + going to be so good and teetotal, and only fight in debating societies, + these nasty savage animals will be out of date. We will not be allowed to + keep anything more quarrelsome than a poodle—and a man of the + future, the New Man, whose fighting instincts have not been quite bred out + of him, will, perhaps, be found at grey dawn of a Sunday morning with a + crowd of other unregenerates in some backyard frantically cheering two of + them to mortal combat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HIS MASTERPIECE + </h2> + <p> + Greenhide Billy was a stockman on a Clarence River cattle-station, and + admittedly the biggest liar in the district. He had been for many years + pioneering in the Northern Territory, the other side of the sun-down—a + regular “furthest-out man”—and this assured his reputation among + station-hands who award rank according to amount of experience. + </p> + <p> + Young men who have always hung around the home districts, doing a job of + shearing here or a turn at horse-breaking there, look with reverence on + Riverine or Macquarie-River shearers who come in with tales of runs where + they have 300,000 acres of freehold land and shear 250,000 sheep; these + again pale their ineffectual fires before the glory of the Northern + Territory man who has all-comers on toast, because no one can contradict + him or check his figures. When two of them meet, however, they are not + fools enough to cut down quotations and spoil the market; they lie in + support of each other, and make all other bushmen feel mean and pitiful + and inexperienced. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes a youngster would timidly ask Greenhide Billy about the 'terra + incognita': “What sort of a place is it, Billy—how big are the + properties? How many acres had you in the place you were on?” + </p> + <p> + “Acres be d——d!” Billy would scornfully reply; “hear him + talking about acres! D'ye think we were blanked cockatoo selectors! Out + there we reckon country by the hundred miles. You orter say, 'How many + thousand miles of country?' and then I'd understand you.” + </p> + <p> + Furthermore, according to Billy, they reckoned the rainfall in the + Territory by yards, not inches. He had seen blackfellows who could jump at + least three inches higher than anyone else had ever seen a blackfellow + jump, and every bushman has seen or personally known a blackfellow who + could jump over six feet. Billy had seen bigger droughts, better country, + fatter cattle, faster horses, and cleverer dogs, than any other man on the + Clarence River. But one night when the rain was on the roof, and the river + was rising with a moaning sound, and the men were gathered round the fire + in the hut smoking and staring at the coals, Billy turned himself loose + and gave us his masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + “I was drovin' with cattle from Mungrybanbone to old Corlett's station on + the Buckadowntown River” (Billy always started his stories with some + paralysing bush names). “We had a thousand head of store-cattle, wild, + mountain-bred wretches that'd charge you on sight; they were that handy + with their horns they could skewer a mosquito. There was one or two + one-eyed cattle among 'em—and you know how a one-eyed beast always + keeps movin' away from the mob, pokin' away out to the edge of them so as + they won't git on his blind side, so that by stirrin' about he keeps the + others restless. + </p> + <p> + “They had been scared once or twice, and stampeded and gave us all we + could do to keep them together; and it was wet and dark and thundering, + and it looked like a real bad night for us. It was my watch. I was on one + side of the cattle, like it might be here, with a small bit of a fire; and + my mate, Barcoo Jim, he was right opposite on the other side of the + cattle, and had gone to sleep under a log. The rest of the men were in the + camp fast asleep. Every now and again I'd get on my horse and prowl round + the cattle quiet like, and they seemed to be settled down all right, and I + was sitting by my fire holding my horse and drowsing, when all of a sudden + a blessed 'possum ran out from some saplings and scratched up a tree right + alongside me. I was half-asleep, I suppose, and was startled; anyhow, + never thinking what I was doing, I picked up a firestick out of the fire + and flung it at the 'possum. + </p> + <p> + “Whoop! Before you could say Jack Robertson, that thousand head of cattle + were on their feet, and made one wild, headlong, mad rush right over the + place where poor old Barcoo Jim was sleeping. There was no time to hunt up + materials for the inquest; I had to keep those cattle together, so I + sprang into the saddle, dashed the spurs into the old horse, dropped my + head on his mane, and sent him as hard as he could leg it through the + scrub to get to the lead of the cattle and steady them. It was brigalow, + and you know what that is. + </p> + <p> + “You know how the brigalow grows,” continued Bill; “saplings about as + thick as a man's arm, and that close together a dog can't open his mouth + to bark in 'em. Well, those cattle swept through that scrub, levelling it + like as if it had been cleared for a railway line. They cleared a track a + quarter of a mile wide, and smashed every stick, stump and sapling on it. + You could hear them roaring and their hoofs thundering and the scrub + smashing three or four miles off. + </p> + <p> + “And where was I? I was racing parallel with the cattle, with my head down + on the horse's neck, letting him pick his way through the scrub in the + pitchy darkness. This went on for about four miles. Then the cattle began + to get winded, and I dug into the old stock-horse with the spurs, and got + in front, and began to crack the whip and sing out, so as to steady them a + little; after awhile they dropped slower and slower, and I kept the whip + going. I got them all together in a patch of open country, and there I + rode round and round 'em all night till daylight. + </p> + <p> + “And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; for a man + couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark. The cattle were all + knocked about—horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; but they were + all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as the daylight broke I + took 'em back to the camp—that is, all that could travel, because I + had to leave a few broken-legged ones.” + </p> + <p> + Billy paused in his narrative. He knew that some suggestions would be + made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, + and he prepared himself accordingly. His motto was “No surrender”; he + never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark on them, + he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out the + intruder. + </p> + <p> + “That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy,” said one of the men + at last, admiringly. “It's a wonder you wasn't killed. I suppose your + clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?” + </p> + <p> + “Never touched a twig,” said Billy. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” faltered the inquirer, “then no doubt you had a real ringin' good + stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that full-split in + the dark, and not hit you against anything.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he wasn't a good un,” said Billy decisively, “he was the worst horse + in the camp. Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' down on + his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on him and + pull his ears.” + </p> + <p> + Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best. After a pause + another took up the running. + </p> + <p> + “How did your mate get on, Billy? I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Billy, “he wasn't hurt a bit. I told you he was sleeping under + the shelter of a log. Well, when those cattle rushed they swept over that + log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd took the log in his + stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy by about four inches.” + </p> + <p> + The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well into + their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try. + </p> + <p> + “It's a wonder then, Billy,” he said, “that your mate didn't come after + you and give you a hand to steady the cattle.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps it was,” said Billy, “only that there was a bigger wonder + than that at the back of it.” + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” + </p> + <p> + “My mate never woke up all through it.” + </p> + <p> + Then the men knocked the ashes out of their pipes and went to bed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DONE FOR THE DOUBLE + </h2> + <h3> + by Knott Gold + </h3> + <p> + Author of “Flogged for a Furlong”, “Won by a Winker”, etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter I.—WANTED, A PONY + </h2> + <p> + Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy beyond the dreams + of avarice. Other merchants might dress more lavishly, and wear larger + watch chains; but the bank balance is the true test of mercantile + superiority, and in a trial of bank balances Algernon de Montgomery + Smythers represented Tyson at seven stone. He was unbeatable. + </p> + <p> + He lived in comfort, not to say luxury. He had champagne for breakfast + every morning, and his wife always slept with a pair of diamond earrings + worth a small fortune in her ears. It is things like these that show true + gentility. + </p> + <p> + Though they had been married many years, the A. de M. Smythers had but one + child—a son and heir. No Christmas Day was allowed to pass by his + doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle worth about 150 + pounds, less the discount for cash. He had six play-rooms, all filled with + the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices. He had a + phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, and a mechanical + parrot that sang “The Wearing of the Green”. And still he was not happy. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses and six + under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about with the + little boys he met there. One day he gave one of them a sovereign for a + locust. Certainly the locust was a “double-drummer”, and could deafen the + German Band when shaken up judiciously; still, it was dear at a sovereign. + </p> + <p> + It is ever thus. + </p> + <p> + What we have we do not value, and what other people have we are not strong + enough to take from them. + </p> + <p> + Such is life. + </p> + <p> + Christmas was approaching, and the question of Algy's Christmas present + agitated the bosom of his parents. He already had nearly everything a + child could want; but one morning a bright inspiration struck Algy's + father. Algy should have a pony. + </p> + <p> + With Mr. Smythers to think was to act. He was not a man who believed in + allowing grass to grow under his feet. His motto was, “Up and be doing—somebody.” + So he put an advertisement in the paper that same day. + </p> + <p> + “Wanted, a boy's pony. Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, + intelligent. Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, and motor + 'buses. Any failure in above respects will disqualify. Certificate of + birth required as well as references from last place. Price no object.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter II.—BLINKY BILL'S SACRIFICE + </h2> + <p> + Down in a poverty-stricken part of the city lived Blinky Bill, the + horse-dealer. + </p> + <p> + His yard was surrounded by loose-boxes made of any old timber, galvanized + iron, sheets of roofing-felt, and bark he could gather together. + </p> + <p> + He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts. There were harness horses, + that wouldn't pull, and saddle horses that wouldn't go—or, if they + went, used to fall down. Nearly every animal about the place had something + the matter with it. + </p> + <p> + When the bailiff dropped in, as he did every two or three weeks, Bill and + he would go out together, and “have a punt” on some of Bill's ponies, or + on somebody else's ponies—the latter for choice. But periodical + punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf from the + door. Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not and Blinky + Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation when he saw the + advertisement mentioned at the end of last chapter. + </p> + <p> + It was like a ray of hope to him. At once there flashed upon him what he + must do. + </p> + <p> + He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II. + </p> + <p> + Sausage II. was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day. Time and again + he had gone out to race when, to use William's own words, it was a blue + duck for Bill's chance of keeping afloat; and every time did the gallant + race pony pull his owner through. + </p> + <p> + Bill owed more to Sausage II. than he owed to his creditors. + </p> + <p> + Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy. He + would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, it was quite a + common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky to a country meeting + and look about him for a likely “mark”. If he could find a fleet youth + with a reputedly fast pony, Bill would offer to “pull the little cuddy out + of the sulky and run yer for a fiver.” Sometimes he got beaten; but as he + never paid, that didn't matter. He did not believe in fighting; but he + would always sooner fight than pay. + </p> + <p> + But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end. He had no + feed for his ponies, and no money to buy it; the corn merchant had written + his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse. Under the + circumstances, what was he to do? Sausage II. must be sold. + </p> + <p> + With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected. He saw Mr. + Algernon de Montgomery Smythers, and measured him with his eye. He saw it + would be no use to talk about racing to him, so he went on the other + track. + </p> + <p> + He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, who used to + drive him in a “shay”. There are no shays in this country; but Bill had + read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable. “Yus, sir,” + he said, “'e goes lovely in a shay,” and he was just starting off at + twenty words a second, when he was stopped. + </p> + <p> + Mr. A. de M. Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this he made + a mistake. Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, and + disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to sell this pony, dry up,” he said. “I don't believe a word + you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying.” + </p> + <p> + Fatal mistake! You should never stop a horse-dealer's talk. And call him + anything you like, but never say you doubt his word. + </p> + <p> + Both these things Mr. Smythers did; and, though he bought the pony at a + high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill. + </p> + <p> + As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered to + himself, “Ha! ha! Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II., the + greatest 13.2 pony of the century. Let him beware how he gets alongside + anything. That's all! Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter III.—EXIT ALGY + </h2> + <p> + Christmas Day came. Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled, + and led round to the front door. Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers, + spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the principal + event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate agreed with + her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter. + </p> + <p> + The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those who are fat—the + efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long, miserable walks. + Well has one of our greatest poets written, “Take up the fat man's + burden.” But we digress. + </p> + <p> + When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was + riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave to go out + in the street—and that was where the trouble began. + </p> + <p> + Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till + suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. With a + clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second there was a + rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. Sausage II. was off + after them with his precious burden. + </p> + <p> + The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead + for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he + was left yelping far behind. Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the + flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while + the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way were just one + hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard of + Blinky Bill. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter IV.—RUNNING THE RULE + </h2> + <p> + As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted. + </p> + <p> + “You here,” he said, “Ha, ha, revenge is mine! I'll get a tidy reward for + taking you back, my young shaver.” + </p> + <p> + Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three sovereigns. + These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he was going home + again. He expected to get at least a tenner ready money for bringing Algy + back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the watch into the + bargain. + </p> + <p> + With a light heart he went down town with Algy's watch and sovereigns in + his pocket. He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife with + bad news. + </p> + <p> + “Can't give the boy up,” he said. “I moskenoed his block and tackle, and + blued it in the school.” In other words, he had pawned the boy's watch and + chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing for it but to move,” he said, “and take the kid with us.” + </p> + <p> + So move they did. + </p> + <p> + The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother of + little Algy sought for their lost one. They put the matter into the hands + of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses of the force + to get in their fine work. There was nothing doing. + </p> + <p> + Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy was yet + unsolved. The horse-dealer's revenge was complete. + </p> + <p> + The boy's mother consulted a clairvoyant, who murmured mystically “What + went by the ponies, will come by the ponies;” and with that they had to + remain satisfied. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter V.—THE TRICKS OF THE TURF + </h2> + <p> + It was race day at Pulling'em Park, and the ponies were doing their usual + performances. + </p> + <p> + Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond earrings. + Does the reader recognize her? It is little Algy's mother. Her husband is + dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, and, having developed + a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in “doing it in on the ponies”. + She is one of the biggest bettors in the game. + </p> + <p> + When women take to betting they are worse than men. + </p> + <p> + But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings. She + remembers the clairvoyant's “What went by the ponies will come by the + ponies.” And always she searches in the ranks of the talent for her lost + Algy. + </p> + <p> + Here enters another of our dramatis personae—Blinky Bill, prosperous + once more. He has got a string of ponies and punters together. The first + are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of all + temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters the + mother of the child he stole. But the poor lady regularly punts on his + ponies, and just as regularly is “sent up”—in other words, loses her + money. + </p> + <p> + To-day she has backed Blinky's pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the double. + Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, can win the second + half of the double. Is he on the job? The prices are lengthening against + him, and the poor lady recognises that once more she is “in the cart”. + </p> + <p> + Just then she meets Tin Can's jockey, Dodger Smith, face to face. A + piercing scream rends the atmosphere, as if a thousand school children + drew a thousand slate pencils down a thousand slates simultaneously. “Me + cheild! Me cheild! Me long-lost Algy!” + </p> + <p> + It did not take long to convince Algy that he would be better off as a son + to a wealthy lady than as a jockey, subject to the fiendish caprices of + Blinky Bill. + </p> + <p> + “All right, mother,” he said. “Put all you can raise on Tin Can. I'm going + to send Blinky up. It's time I had a cut on me own, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + The horses went to the post. Tons of money were at the last moment hurled + on to Tin Can. The books, knowing he was “dead”, responded gamely, and + wrote his name till their wrists gave out. Blinky Bill had a half-share in + all the bookies' winnings, so he chuckled grimly as he went to the rails + to watch the race. + </p> + <p> + They're off. And what is this that flashes to the front, while the howls + of the bookies rise like the yelping of fiends in torment? It is Dodger + Smith on Tin Can, and from the grandstand there is a shrill feminine yell + of triumph as the gallant pony sails past the post. + </p> + <p> + The bookies thought that Blinky Bill had sold them, and they discarded him + for ever. + </p> + <p> + Algy and his mother were united, and backed horses together happily ever + after, and sometimes out in the back yard of their palatial mansion they + hand the empty bottles, free of charge, to a poor old broken-down + bottle-O, called Blinky Bill. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Elephant Power, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + +***** This file should be named 307-h.htm or 307-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/307/ + +Produced by A. Light, L. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Three Elephant Power + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #307] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser + + + + + +THREE ELEPHANT POWER AND OTHER STORIES + +by Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson and by Knott Gold + +[Australian Poet, Reporter--1864-1941.] + + +1917 Edition + + + +[Note on text: These stories appeared originally in several +Australian journals.] + + + + +CONTENTS + + Three Elephant Power + The Oracle + The Cast-iron Canvasser + The Merino Sheep + The Bullock + White-when-he's-wanted + The Downfall of Mulligan's + The Amateur Gardener + Thirsty Island + Dan Fitzgerald Explains + The Cat + Sitting in Judgment + The Dog + The Dog--as a Sportsman + Concerning a Steeplechase Rider + Victor Second + Concerning a Dog-fight + His Masterpiece + + Done for the Double by Knott Gold + + + + + +THREE ELEPHANT POWER + + +"Them things," said Alfred the chauffeur, tapping the speed indicator +with his fingers, "them things are all right for the police. But, Lord, +you can fix 'em up if you want to. Did you ever hear about Henery, that +used to drive for old John Bull--about Henery and the elephant?" + +Alfred was chauffeur to a friend of mine who owned a very powerful car. +Alfred was part of that car. Weirdly intelligent, of poor physique, he +might have been any age from fifteen to eighty. His education had been +somewhat hurried, but there was no doubt as to his mechanical ability. +He took to a car like a young duck to water. He talked motor, thought +motor, and would have accepted--I won't say with enthusiasm, for +Alfred's motto was 'Nil admirari'--but without hesitation, an offer to +drive in the greatest race in the world. He could drive really well, +too; as for belief in himself, after six months' apprenticeship in +a garage he was prepared to vivisect a six-cylinder engine with the +confidence of a diplomaed bachelor of engineering. + +Barring a tendency to flash driving, and a delight in persecuting slow +cars by driving just in front of them and letting them come up and enjoy +his dust, and then shooting away again, he was a respectable member of +society. When his boss was in the car he cloaked the natural ferocity of +his instincts; but this day, with only myself on board, and a clear run +of a hundred and twenty miles up to the station before him, he let her +loose, confident that if any trouble occurred I would be held morally +responsible. + +As we flew past a somnolent bush pub, Alfred, whistling softly, leant +forward and turned on a little more oil. + +"You never heard about Henery and the elephant?" he said. "It was dead +funny. Henery was a bushwacker, but clean mad on motorin'. He was wood +and water joey at some squatter's place until he seen a motor-car go +past one day, the first that ever they had in the districk. + +"'That's my game,' says Henery; 'no more wood and water joey for me.' + +"So he comes to town and gets a job off Miles that had that garage at +the back of Allison's. An old cove that they called John Bull--I don't +know his right name, he was a fat old cove--he used to come there to +hire cars, and Henery used to drive him. And this old John Bull he +had lots of stuff, so at last he reckons he's going to get a car for +himself, and he promises Henery a job to drive it. A queer cove this +Henery was--half mad, I think, but the best hand with a car ever I see." + +While he had been talking we topped a hill, and opened up a new stretch +of blue-grey granite-like road. Down at the foot of the hill was a +teamster's waggon in camp; the horses in their harness munching at their +nose-bags, while the teamster and a mate were boiling a billy a little +off to the side of the road. There was a turn in the road just below +the waggon which looked a bit sharp, so of course Alfred bore down on it +like a whirlwind. The big stupid team-horses huddled together and pushed +each other awkwardly as we passed. A dog that had been sleeping in +the shade of the waggon sprang out right in front of the car, and was +exterminated without ever knowing what struck him. + +There was just room to clear the tail of the waggon and negotiate the +turn. Alfred, with the calm decision of a Napoleon, swung round the bend +to find that the teamster's hack, fast asleep, was tied to the tail of +the waggon. Nothing but a lightning-like twist of the steering-wheel +prevented our scooping the old animal up, and taking him on board as a +passenger. As it was, we carried off most of his tail as a trophy on the +brass of the lamp. The old steed, thus rudely awakened, lashed out good +and hard, but by that time we were gone, and he missed the car by a +quarter of a mile. + +During this strenuous episode Alfred never relaxed his professional +stolidity, and, when we were clear, went on with his story in the tone +of a man who found life wanting in animation. + +"Well, at fust, the old man would only buy one of these little +eight-horse rubby-dubbys that go strugglin' up 'ills with a death-rattle +in its throat, and all the people in buggies passin' it. O' course that +didn't suit Henery. He used to get that spiked when a car passed him, +he'd nearly go mad. And one day he nearly got the sack for dodgin' about +up a steep 'ill in front of one o' them big twenty-four Darracqs, full +of 'owlin' toffs, and not lettin' 'em get a chance to go past till they +got to the top. But at last he persuaded old John Bull to let him go +to England and buy a car for him. He was to do a year in the shops, and +pick up all the wrinkles, and get a car for the old man. Bit better than +wood and water joeying, wasn't it?" + +Our progress here was barred by our rounding a corner right on to a +flock of sheep, that at once packed together into a solid mass in front +of us, blocking the whole road from fence to fence. + +"Silly cows o' things, ain't they?" said Alfred, putting on his +emergency brake, and skidding up till the car came softly to rest +against the cushion-like mass--a much quicker stop than any horse-drawn +vehicle could have made. A few sheep were crushed somewhat, but it +is well known that a sheep is practically indestructible by violence. +Whatever Alfred's faults were, he certainly could drive. + +"Well," he went on, lighting a cigarette, unheeding the growls of the +drovers, who were trying to get the sheep to pass the car, "well, as I +was sayin', Henery went to England, and he got a car. Do you know wot he +got?" + +"No, I don't." + +"'E got a ninety," said Alfred slowly, giving time for the words to soak +in. + +"A ninety! What do you mean?" + +"'E got a ninety--a ninety-horse-power racin' engine wot was made +for some American millionaire and wasn't as fast as wot some other +millionaire had, so he sold it for the price of the iron, and Henery got +it, and had a body built for it, and he comes out here and tells us all +it's a twenty mongrel--you know, one of them cars that's made part in +one place and part in another, the body here and the engine there, and +the radiator another place. There's lots of cheap cars made like that. + +"So Henery he says that this is a twenty mongrel--only a four-cylinder +engine; and nobody drops to what she is till Henery goes out one Sunday +and waits for the big Napier that Scotty used to drive--it belonged to +the same bloke wot owned that big racehorse wot won all the races. So +Henery and Scotty they have a fair go round the park while both their +bosses is at church, and Henery beat him out o' sight--fair lost +him--and so Henery was reckoned the boss of the road. No one would take +him on after that." + +A nasty creek-crossing here required Alfred's attention. A little girl, +carrying a billy-can of water, stood by the stepping stones, and smiled +shyly as we passed. Alfred waved her a salute quite as though he were an +ordinary human being. I felt comforted. He had his moments of relaxation +evidently, and his affections like other people. + +"What happened to Henry and the ninety-horse machine?" I asked. "And +where does the elephant come in?" + +Alfred smiled pityingly. + +"Ain't I tellin' yer," he said. "You wouldn't understand if I didn't +tell yer how he got the car and all that. So here's Henery," he went on, +"with old John Bull goin' about in the fastest car in Australia, and +old John, he's a quiet old geezer, that wouldn't drive faster than the +regulations for anything, and that short-sighted he can't see to +the side of the road. So what does Henery do? He fixes up the +speed-indicator--puts a new face on it, so that when the car is doing +thirty, the indicator only shows fifteen, and twenty for forty, and so +on. So out they'd go, and if Henery knew there was a big car in front of +him, he'd let out to forty-five, and the pace would very near blow +the whiskers off old John; and every now and again he'd look at the +indicator, and it'd be showin' twenty-two and a half, and he'd say: + +"'Better be careful, Henery, you're slightly exceedin' the speed limit; +twenty miles an hour, you know, Henery, should be fast enough for +anybody, and you're doing over twenty-two.' + +"Well, one day, Henery told me, he was tryin' to catch up a big car that +just came out from France, and it had a half-hour start of him, and he +was just fairly flyin', and there was a lot of cars on the road, and he +flies past 'em so fast the old man says, 'It's very strange, Henery,' +he says, 'that all the cars that are out to-day are comin' this way,' he +says. You see he was passin' 'em so fast he thought they were all comin' +towards him. + +"And Henery sees a mate of his comin', so he lets out a notch or two, +and the two cars flew by each other like chain lightnin'. They were each +doin' about forty, and the old man, he says, 'There's a driver must be +travellin' a hundred miles an hour,' he says. 'I never see a car go by +so fast in my life,' he says. 'If I could find out who he is, I'd report +him,' he says. 'Did you know the car, Henery?' But of course Henery, he +doesn't know, so on they goes. + +"The owner of the big French car thinks he has the fastest car in +Australia, and when he sees Henery and the old man coming, he tells his +driver to let her out a little; but Henery gives the ninety-horse the +full of the lever, and whips up alongside in one jump. And then he keeps +there just half a length ahead of him, tormentin' him like. And the +owner of the French car he yells out to old John Bull, 'You're going +a nice pace for an old 'un,' he says. Old John has a blink down at +the indicator. 'We're doing twenty-five,' he yells out. 'Twenty-five +grandmothers,' says the bloke; but Henery he put on his accelerator, and +left him. It wouldn't do to let the old man get wise to it, you know." + +We topped a big hill, and Alfred cut off the engine and let the car +swoop, as swiftly and noiselessly as an eagle, down to the flat country +below. + +"You're a long while coming to the elephant, Alfred," I said. + +"Well, now, I'll tell you about the elephant," said Alfred, letting his +clutch in again, and taking up the story to the accompaniment of the +rhythmic throb of the engine. + +"One day Henery and the old man were going out a long trip over the +mountain, and down the Kangaroo Valley Road that's all cut out of the +side of the 'ill. And after they's gone a mile or two, Henery sees a +track in the road--the track of the biggest car he ever seen or 'eard +of. An' the more he looks at it, the more he reckons he must ketch that +car and see what she's made of. So he slows down passin' two yokels on +the road, and he says, 'Did you see a big car along 'ere?' + +"'Yes, we did,' they says. + +"'How big is she?' says Henery. + +"'Biggest car ever we see,' says the yokels, and they laughed that silly +way these yokels always does. + +"'How many horse-power do you think she was?' says Henery. + +"'Horse-power,' they says; 'elephant-power, you mean! She was three +elephant-power,' they says; and they goes 'Haw, haw!' and Henery drops +his clutch in, and off he goes after that car." + +Alfred lit another cigarette as a preliminary to the climax. + +"So they run for miles, and all the time there's the track ahead of 'em, +and Henery keeps lettin' her out, thinkin' that he'll never ketch that +car. They went through a town so fast, the old man he says, 'What house +was that we just passed,' he says. At last they come to the top of the +big 'ill, and there's the tracks of the big car goin' straight down +ahead of 'em. + +"D'you know that road? It's all cut out of the side of the mountain, and +there's places where if she was to side-slip you'd go down 'undreds +of thousands of feet. And there's sharp turns, too; but the surface is +good, so Henery he lets her out, and down they go, whizzin' round the +turns and skatin' out near the edge, and the old cove sittin' there +enjoyin' it, never knowin' the danger. And comin' to one turn Henery +gives a toot on the 'orn, and then he heard somethin' go 'toot, toot' +right away down the mountain. + +"'Bout a mile ahead it seemed to be, and Henery reckoned he'd go another +four miles before he'd ketch it, so he chances them turns more than +ever. And she was pretty hot, too; but he kept her at it, and he hadn't +gone a full mile till he come round a turn about forty miles an hour, +and before he could stop he run right into it, and wot do you think it +was?" + +I hadn't the faintest idea. + +"A circus. One of them travellin' circuses, goin' down the coast; and +one of the elephants had sore feet, so they put him in a big waggon, +and another elephant pulled in front and one pushed behind. Three +elephant-power it was, right enough. That was the waggon wot made the +big track. Well, it was all done so sudden. Before Henery could stop, he +runs the radiator--very near boiling she was--up against the elephant's +tail, and prints the pattern of the latest honeycomb radiator on the +elephant as clear as if you done it with a stencil. + +"The elephant, he lets a roar out of him like one of them bulls +bellerin', and he puts out his nose and ketches Henery round the neck, +and yanks him out of the car, and chucks him right clean over the cliff, +'bout a thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke." + +"Good gracious!" + +"Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course, and the old +man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady, trustworthy man. +'Never get another like him,' he says." + +We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate +into the home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle, came +frisking and cantering after the car, and the rough bush track took +all Alfred's attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing from the +wheels, and began the long pull up to the homestead. Over the clamour of +the little-used second speed, Alfred concluded his narrative. + +"The old bloke advertised," he said, "for another driver, a steady, +reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car. +Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car to fetch +'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive the Napier I was +tellin' you about." + +"And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running a racing +car?" + +"He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he? He's drivin' +about the country now, the boss of the roads, but he won't chance +her near a circus. Thinks he might bump the same elephant. And that +elephant, every time he smells a car passin' in the road, he goes near +mad with fright. If he ever sees that car again, do you think he'd know +it?" + +Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion. + + + + +THE ORACLE + + +No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat, +hairy, and assertive; he is generally one of a party, and takes the +centre of the stage all the time--collects and hands over the fares, +adjusts the change, chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic +stranger next him into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if +they had asked for his opinion. + +He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the +impression that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his +race book, and one of his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a +deferential way: + +"What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?" + +The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else ventures +to speak. + +"Well," he says, at last, "of course there's only one in it--if he's +wanted. But that's it--will they spin him? I don't think they will. +They's only a lot o' cuddies, any'ow." + +No one likes to expose his own ignorance by asking which horse he refers +to as the "only one in it"; and the Oracle goes on to deal out some more +wisdom in a loud voice. + +"Billy K---- told me" (he probably hardly knows Billy K---- by sight) +"Billy K---- told me that that bay 'orse ran the best mile-an'-a-half +ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a chance, for all +that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know when their +horses are well--half of 'em." + +Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, who is +crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle. + +"I think," says the thin man, "that that horse of Flannery's ought to +run well in the Handicap." + +The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort, +wheels half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back to the +compartment full of people, and says: "No 'ope." + +The thin man makes a last effort. "Well, they backed him last night, +anyhow." + +"Who backed 'im?" says the Oracle. + +"In Tattersall's," says the thin man. + +"I'm sure," says the Oracle; and the thin man collapses. + +On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by +his string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the +horses. Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the +Oracle doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge. + +"'Ere's Blue Fire," he says, stopping at that animal's stall, and +swinging his race book. "Good old Blue Fire!" he goes on loudly, as a +little court collects. "Jimmy B----" (mentioning a popular jockey) "told +me he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only been ridden +different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day. Lor', the races +that has been chucked away on this horse. They will not ride him right." + +A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. "This isn't Blue +Fire," he says. "Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old +filly that's in the stall----" + +"Well, I can see that, can't I," says the Oracle, crushingly. "You +don't suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?" and he moves off +hurriedly. + +"Now, look here, you chaps," he says to his followers at last. "You wait +here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do to have +a crowd with you. There's Jimmy M---- over there now" (pointing to a +leading trainer). "I'll get hold of him in a minute. He couldn't tell me +anything with so many about. Just you wait here." + +He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall, +and overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, "What do you +like?" to which the other answers, "Well, either this or Royal Scot. I +think I'll put a bit on Royal Scot." This is enough for the Oracle. He +doesn't know either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses from +the great original pachyderm, but the information will do to go on with. +He rejoins his followers, and looks very mysterious. + +"Well, did you hear anything?" they say. + +The Oracle talks low and confidentially. + +"The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid of +anything but Royal Scot," he says. "I think we'd better put a bit on +both." + +"What did the Royal Scot crowd say?" asks an admirer deferentially. + +"Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, and he +told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, you +needn't say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell." And +the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think what a +privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man. + +They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a +pound, others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to +invest, half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the +favourite is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one +being offered against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a +Whisperer (one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get +their living in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving "tips" to +backers) pulls his sleeve. + +"What are you backing?" he says. + +"Favourite and Royal Scot," says the Oracle. + +"Put a pound on Bendemeer," says the tipster. "It's a certainty. Meet +me here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something for the next race. +Don't miss it now. Get on quick!" + +The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. A +bookmaker roars "10 to 1 Bendemeer;" he suddenly fishes out a sovereign +of his own--and he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness--and +puts it on Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite and +Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race. + +The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals with +little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple, +French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner, +and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out +where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite he has lost +interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be left at the post +or break their necks; but he does not confide his sentiment to his +companions. + +They're off! The long line of colours across the track becomes a +shapeless clump and then draws out into a long string. "What's that in +front?" yells someone at the rails. "Oh, that thing of Hart's," says +someone else. But the Oracle hears them not; he is looking in the mass +of colour for a purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands. He +cannot see it anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass swings round +the turn into the straight. + +Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of "Bendemeer! +Bendemeer!" and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, takes +up the cry feverishly. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" he yells, waggling his +glasses about, trying to see where the animal is. + +"Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?" screams one of his +friends, in agony. "'Ow's he doin'?" + +"No 'ope!" says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" + +The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses +seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be a +dozen nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front +of the others, and a small man at the Oracle's side emits a deafening +series of yells right by the Oracle's ear: + +"Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It's a cake-walk! A cake-walk!" +The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, seems to stick his body clear +of his opponents, and passes the post a winner by a length. The Oracle +doesn't know what has won, but fumbles with his book. The number on the +saddle-cloth catches his eye--No. 7; he looks hurriedly down the page. +No. 7--Royal Scot. Second is No. 24--Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere. + +Hardly has he realised it, before his friends are cheering and clapping +him on the back. "By George, Charley, it takes you to pick 'em." "Come +and 'ave a wet!" "You 'ad a quid in, didn't you, Charley?" The Oracle +feels very sick at having missed the winner, but he dies game. "Yes, +rather; I had a quid on," he says. "And" (here he nerves himself to +smile) "I had a saver on the second, too." + +His comrades gasp with astonishment. "D'you hear that, eh? Charley +backed first and second. That's pickin' 'em if you like." They have a +wet, and pour fulsome adulation on the Oracle when he collects their +money. + +After the Oracle has collected the winnings for his friends he meets the +Whisperer again. + +"It didn't win?" he says to the Whisperer in inquiring tones. + +"Didn't win," says the Whisperer, who has determined to brazen the +matter out. "How could he win? Did you see the way he was ridden? That +horse was stiffened just after I seen you, and he never tried a yard. +Did you see the way he was pulled and hauled about at the turn? It'd +make a man sick. What was the stipendiary stewards doing, I wonder?" + +This fills the Oracle with a new idea. All that he remembers of the race +at the turn was a jumble of colours, a kaleidoscope of horses and of +riders hanging on to the horses' necks. But it wouldn't do to admit that +he didn't see everything, and didn't know everything; so he plunges in +boldly. + +"O' course I saw it," he says. "And a blind man could see it. They ought +to rub him out." + +"Course they ought," says the Whisperer. "But, look here, put two quid +on Tell-tale; you'll get it all back!" + +The Oracle does put on "two quid", and doesn't get it all back. Neither +does he see any more of this race than he did of the last one--in fact, +he cheers wildly when the wrong horse is coming in. But when the public +begin to hoot he hoots as loudly as anybody--louder if anything; and all +the way home in the tram he lays down the law about stiff running, and +wants to know what the stipendiaries are doing. + +If you go into any barber's shop, you can hear him at it, and he +flourishes in suburban railway carriages; but he has a tremendous local +reputation, having picked first and second in the handicap, and it would +be a bold man who would venture to question the Oracle's knowledge of +racing and of all matters relating to it. + + + + +THE CAST-IRON CANVASSER + + +The firm of Sloper and Dodge, publishers and printers, was in great +distress. These two enterprising individuals had worked up an enormous +business in time-payment books, which they sold all over Australia +by means of canvassers. They had put all the money they had into the +business; and now, just when everything was in thorough working order, +the public had revolted against them. + +Their canvassers were molested by the country folk in divers strange +bush ways. One was made drunk, and then a two-horse harrow was run over +him; another was decoyed into the ranges on pretence of being shown a +gold-mine, and his guide galloped away and left him to freeze all night +in the bush. In mining localities the inhabitants were called together +by beating a camp-oven lid with a pick, and the canvasser was given ten +minutes in which to get out of the town alive. If he disregarded the +hint he would, as likely as not, fall accidentally down a disused shaft. + +The people of one district applied to their M.P. to have canvassers +brought under the "Noxious Animals Act", and demanded that a reward +should be offered for their scalps. Reports appeared in the country +press about strange, gigantic birds that appeared at remote selections +and frightened the inhabitants to death--these were Sloper and Dodge's +sober and reliable agents, wearing neat, close-fitting suits of tar and +feathers. + +In fact, it was altogether too hot for the canvassers, and they came +in from North and West and South, crippled and disheartened, to tender +their resignations. To make matters worse, Sloper and Dodge had just +got out a large Atlas of Australasia, and if they couldn't sell it, ruin +stared them in the face; and how could they sell it without canvassers? + +The members of the firm sat in their private office. Sloper was a long, +sanctimonious individual, very religious and very bald. Dodge was a +little, fat American, with bristly, black hair and beard, and quick, +beady eyes. He was eternally smoking a reeking black pipe, and puffing +the smoke through his nose in great whiffs, like a locomotive on a +steep grade. Anybody walking into one of those whiffs was liable to get +paralysis. + +Just as things were at their very blackest, something had turned up that +promised to relieve all their difficulties. An inventor had offered to +supply them with a patent cast-iron canvasser--a figure which (he said) +when wound up would walk, talk, collect orders, and stand any amount +of ill-usage and wear and tear. If this could indeed be done, they +were saved. They had made an appointment with the genius; but he was +half-an-hour late, and the partners were steeped in gloom. + +They had begun to despair of his appearing at all, when a cab rattled up +to the door. Sloper and Dodge rushed unanimously to the window. A +young man, very badly dressed, stepped out of the cab, holding over +his shoulder what looked like the upper half of a man's body. In his +disengaged hand he held a pair of human legs with boots and trousers on. +Thus burdened he turned to ask his fare, but the cabman gave a yell of +terror, whipped up his horse, and disappeared at a hand-gallop; and a +woman who happened to be going by, ran down the street, howling that +Jack the Ripper had come to town. The man bolted in at the door, and +toiled up the dark stairs tramping heavily, the legs and feet, which he +dragged after him, making an unearthly clatter. He came in and put his +burden down on the sofa. + +"There you are, gents," he said; "there's your canvasser." + +Sloper and Dodge recoiled in horror. The upper part of the man had a +waxy face, dull, fishy eyes, and dark hair; he lounged on the sofa like +a corpse at ease, while his legs and feet stood by, leaning stiffly +against the wall. The partners gazed at him for a while in silence. + +"Fix him together, for God's sake," said Dodge. "He looks awful." + +The Genius grinned, and fixed the legs on. + +"Now he looks better," said Dodge, poking about the figure--"looks +as much like life as most--ah, would you, you brute!" he exclaimed, +springing back in alarm, for the figure had made a violent La Blanche +swing at him. + +"That's all right," said the Inventor. "It's no good having his face +knocked about, you know--lot of trouble to make that face. His head and +body are full of springs, and if anybody hits him in the face, or in the +pit of the stomach--favourite places to hit canvassers, the pit of the +stomach--it sets a strong spring in motion, and he fetches his right +hand round with a swipe that'll knock them into the middle of next week. +It's an awful hit. Griffo couldn't dodge it, and Slavin couldn't stand +up against it. No fear of any man hitting _him_ twice. + +"And he's dog-proof, too. His legs are padded with tar and oakum, and +if a dog bites a bit out of him, it will take that dog weeks to pick his +teeth clean. Never bite anybody again, that dog won't. And he'll talk, +talk, talk, like a suffragist gone mad; his phonograph can be charged +for 100,000 words, and all you've got to do is to speak into it what you +want him to say, and he'll say it. He'll go on saying it till he talks +his man silly, or gets an order. He has an order-form in his hand, and +as soon as anyone signs it and gives it back to him, that sets another +spring in motion, and he puts the order in his pocket, turns round, and +walks away. Grand idea, isn't he? Lor' bless you, I fairly love him." + +He beamed affectionately on his monster. + +"What about stairs?" said Dodge. + +"No stairs in the bush," said the Inventor, blowing a speck of dust off +his apparition; "all ground-floor houses. Anyhow, if there were stairs +we could carry him up and let him fall down afterwards, or get flung +down like any other canvasser." + +"Ha! Let's see him walk," said Dodge. + +The figure walked all right, stiff and erect. + +"Now let's hear him yabber." + +The Genius touched a spring, and instantly, in a queer, tin-whistly +voice, he began to sing, "Little Annie Rooney". + +"Good!" said Dodge; "he'll do. We'll give you your price. Leave him here +to-night, and come in to-morrow. We'll send you off to the back country +with him. Ninemile would be a good place to start in. Have a cigar?" + +Mr. Dodge, much elated, sucked at his pipe, and blew through his nose a +cloud of nearly solid smoke, through which the Genius sidled out. They +could hear him sneezing and choking all the way down the stairs. + +Ninemile is a quiet little place, sleepy beyond description. When the +mosquitoes in that town settle on anyone, they usually go to sleep, and +forget to bite him. The climate is so hot that the very grasshoppers +crawl into the hotel parlours out of the sun, climb up the window +curtains, and then go to sleep. The Riot Act never had to be read in +Ninemile. The only thing that can arouse the inhabitants out of their +lethargy is the prospect of a drink at somebody else's expense. + +For these reasons it had been decided to start the Cast-iron Canvasser +there, and then move him on to more populous and active localities if he +proved a success. They sent up the Genius, and one of their men who knew +the district well. The Genius was to manage the automaton, and the other +was to lay out the campaign, choose the victims, and collect the money, +geniuses being notoriously unreliable and loose in their cash. They got +through a good deal of whisky on the way up, and when they arrived at +Ninemile were in a cheerful mood, and disposed to take risks. + +"Who'll we begin on?" said the Genius. + +"Oh, hang it all," said the other, "let's make a start with Macpherson." + +Macpherson was a Land Agent, and the big bug of the place. He was a +gigantic Scotchman, six feet four in his socks, and freckled all over +with freckles as big as half-crowns. His eyebrows would have made +decent-sized moustaches for a cavalryman, and his moustaches looked like +horns. He was a fighter from the ground up, and had a desperate "down" +on canvassers generally, and on Sloper and Dodge's canvassers in +particular. + +Sloper and Dodge had published a book called "Remarkable Colonials", and +Macpherson had written out his own biography for it. He was intensely +proud of his pedigree and his relations, and in his narrative made out +that he was descended from the original Fhairshon who swam round Noah's +Ark with his title-deeds in his teeth. He showed how his people had +fought under Alexander the Great and Timour, and had come over to +Scotland some centuries before William the Conqueror landed in England. +He proved that he was related in a general way to one emperor, fifteen +kings, twenty-five dukes, and earls and lords and viscounts innumerable. +And then, after all, the editor of "Remarkable Colonials" managed to mix +him up with some other fellow, some low-bred Irish McPherson, born in +Dublin of poor but honest parents. + +It was a terrible outrage. Macpherson became president of the Western +District Branch of the "Remarkable Colonials" Defence League, a fierce +and homicidal association got up to resist, legally and otherwise, +paying for the book. He had further sworn by all he held sacred that +every canvasser who came to harry him in future should die, and had put +up a notice on his office-door, "Canvassers come in at their own risk." + +He had a dog of what he called the Hold'em breed, who could tell a +canvasser by his walk, and would go for him on sight. The reader will +understand, therefore, that, when the Genius and his mate proposed to +start on Macpherson, they were laying out a capacious contract for +the Cast-iron Canvasser, and could only have been inspired by a morbid +craving for excitement, aided by the influence of backblock whisky. + +The Inventor wound the figure up in the back parlour of the pub. There +were a frightful lot of screws to tighten before the thing would work, +but at last he said it was ready, and they shambled off down the street, +the figure marching stiffly between them. It had a book tucked under +its arm and an order-form in its hand. When they arrived opposite +Macpherson's office, the Genius started the phonograph working, pointed +the figure straight at Macpherson's door, and set it going. Then the two +conspirators waited, like Guy Fawkes in his cellar. + +The automaton marched across the road and in at the open door, talking +to itself loudly in a hoarse, unnatural voice. + +Macpherson was writing at his table, and looked up. + +The figure walked bang through a small collection of flower-pots, sent +a chair flying, tramped heavily in the spittoon, and then brought up +against the table with a loud crash and stood still. It was talking all +the time. + +"I have here," it said, "a most valuable work, an Atlas of Australia, +which I desire to submit to your notice. The large and increasing demand +of bush residents for time-payment works has induced the publishers of +this----" + +"My God!" said Macpherson, "it's a canvasser. Here, Tom Sayers, Tom +Sayers!" and he whistled and called for his dog. "Now," he said, "will +you go out of this office quietly, or will you be thrown out? It's for +yourself to decide, but you've only got while a duck wags his tail to +decide in. Which'll it be?" + +"---- works of modern ages," said the canvasser. "Every person +subscribing to this invaluable work will receive, in addition, a +flat-iron, a railway pass for a year, and a pocket-compass. If you will +please sign this order----" + +Just here Tom Sayers came tearing through the office, and without +waiting for orders hitched straight on to the canvasser's calf. To +Macpherson's amazement the piece came clear away, and Tom Sayers rolled +about on the floor with his mouth full of a sticky substance which +seemed to surprise him badly. + +The long Scotchman paused awhile before this mystery, but at last +he fancied he had got the solution. "Got a cork leg, have you?" said +he--"Well, let's see if your ribs are cork too," and he struck the +canvasser an awful blow on the fifth button of the waistcoat. + +Quicker than lightning came that terrific right-hand cross-counter. +Macpherson never even knew what happened to him. The canvasser's right +hand, which had been adjusted by his inventor for a high blow, had +landed on the butt of Macpherson's ear and dropped him like a fowl. The +gasping, terrified bull-dog fled the scene, and the canvasser stood over +his fallen foe, still intoning the virtues of his publication. He had +come there merely as a friend, he said, to give the inhabitants of +Ninemile a chance to buy a book which had recently earned the approval +of King O'Malley and His Excellency the Governor-General. + +The Genius and his mate watched this extraordinary drama through the +window. The stimulant habitually consumed by the Ninemilers had induced +in them a state of superlative Dutch courage, and they looked upon the +whole affair as a wildly hilarious joke. + +"By Gad! he's done him," said the Genius, as Macpherson went down, "done +him in one hit. If he don't pay as a canvasser I'll take him to town +and back him to fight Les Darcy. Look out for yourself; don't you handle +him!" he continued as the other approached the figure. "Leave him to +me. As like as not, if you get fooling about him, he'll give you a clout +that'll paralyse you." + +So saying, he guided the automaton out of the office and into the +street, and walked straight into a policeman. + +By a common impulse the Genius and his mate ran rapidly away in +different directions, leaving the figure alone with the officer. + +He was a fully-ordained sergeant--by name Aloysius O'Grady; a squat, +rosy little Irishman. He hated violent arrests and all that sort of +thing, and had a faculty of persuading drunks and disorderlies and other +fractious persons to "go quietly along wid him," that was little short +of marvellous. Excited revellers, who were being carried by their mates, +struggling violently, would break away to prance gaily along to the +lock-up with the sergeant. Obstinate drunks who had done nothing but lie +on the ground and kick their feet in the air, would get up like birds, +serpent-charmed, to go with him to durance vile. + +As soon as he saw the canvasser, and noted his fixed, unearthly stare, +and listened to his hoarse, unnatural voice, the sergeant knew what was +the matter; it was a man in the horrors, a common enough spectacle at +Ninemile. He resolved to decoy him into the lock-up, and accosted him in +a friendly, free-and-easy way. + +"Good day t'ye," he said. + +"---- most magnificent volume ever published, jewelled in fourteen +holes, working on a ruby roller, and in a glass case," said the +book-canvasser. "The likenesses of the historical personages are +so natural that the book must not be left open on the table, or the +mosquitoes will ruin it by stinging the portraits." + +It then dawned on the sergeant that this was no mere case of the +horrors--he was dealing with a book-canvasser. + +"Ah, sure," he said, "fwhat's the use uv tryin' to sell books at all, at +all; folks does be peltin' them out into the street, and the nanny-goats +lives on them these times. Oi send the childer out to pick 'em up, and +we have 'em at me place in barrow-loads. Come along wid me now, and +Oi'll make you nice and comfortable for the night," and he laid his hand +on the outstretched palm of the figure. + +It was a fatal mistake. He had set in motion the machinery which +operated the figure's left arm, and it moved that limb in towards its +body, and hugged the sergeant to its breast, with a vice-like grip. Then +it started in a faltering and uneven, but dogged, way to walk towards +the river. + +"Immortial Saints!" gasped the sergeant, "he's squazin' the livin' +breath out uv me. Lave go now loike a dacent sowl, lave go. And oh, +for the love uv God, don't be shpakin' into me ear that way;" for the +figure's mouth was pressed tight against the sergeant's ear, and its +awful voice went through and through the little man's head, as it held +forth about the volume. The sergeant struggled violently, and by so +doing set some more springs in motion, and the figure's right arm +made terrific swipes in the air. A following of boys and loafers had +collected by this time. "Blimey, how does he lash out!" was the remark +they made. But they didn't interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's +frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his +subordinate, Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene. + +Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition, +was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney, +and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious "pushes" of Bondi, +Surry Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's +play, and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; it was +beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. If they +wouldn't come any other way, he would take them by the ankles and drag +them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp of an +inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight. + +"I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant," he said, and he caught hold of +the figure's right arm, to put on the "police twist". Unfortunately, +at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in the +creature's breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, it +lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley a thud +on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot. + +For a few minutes he "lay as only dead men lie". Then he got up bit by +bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, and mentioned casually +to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, and had taken +the sergeant away to drown him. After which, having given orders that +anybody who called was to be told that he had gone fifteen miles out of +town to serve a summons on a man for not registering a dog, he locked +himself up in a cell for the rest of the day. + +Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant tightly +clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river. +Something had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now +positively shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled, the +little man yelled still louder. + +"Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!" He beat with +his fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail. A short, +staggering rush, a wild shriek from the officer, and they both toppled +over the steep bank and went souse into the depths of Ninemile Creek. + +That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate returned to town +hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted for murder. Constable +Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police which contained so many +strange statements that the Police department concluded the sergeant +must have got drunk and drowned himself, and that Dooley saw him do it, +but was too drunk to pull him out. + +Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report of the +occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers. As a matter of fact the +storekeeper did think of writing one, but decided that it was too much +trouble. There was some idea of asking the Government to fish the two +bodies out of the river; but about that time an agitation was started +in Ninemile to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else +mattered. + +The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand of +whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became a Sub-Inspector of +Police; Sloper entered the Christian ministry; Dodge was elected to the +Federal Parliament; and a vague tradition about "a bloke who came up +here in the horrors, and drownded poor old O'Grady," is the only memory +that remains of that wonderful creation, the Cast-iron Canvasser. + + + + +THE MERINO SHEEP + + +People have got the impression that the merino is a gentle, bleating +animal that gets its living without trouble to anybody, and comes up +every year to be shorn with a pleased smile upon its amiable face. It is +my purpose here to exhibit the merino sheep in its true light. + +First let us give him his due. No one can accuse him of being a +ferocious animal. No one could ever say that a sheep attacked him +without provocation; although there is an old bush story of a man who +was discovered in the act of killing a neighbour's wether. + +"Hello!" said the neighbour, "What's this? Killing my sheep! What have +you got to say for yourself?" + +"Yes," said the man, with an air of virtuous indignation. "I _am_ killing +your sheep. I'll kill _any_ man's sheep that bites _me_!" + +But as a rule the merino refrains from using his teeth on people. He +goes to work in another way. + +The truth is that he is a dangerous monomaniac, and his one idea is to +ruin the man who owns him. With this object in view he will display a +talent for getting into trouble and a genius for dying that are almost +incredible. + +If a mob of sheep see a bush fire closing round them, do they run away +out of danger? Not at all, they rush round and round in a ring till the +fire burns them up. If they are in a river-bed, with a howling flood +coming down, they will stubbornly refuse to cross three inches of water +to save themselves. Dogs may bark and men may shriek, but the sheep +won't move. They will wait there till the flood comes and drowns them +all, and then their corpses go down the river on their backs with their +feet in the air. + +A mob will crawl along a road slowly enough to exasperate a snail, but +let a lamb get away in a bit of rough country, and a racehorse can't +head him back again. If sheep are put into a big paddock with water in +three corners of it, they will resolutely crowd into the fourth, and die +of thirst. + +When being counted out at a gate, if a scrap of bark be left on the +ground in the gateway, they will refuse to step over it until dogs and +men have sweated and toiled and sworn and "heeled 'em up", and "spoke +to 'em", and fairly jammed them at it. At last one will gather courage, +rush at the fancied obstacle, spring over it about six feet in the air, +and dart away. The next does exactly the same, but jumps a bit higher. +Then comes a rush of them following one another in wild bounds like +antelopes, until one overjumps himself and alights on his head. This +frightens those still in the yard, and they stop running out. + +Then the dogging and shrieking and hustling and tearing have to be gone +through all over again. (This on a red-hot day, mind you, with clouds +of blinding dust about, the yolk of wool irritating your eyes, and, +perhaps, three or four thousand sheep to put through). The delay throws +out the man who is counting, and he forgets whether he left off at 45 +or 95. The dogs, meanwhile, have taken the first chance to slip over +the fence and hide in the shade somewhere, and then there are loud +whistlings and oaths, and calls for Rover and Bluey. At last a +dirt-begrimed man jumps over the fence, unearths Bluey, and hauls him +back by the ear. Bluey sets to work barking and heeling-'em up again, +and pretends that he thoroughly enjoys it; but all the while he is +looking out for another chance to "clear". And _this_ time he won't be +discovered in a hurry. + +There is a well-authenticated story of a ship-load of sheep that was +lost because an old ram jumped overboard, and all the rest followed him. +No doubt they did, and were proud to do it. A sheep won't go through +an open gate on his own responsibility, but he would gladly and proudly +"follow the leader" through the red-hot portals of Hades: and it makes +no difference whether the lead goes voluntarily, or is hauled struggling +and kicking and fighting every inch of the way. + +For pure, sodden stupidity there is no animal like the merino. A lamb +will follow a bullock-dray, drawn by sixteen bullocks and driven by +a profane person with a whip, under the impression that the aggregate +monstrosity is his mother. A ewe never knows her own lamb by sight, and +apparently has no sense of colour. She can recognise its voice half a +mile off among a thousand other voices apparently exactly similar; but +when she gets within five yards of it she starts to smell all the other +lambs within reach, including the black ones--though her own may be +white. + +The fiendish resemblance which one sheep bears to another is a great +advantage to them in their struggles with their owners. It makes it more +difficult to draft them out of a strange flock, and much harder to tell +when any are missing. + +Concerning this resemblance between sheep, there is a story told of +a fat old Murrumbidgee squatter who gave a big price for a famous ram +called Sir Oliver. He took a friend out one day to inspect Sir Oliver, +and overhauled that animal with a most impressive air of sheep-wisdom. + +"Look here," he said, "at the fineness of the wool. See the serrations +in each thread of it. See the density of it. Look at the way his legs +and belly are clothed--he's wool all over, that sheep. Grand animal, +grand animal!" + +Then they went and had a drink, and the old squatter said, "Now, I'll +show you the difference between a champion ram and a second-rater." So +he caught a ram and pointed out his defects. "See here--not half the +serrations that other sheep had. No density of fleece to speak of. +Bare-bellied as a pig, compared with Sir Oliver. Not that this isn't +a fair sheep, but he'd be dear at one-tenth Sir Oliver's price. By the +way, Johnson" (to his overseer), "what ram _is_ this?" + +"That, sir," replied the astounded functionary--"that _is_ Sir Oliver, +sir!" + +There is another kind of sheep in Australia, as great a curse in his own +way as the merino--namely, the cross-bred, or half-merino-half-Leicester +animal. The cross-bred will get through, under, or over any fence you +like to put in front of him. He is never satisfied with his owner's run, +but always thinks other people's runs must be better, so he sets off to +explore. He will strike a course, say, south-east, and so long as +the fit takes him he will keep going south-east through all +obstacles--rivers, fences, growing crops, anything. The merino relies on +passive resistance for his success; the cross-bred carries the war into +the enemy's camp, and becomes a living curse to his owner day and night. + +Once there was a man who was induced in a weak moment to buy twenty +cross-bred rams. From that hour the hand of Fate was upon him. They +got into all the paddocks they shouldn't have been in. They scattered +themselves over the run promiscuously. They visited the cultivation +paddock and the vegetable-garden at their own sweet will. And then they +took to roving. In a body they visited the neighbouring stations, and +played havoc with the sheep all over the district. + +The wretched owner was constantly getting fiery letters from his +neighbours: "Your blanky rams are here. Come and take them away at +once," and he would have to go nine or ten miles to drive them home. Any +man who has tried to drive rams on a hot day knows what purgatory is. He +was threatened every week with actions for trespass. + +He tried shutting them up in the sheep-yard. They got out and went back +to the garden. Then he gaoled them in the calf-pen. Out again and into +a growing crop. Then he set a boy to watch them; but the boy went to +sleep, and they were four miles away across country before he got on to +their tracks. + +At length, when they happened accidentally to be at home on their +owner's run, there came a big flood. His sheep, mostly merinos, had +plenty of time to get on to high ground and save their lives; but, of +course, they didn't, and were almost all drowned. The owner sat on a +rise above the waste of waters and watched the dead animals go by. He +was a ruined man. But he said, "Thank God, those cross-bred rams are +drowned, anyhow." Just as he spoke there was a splashing in the water, +and the twenty rams solemnly swam ashore and ranged themselves in front +of him. They were the only survivors of his twenty thousand sheep. +He broke down, and was taken to an asylum for insane paupers. The +cross-breds had fulfilled their destiny. + +The cross-bred drives his owner out of his mind, but the merino ruins +his man with greater celerity. Nothing on earth will kill cross-breds; +nothing will keep merinos alive. If they are put on dry salt-bush +country they die of drought. If they are put on damp, well-watered +country they die of worms, fluke, and foot-rot. They die in the wet +seasons and they die in the dry ones. + +The hard, resentful look on the faces of all bushmen comes from a long +course of dealing with merino sheep. The merino dominates the bush, +and gives to Australian literature its melancholy tinge, its despairing +pathos. The poems about dying boundary-riders, and lonely graves under +mournful she-oaks, are the direct outcome of the poet's too close +association with that soul-destroying animal. A man who could write +anything cheerful after a day in the drafting-yards would be a freak of +nature. + + + + +THE BULLOCK + + +The typical Australian bullock--long-horned, sullen-eyed, stupid, and +vindictive--is bred away out in Queensland, on remote stations in the +Never Never land, where men live on damper and beef, and occasionally +eat a whole bottle of hot pickles at a sitting, simply to satisfy their +craving for vegetable food. Here, under the blazing tropic sun, among +flies and dust and loneliness, they struggle with the bullock from +year's end to year's end. It is not to be supposed that they take up +this kind of thing for fun. The man who worked cattle for sport would +wheel bricks for amusement. + +At periodical intervals a boom in cattle-country arises in the cities, +and syndicates are formed to take up country and stock it. It looks so +beautifully simple--_on paper_. + +You get your country, thousands of miles of it, for next to nothing. +You buy your breeding herd for a ridiculously small sum, on long-dated +bills. Your staff consists of a manager, who toils for a share of the +profits, a couple of half-civilized white stockmen at low wages, and +a handful of blacks, who work harder for a little opium ash than they +would for much money. Plant costs nothing, improvements nothing--no +woolshed is needed, there are no shearers to pay, and no carriage to +market, for the bullock walks himself down to his doom. Granted that +prices are low, still it is obvious that there must be huge profits in +the business. So the cattle start away out to "the country", where they +are supposed to increase and multiply, and enrich their owners. Alas! +for such hopes. There is a curse on cattle. + +No one has ever been able to explain exactly how the deficit arises. +Put the figures before the oldest and most experienced cattleman, and he +will fail to show why they don't work out right. And yet they never do. +It is not the fault of the cattle themselves. Sheep would rather die +than live--and when one comes to think of the life they lead, one can +easily understand their preference for death; but cattle, if given half +a chance, will do their best to prolong their existence. + +If they are running on low-lying country and are driven off when a flood +comes, they will probably walk back into the flood-water and get drowned +as soon as their owner turns his back. But, as a rule, cattle are not +suicidal. They sort themselves into mobs, they pick out the best bits of +country, they find their way to the water, they breed habitually; but it +always ends in the same way. The hand of Fate is against them. + +If a drought comes, they eat off the grass near the water and have to +travel far out for a feed. Then they fall away and get weak, and when +they come down to drink they get bogged in the muddy waterholes and die +there. + +Or Providence sends the pleuro, and big strong beasts slink away by +themselves, and stand under trees glaring savagely till death comes. +Or else the tick attacks them, and soon a fine, strong beast becomes +a miserable, shrunken, tottering wreck. Once cattle get really low in +condition they are done for. Sheep can be shifted when their pasture +fails, but you can't shift cattle. They die quicker on the roads than +on the run. The only thing is to watch and pray for rain. It always +comes--after the cattle are dead. + +As for describing the animals themselves, it would take volumes. Sheep +are all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road +get to know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock--the +one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, the inquisitive +bullock that is always walking over towards the drover as if he were +going to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always trying to get +up a stampede and prodding the others with his horns. + +In poor Boake's "Where the Dead Men Lie" he says: + + Only the hand of Night can free them-- + That's when the dead men fly! + Only the frightened cattle see them-- + See the dead men go by! + Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, + Bidding the stockman know no leisure-- + That's when the dead men take their pleasure! + That's when the dead men fly! + +Cattle on a camp see ghosts, sure enough--else, why is it that, when +hundreds are in camp at night--some standing, some lying asleep, all +facing different ways--in an instant, at some invisible cause of alarm, +the whole mob are on their feet and all racing _in the same direction_, +away from some unseen terror? + +It doesn't do to sneak round cattle at night; it is better to whistle +and sing than to surprise them by a noiseless appearance. Anyone +sneaking about frightens them, and then they will charge right over +the top of somebody on the opposite side, and away into the darkness, +becoming more and more frightened as they go, smashing against trees and +stumps, breaking legs and ribs, and playing the dickens with themselves +generally. Cattle "on the road" are unaccountable animals; one cannot +say for certain what they will do. In this respect they differ from +sheep, whose movements can be predicted with absolute certainty. + +All the cussedness of the bovine race is centred in the cow. In +Australia the most opprobious epithet one can apply to a man or other +object is "cow". In the whole range of a bullock-driver's vocabulary +there is no word that expresses his blistering scorn so well as "cow". +To an exaggerated feminine perversity the cow adds a fiendish ingenuity +in making trouble. + +A quiet milking-cow will "plant" her calf with such skill that ten +stockmen cannot find him in a one-mile paddock. While the search goes on +she grazes unconcernedly, as if she never had a calf in her life. If +by chance he be discovered, then one notices a curious thing. The very +youngest calf, the merest staggering-Bob two days old, will not move +till the old lady gives him orders to do so. One may pull him about +without getting a move out of him. If sufficiently persecuted he will +at last sing out for help, and then his mother will arrive full-gallop, +charge men and horses indiscriminately, and clear out with him to the +thickest timber in the most rugged part of the creek-bed, defying man to +get her to the yard. + +While in his mother's company he seconds her efforts with great +judgment. But, if he be separated from her, he will follow a horse and +rider up to the yard thinking he is following his mother, though +she bellow instructions to him from the rear. Then the guileless +agriculturist, having penned him up, sets a dog on him, and his cries +soon fetch the old cow full-run to his assistance. Once in the yard +she is roped, hauled into the bail, propped up to prevent her throwing +herself down, and milked by sheer brute-force. After a while she +steadies down and will walk into the bail, knowing her turn and behaving +like a respectable female. + +Cows and calves have no idea of sound or distance. If a cow is on the +opposite side of the fence, and wishes to communicate with her calf, she +will put her head through the fence, place her mouth against his ear as +if she were going to whisper, and then utter a roar that can be heard +two miles off. It would stun a human being; but the calf thinks it over +for a moment, and then answers with a prolonged yell in the old cow's +ear. So the dialogue goes on for hours without either party dropping +dead. + +There is an element of danger in dealing with cattle that makes men +smart and self-reliant and independent. Men who deal with sheep get +gloomy and morbid, and are for ever going on strike. Nobody ever heard +of a stockman's strike. The true stockrider thinks himself just as good +a man as his boss, and inasmuch as "the boss" never makes any money, +while the stockman gets his wages, the stockman may be considered as +having the better position of the two. + +Sheepmen like to think that they know all about cattle, and could work +them if they chose. A Queensland drover once took a big mob from the +Gulf right down through New South Wales, selling various lots as he +went. He had to deliver some to a small sheep-man, near Braidwood, who +was buying a few hundred cattle as a spec. By the time they arrived, the +cattle had been on the road eight months, and were quiet as milkers. But +the sheep-man and his satellites came out, riding stable-fed horses +and brandishing twenty-foot whips, all determined to sell their lives +dearly. They galloped round the astonished cattle and spurred their +horses and cracked their whips, till they roused the weary mob. Then +they started to cut out the beasts they wanted. The horses rushed and +pulled, and the whips maddened the cattle, and all was turmoil and +confusion. + +The Queensland drovers looked on amazed, sitting their patient leg-weary +horses they had ridden almost continuously for eight months. At last, +seeing the hash the sheep-men were making of it, the drovers set to +work, and in a little while, without a shout, or crack of a whip, had +cut out the required number. These the head drover delivered to the +buyer, simply remarking, "Many's the time _you_ never cut-out cattle." + +As I write, there rises a vision of a cattle-camp on an open plain, +the blue sky overhead, the long grass rustling below, the great mob of +parti-coloured cattle eddying restlessly about, thrusting at each other +with their horns; and in among the sullen half-savage animals go the +light, wiry stock-riders, horse and man working together, watchful, +quick, and resolute. + +A white steer is wanted that is right in the throng. Way!--make way! and +horse and rider edge into the restless sea of cattle, the man with his +eye fixed on the selected animal, the horse, glancing eagerly about him, +trying to discover which is the wanted one. The press divides and the +white steer scuttles along the edge of the mob trying to force his way +in again. Suddenly he and two or three others are momentarily eddied out +to the outskirts of the mob, and in that second the stockman dashes his +horse between them and the main body. The lumbering beasts rush hither +and thither in a vain attempt to return to their comrades. Those not +wanted are allowed to return, but the white steer finds, to his +dismay, that wherever he turns that horse and man and dreaded whip are +confronting him. He doubles and dodges and makes feints to charge, +but the horse anticipates every movement and wheels quicker than the +bullock. At last the white steer sees the outlying mob he is required to +join, and trots off to them quite happy, while horse and rider return to +cut out another. + +It is a pretty exhibition of skill and intelligence, doubly pleasant to +watch because of the undoubted interest that the horses take in it. Big, +stupid creatures that they are, cursed with highly-strung nerves, and +blessed with little sense, they are pathetically anxious to do such +work as they can understand. So they go into the cutting-out camp with a +zest, and toil all day edging lumbering bullocks out of the mob, but as +soon as a bad rider gets on them and begins to haul their mouths about, +their nerves overcome them, and they get awkward and frightened. A horse +that is a crack camp-horse in one man's hands may be a hopeless brute in +the hands of another. + + + + +WHITE-WHEN-HE'S-WANTED + + +Buckalong was a big freehold of some 80,000 acres, belonging to an +absentee syndicate, and therefore run in most niggardly style. There was +a manager on 200 pounds a year, Sandy M'Gregor to wit--a hard-headed old +Scotchman known as "four-eyed M'Gregor", because he wore spectacles. +For assistants, he had half-a-dozen of us--jackaroos and +colonial-experiencers--who got nothing a year, and earned it. + +We had, in most instances, paid premiums to learn the noble art of +squatting--which now appears to me hardly worth studying, for so much +depends on luck that a man with a head as long as a horse's has little +better chance than the fool just imported. Besides the manager and the +jackaroos, there were a few boundary riders to prowl round the fences of +the vast paddocks. This constituted the whole station staff. + +Buckalong was on one of the main routes by which stock were taken to +market, or from the plains to the tablelands, and vice versa. Great mobs +of travelling sheep constantly passed through the run, eating up the +grass and vexing the soul of the manager. By law, sheep must travel six +miles per day, and they must be kept to within half-a-mile of the road. +Of course we kept all the grass near the road eaten bare, to discourage +travellers from coming that way. + +Such hapless wretches as did venture through Buckalong used to try hard +to stray from the road and pick up a feed, but old Sandy was always +ready for them, and would have them dogged right through the run. This +bred feuds, and bad language, and personal combats between us and the +drovers, whom we looked upon as natural enemies. + +The men who came through with mobs of cattle used to pull down the +paddock fences at night, and slip the cattle in for refreshments, but +old Sandy often turned out at 2 or 3 a.m. to catch a mob of bullocks +in the horse-paddock, and then off they went to Buckalong pound. The +drovers, as in duty bound, attributed the trespass to accident--broken +rails, and so on--and sometimes they tried to rescue the cattle, which +again bred strife and police-court summonses. + +Besides having a particular aversion to drovers, old M'Gregor had +a general "down" on the young Australians whom he comprehensively +described as a "feckless, horrse-dealin', horrse-stealin', crawlin' lot +o' wretches." According to him, a native-born would sooner work a horse +to death than work for a living any day. He hated any man who wanted to +sell him a horse. + +"As aw walk the street," he used to say, "the fouk disna stawp me to buy +claes nor shoon, an' wheerfore should they stawp me to buy horrses? It's +'Mister M'Gregor, will ye purrchase a horrse?' Let them wait till I ask +them to come wi' their horrses." + +Such being his views on horseflesh and drovers, we felt no little +excitement when one Sunday, at dinner, the cook came in to say there +was "a drover-chap outside wanted the boss to come and have a look at +a horse." M'Gregor simmered a while, and muttered something about the +"Sawbath day"; but at last he went out, and we filed after him to see +the fun. + +The drover stood by the side of his horse, beneath the acacia trees +in the yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result +of collision with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed +poverty-stricken enough to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down on +his luck. Had it not been for that indefinable self-reliant look which +drovers--the Ishmaels of the bush--always acquire, one might have taken +him for a swagman. His horse was in much the same plight. It was a +ragged, unkempt pony, pitifully poor and very footsore, at first sight, +an absolute "moke"; but a second glance showed colossal round ribs, +square hips, and a great length of rein, the rest hidden beneath a +wealth of loose hair. He looked like "a good journey horse", possibly +something better. + +We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover. The man was +monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are. It is only +the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech. + +"Guid mornin'," said M'Gregor. + +"Mornin', boss," said the drover, shortly. + +"Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?" + +"Yes." + +"Ay," and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike +don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs, +and opened the passive creature's mouth. "H'm," he said. Then he turned +to the drover. "Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. Ye're thin like. What's been +the matter?" + +"Been sick with fever--Queensland fever. Just come through from the +North. Been out on the Diamantina last." + +"Ay. I was there mysel'," said M'Gregor. "Hae ye the fever on ye still?" + +"Yes--goin' home to get rid of it." + +A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he +can carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his +strength and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, +the malady moves with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at +regular intervals to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually +it wears itself out, often wearing its patient out at the same time. +M'Gregor had been through the experience, and there was a slight change +in his voice as he went on with his palaver. + +"Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?" + +"Monaro--my people live in Monaro." + +"Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?" + +"Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin'," said the drover, while +a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. "I've rode him far +enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. I wouldn't sell him, only +I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now to get the money to go home." + +"Hoo auld is he?" + +"Seven." + +"Is he a guid horrse on a camp?" asked M'Gregor. + +"No better camp-horse in Queensland," said the drover. "You can chuck +the reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself." + +M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time crawling +after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us as +side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow off the +place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took +so much interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover and the old +camp-horse appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us. We had never +been on the Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered with the +fever, nor lived the roving life of the overlanders. M'Gregor had done +all this, and his heart (I can see it all now) went out to the man who +brought the old days back to him. + +"Ah, weel," he said, "we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here, ye +ken; wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han' cuttin' +oot the milkers' cawves frae their mithers." And the old man laughed +contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man from far +back. "An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?" asked M'Gregor. + +"Reckon he's worth fifteen notes," said the drover. + +This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between thirty +shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations would close abruptly; +but M'Gregor, after a little more examination, agreed to give the price, +provided the saddle and bridle, both grand specimens of ancient art, +were given in. This was agreed to, and the drover was sent off to get +his meals in the hut before leaving by the coach. + +"The mon is verra harrd up, an' it's a sair thing that Queensland +fever," was the only remark M'Gregor made. But we knew now that there +was a soft spot in his heart somewhere. + +Next morning the drover got a crisp-looking cheque. He said no word +while the cheque was being written, but, as he was going away, the horse +happened to be in the yard, and he went over to the old comrade that had +carried him so many miles, and laid a hand on his neck. + +"He ain't much to look at," said the drover, speaking slowly and +awkwardly, "but he's white when he's wanted." And just before the coach +rattled off, the man of few words leant down from the box and nodded +impressively, and repeated, "Yes, he's white when he's wanted." + +We didn't trouble to give the new horse a name. Station horses are +generally called after the man from whom they are bought. "Tom Devine", +"The Regan mare", "Black M'Carthy" and "Bay M'Carthy" were among the +appellations of our horses at that time. As we didn't know the drover's +name, we simply called the animal "The new horse" until a still newer +horse was one day acquired. Then, one of the hands being told to take +the new horse, said, "D'yer mean the _new_ new horse or the _old_ new +horse?" + +"Naw," said the boss, "not the new horrse--that bay horrse we bought +frae the drover. The ane he said was white when he's wanted." + +And so, by degrees, the animal came to be referred to as the horse +that's white when he's wanted, and at last settled down to the definite +name of "White-when-he's-wanted". + +White-when-he's-wanted didn't seem much of an acquisition. He was sent +out to do slavery for Greenhide Billy, a boundary-rider who plumed +himself on having once been a cattle-man. After a week's experience of +"White", Billy came in to the homestead disgusted. The pony was so lazy +that he had to build a fire under him to get him to move, and so rough +that it made a man's nose bleed to ride him more than a mile. "The boss +must have been off his head to give fifteen notes for such a cow." + +M'Gregor heard this complaint. "Verra weel, Mr. Billy," said he, hotly, +"ye can juist tak' ane of the young horrses in yon paddock, an' if he +bucks wi' ye an' kills ye, it's yer ain fault. Ye're a cattleman--so ye +say--dommed if ah believe it. Ah believe ye're a dairy-farmin' body frae +Illawarra. Ye ken neither horrse nor cattle. Mony's the time ye never +rode buckjumpers, Mr. Billy"--and with this parting-shot the old man +turned into the house, and White-when-he's-wanted came back to the head +station. + +For a while he was a sort of pariah. He used to yard the horses, fetch +up the cows, and hunt travelling sheep through the run. He really was +lazy and rough, and we all decided that Billy's opinion of him was +correct, until the day came to make one of our periodical raids on the +wild horses in the hills at the back of the run. + +Every now and again we formed parties to run in some of these animals, +and, after nearly galloping to death half-a-dozen good horses, we +would capture three or four brumbies, and bring them in triumph to the +homestead to be broken in. By the time they had thrown half the crack +riders on the station, broken all the bridles, rolled on all the +saddles, and kicked all the dogs, they would be marketable (and no great +bargains) at about thirty shillings a head. + +Yet there is no sport in the world to be mentioned in the same volume as +"running horses", and we were very keen on it. All the crack nags were +got as fit as possible, and fed up beforehand; and on this particular +occasion White-when-he's-wanted, being in good trim, was given a week's +hard feed and lent to a harum-scarum fellow from the Upper Murray, who +happened to be working in a survey camp on the run. How he did open our +eyes! + +He ran the mob from hill to hill, from range to range, across open +country and back again to the hills, over flats and gullies, +through hop-scrub and stringybark ridges; and all the time +White-when-he's-wanted was on the wing of the mob, pulling double. The +mares and foals dropped out, the colts and young stock pulled up dead +beat, and only the seasoned veterans were left. Most of our horses caved +in altogether; one or two were kept in the hunt by judicious nursing and +shirking the work; but White-when-he's-wanted was with the quarry from +end to end of the run, doing double his share; and at the finish, when a +chance offered to wheel them into the trapyard, he simply smothered them +for pace, and slewed them into the wings before they knew where they +were. Such a capture had not fallen to our lot for many a day, and the +fame of White-when-he's-wanted was speedily noised abroad. + +He was always fit for work, always hungry, always ready to lie down and +roll, and always lazy. But when he heard the rush of the brumbies' feet +in the scrub he became frantic with excitement. He could race over the +roughest ground without misplacing a hoof or altering his stride, and he +could sail over fallen timber and across gullies like a kangaroo. Nearly +every Sunday we were after the brumbies, until they got as lean as +greyhounds and as cunning as policemen. We were always ready to back +White-when-he's-wanted to run-down, single-handed, any animal in +the bush that we liked to put him after--wild horses, wild cattle, +kangaroos, emus, dingoes, kangaroo-rats--we barred nothing, for, if he +couldn't beat them for pace, he would outlast them. + +And then one day he disappeared from the paddock, and we never saw him +again. We knew there were plenty of men in the district who would steal +him; but, as we knew also of many more who would "inform" for a pound +or two, we were sure that it could not have been local "talent" that +had taken him. We offered good rewards and set some of the right sort to +work, but heard nothing of him for about a year. + +Then the surveyor's assistant turned up again, after a trip to the +interior. He told us the usual string of back-block lies, and wound up +by saying that out on the very fringe of settlement he had met an old +acquaintance. + +"Who was that?" + +"Why, that little bay horse that I rode after the brumbies that time. +The one you called White-when-he's-wanted." + +"The deuce you did! Are you sure? Who had him?" + +"Sure! I'd swear to him anywhere. A little drover fellow had him. A +little fellow, with a big scar across his forehead. Came from Monaro way +somewhere. He said he bought the horse from you for fifteen notes." + +The King's warrant doesn't run much out west of Boulia, and it is not +likely that any of us will ever see the drover again, or will ever again +cross the back of "White-when-he's-wanted". + + + + +THE DOWNFALL OF MULLIGAN'S + + +The sporting men of Mulligan's were an exceedingly knowing lot; in fact, +they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours of being a little +bit too knowing. They had "taken down" the adjoining town in a variety +of ways. They were always winning maiden plates with horses which were +shrewdly suspected to be old and well-tried performers in disguise. + +When the sports of Paddy's Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the +shape of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent +immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfellow of their own, +and they made a match and won all the Paddy's Flat money with ridiculous +ease; then their blackfellow turned out to be a well-known Sydney +performer. They had a man who could fight, a man who could be backed to +jump five-feet-ten, a man who could kill eight pigeons out of nine at +thirty yards, a man who could make a break of fifty or so at billiards +if he tried; they could all drink, and they all had that indefinite look +of infinite wisdom and conscious superiority which belongs only to those +who know something about horseflesh. + +They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday-school. They were +experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble to work off +any small swindle in the sporting line. In short the general consensus +of opinion was that they were a very "fly" crowd at Mulligan's, and if +you went there you wanted to "keep your eyes skinned" or they'd "have" +you over a threepenny-bit. + +There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of the +Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high +feather, having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at +pigeon-shooting, by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into +his gun when he wasn't looking, and then backing the bird. + +They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, and admirers +who came to see them off only asked them as a favour to leave money +enough in Sydney to make it worth while for another detachment to go +down later on. Just as the train was departing a priest came running on +to the platform, and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan +friends were; the door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence +was hot and perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a +handkerchief, while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the +train. + +After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards and +proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter in +the carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, +and the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities +if they did not try to "get a bit to go on with" from him. He agreed to +play, and, just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest whether +he would take a hand. + +"What game d'ye play?" he asked, in a melodious brogue. + +They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, but they +thought it right to add that they generally played for money. + +"Sure an' it don't matter for wanst in a way," said he--"Oi'll take +a hand bedad--Oi'm only going about fifty miles, so Oi can't lose a +fortune." + +They lifted a light portmanteau on to their knees to make a table, and +five of them--three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers--started +to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy for the Mulligan +boys, who chuckled as they thought how soon they were making a +beginning, and what a magnificent yarn they would have to tell about how +they rooked a priest on the way down. + +Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest +began to ask questions. + +"Be ye going to the races?" + +They said they were. + +"Ah! and Oi suppose ye'll be betting wid thim bookmakers--betting on the +horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, thim bookmakers, they +tell me. I wouldn't bet much if Oi was ye," he said, with an affable +smile. "If ye go bettin' ye will be took in wid thim bookmakers." + +The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time they +parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able to look +after themselves. They went steadily on with the game, and the priest +and the young squatter won slightly; this was part of the plan to lead +them on to plunge. They neared the station where the priest was to get +out. He had won rather more than they liked, so the signal was passed +round to "put the cross on". Poker is a game at which a man need not +risk much unless he feels inclined, and on this deal the priest stood +out. Consequently, when they drew up at his station he was still a few +pounds in. + +"Bedad," he said, "Oi don't loike goin' away wid yer money. Oi'll go on +to the next station so as ye can have revinge." Then he sat down again, +and play went on in earnest. + +The man of religion seemed to have the Devil's own luck. When he was +dealt a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one +he would not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious as they +saw him getting further and further ahead of them, prattling away all +the time like a big schoolboy. The squatter was the biggest loser so +far, but the priest was the only winner. All the others were out of +pocket. His reverence played with great dash, and seemed to know a lot +about the game, so that on arrival at the second station he was a good +round sum in pocket. + +He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly +promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage +door, one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage-whisper: "He's a +blanky sink-pocket. If he can come this far, let him come on to Sydney +and play for double the stakes." Like a shot the priest turned on him. + +"Bedad, an' if _that's_ yer talk, Oi'll play ye fer double stakes from +here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice because they +eat cheese? It isn't one of the Ryans would be fearing to give any man +his revinge!" + +He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. The others +felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play in a dead +silence. But the priest kept on winning steadily, and the "old man" of +the Mulligan push saw that something decisive must be done, and decided +on a big plunge to get all the money back on one hand. By a dexterous +manipulation of the cards he dealt himself four kings, almost the best +hand at poker. Then he began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, +raising the stake little by little. + +"Sure ye're trying to bluff, so ye are!" said the priest, and +immediately raised it. + +The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest +the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful +certainty that the "old man" had made things safe, and regarded +themselves as mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation. +The priest went on doggedly raising the stake in response to his +antagonist's challenges until it had attained huge dimensions. + +"Sure that's high enough," said he, putting into the pool sufficient to +entitle him to see his opponent's hand. + +The "old man" with great gravity laid down his four kings, whereat the +Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them. + +Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool. + +The sportsmen of Mulligan's never quite knew how they got out to +Randwick. They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves +in the saddling-paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realize +what had happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end +of the lawn near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, +small bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, plying +their trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one that +sounded familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, and they knew that +it was the voice of "Father" Ryan. They walked to the fence and looked +over. This is what he was saying:-- + +"Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don't put down a brick you +can't pick up a castle! I'll bet no one here can pick the knave of +hearts out of these three cards. I'll bet half-a-sovereign no one here +can find the knave!" + +Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening they could see +him distinctly, doing a great business and showing wonderful dexterity +with the pasteboard. + +There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worth while for another +detachment to come down from Mulligan's; but the next lot will hesitate +about playing poker with priests in the train. + + + + +THE AMATEUR GARDENER + + +The first step in amateur gardening is to sit down and consider what +good you are going to get by it. If you are only a tenant by the month, +as most people are, it is obviously not of much use for you to plant a +fruit orchard or an avenue of oak trees. What you want is something that +will grow quickly, and will stand transplanting, for when you move it +would be a sin to leave behind you the plants on which you have spent so +much labour and so much patent manure. + +We knew a man once who was a bookmaker by trade--and a Leger bookmaker +at that--but had a passion for horses and flowers. When he "had a big +win", as he occasionally did, it was his custom to have movable wooden +stables, built on skids, put up in the yard, and to have tons of the +best soil that money could buy carted into the garden of the premises +which he was occupying. + +Then he would keep splendid horses, and grow rare roses and show-bench +chrysanthemums. His landlord passing by would see the garden in a +blaze of colour, and promise himself to raise the bookmaker's rent next +quarter day. + +However, when the bookmaker "took the knock", as he invariably did at +least twice a year, it was his pleasing custom to move without giving +notice. He would hitch two cart-horses to the stables, and haul them +right away at night. He would not only dig up the roses, trees, and +chrysanthemums he had planted, but would also cart away the soil he +had brought in; in fact, he used to shift the garden bodily. He had one +garden that he shifted to nearly every suburb in Sydney; and he always +argued that the change of air was invaluable for chrysanthemums. + +Being determined, then, to go in for gardening on common-sense +principles, and having decided on the shrubs you mean to grow, the next +consideration is your chance of growing them. + +If your neighbour keeps game fowls, it may be taken for granted that +before long they will pay you a visit, and you will see the rooster +scratching your pot plants out by the roots as if they were so much +straw, just to make a nice place to lie down and fluff the dust over +himself. Goats will also stray in from the street, and bite the young +shoots off, selecting the most valuable plants with a discrimination +that would do credit to a professional gardener. + +It is therefore useless to think of growing delicate or squeamish +plants. Most amateur gardeners maintain a lifelong struggle against the +devices of Nature; but when the forces of man and the forces of Nature +come into conflict Nature wins every time. Nature has decreed that +certain plants shall be hardy, and therefore suitable to suburban +amateur gardeners; the suburban amateur gardener persists in trying to +grow quite other plants, and in despising those marked out by Nature for +his use. It is to correct this tendency that this article is written. + +The greatest standby to the amateur gardener should undoubtedly be the +blue-flowered shrub known as "plumbago". This homely but hardy plant +will grow anywhere. It naturally prefers a good soil, and a sufficient +rainfall, but if need be it will worry along without either. Fowls +cannot scratch it up, and even the goat turns away dismayed from its +hard-featured branches. The flower is not strikingly beautiful nor +ravishingly scented, but it flowers nine months out of the year; +smothered with street dust and scorched by the summer sun, you will find +that faithful old plumbago plugging along undismayed. A plant like +this should be encouraged--but the misguided amateur gardener as a rule +despises it. + +The plant known as the churchyard geranium is also one marked out by +Providence for the amateur; so is Cosmea, which comes up year after year +where once planted. In creepers, bignonia and lantana will hold their +own under difficulties perhaps as well as any that can be found. In +trees the Port Jackson fig is a patriotic one to grow. It is a fine +plant to provide exercise, as it sheds its leaves unsparingly, and +requires the whole garden to be swept up every day. + +Your aim as a student of Nature should be to encourage the survival +of the fittest. There is a grass called nut grass, and another called +Parramatta grass, either of which holds its own against anything living +or dead. The average gardening manual gives you recipes for destroying +these. Why should you destroy them in favour of a sickly plant that +needs constant attention? No. The Parramatta grass is the selected of +Nature, and who are you to interfere with Nature? + +Having decided to go in for strong, simple plants that will hold their +own, and a bit over, you must get your implements of husbandry. + +The spade is the first thing, but the average ironmonger will show you +an unwieldy weapon only meant to be used by navvies. Don't buy it. Get a +small spade, about half-size--it is nice and light and doesn't tire the +wrist, and with it you can make a good display of enthusiasm, and earn +the hypocritical admiration of your wife. After digging for half-an-hour +or so, get her to rub your back with any of the backache cures. From +that moment you will have no further need for the spade. + +A barrow is about the only other thing needed; anyhow, it is almost a +necessity for wheeling cases of whisky up to the house. A rake is useful +when your terrier dog has bailed up a cat, and will not attack it until +the cat is made to run. + +Talking of terrier dogs, an acquaintance of ours has a dog that does all +his gardening. The dog is a small elderly terrier with a failing memory. +As soon as the terrier has planted a bone in the garden the owner slips +over, digs it up and takes it away. When that terrier goes back and +finds the bone gone, he distrusts his memory, and begins to think that +perhaps he has made a mistake, and has dug in the wrong place; so he +sets to work, and digs patiently all over the garden, turning over acres +of soil in the course of his search. This saves his master a lot of +backache. + +The sensible amateur gardener, then, will not attempt to fight with +Nature but will fall in with her views. What more pleasant than to get +out of bed at 11.30 on a Sunday morning; to look out of your window at +a lawn waving with the feathery plumes of Parramatta grass, and to see +beyond it the churchyard geranium flourishing side by side with the +plumbago and the Port Jackson fig? + +The garden gate blows open, and the local commando of goats, headed by +an aged and fragrant patriarch, locally known as De Wet, rushes in; but +their teeth will barely bite through the wiry stalks of the Parramatta +grass, and the plumbago and the figtree fail to attract them, and +before long they stand on one another's shoulders, scale the fence, and +disappear into the next-door garden, where a fanatic is trying to grow +show roses. + +After the last goat has scaled your neighbour's fence, and only De Wet +is left, your little dog discovers him. De Wet beats a hurried retreat, +apparently at full speed, with the dog exactly one foot behind him in +frantic pursuit. We say apparently at full speed, because experience has +taught that De Wet can run as fast as a greyhound when he likes; but +he never exerts himself to go faster than is necessary to keep just in +front of whatever dog is after him. + +Hearing the scrimmage, your neighbour comes on to his verandah, and sees +the chase going down the street. + +"Ha! that wretched old De Wet again!" he says. "Small hope your dog has +of catching him! Why don't you get a garden gate like mine, so that he +won't get in?" + +"No; he can't get in at your gate," is the reply; "but I think his +commando are in your back garden now." + +Then follows a frantic rush. Your neighbour falls downstairs in his +haste, and the commando, after stopping to bite some priceless pot +plants of your neighbour's as they come out, skips easily back over the +fence and through your gate into the street again. + +If a horse gets in his hoofs make no impression on the firm turf of the +Parramatta grass, and you get quite a hearty laugh by dropping a chair +on him from the first-floor window. + +The game fowls of your other neighbour come fluttering into your garden, +and scratch and chuckle and fluff themselves under your plumbago bush; +but you don't worry. Why should you? They can't hurt it; and, besides, +you know that the small black hen and the big yellow one, who have +disappeared from the throng, are even now laying their daily egg for you +behind the thickest bush. + +Your little dog rushes frantically up and down the front bed of your +garden, barking and racing, and tearing up the ground, because his rival +little dog, who lives down the street, is going past with his master, +and each pretends that he wants to be at the other--as they have +pretended every day for the past three years. The performance he is +going through doesn't disturb you. Why should it? By following the +directions in this article you have selected plants he cannot hurt. + +After breakfasting at noon, you stroll out, and, perhaps, smooth with +your foot, or with your spade, the inequalities made by the hens; you +gather up casually the eggs they have laid; you whistle to your little +dog, and go out for a stroll with a light heart. + + + + +THIRSTY ISLAND + + +Travellers approaching a bush township are sure to find some distance +from the town a lonely public-house waiting by the roadside to give +them welcome. Thirsty (miscalled Thursday) Island is the outlying pub of +Australia. + +When the China and British-India steamers arrive from the North the +first place they come to is Thirsty Island, the sentinel at the gate of +Torres Straits. New chums on the steamers see a fleet of white-sailed +pearling luggers, a long pier clustered with a hybrid crowd of every +colour, caste and creed under Heaven, and at the back of it all a little +galvanized-iron town shining in the sun. + +For nine months of the year a crisp, cool south-east wind blows, the +snow-white beach is splashed with spray and dotted with the picturesque +figures of Japanese divers and South Sea Island boatmen. Coco-nut palms +line the roads by the beach, and back of the town are the barracks and a +fort nestling among the trees on the hillside. Thirsty Island is a nice +place--to look at. + +When a vessel makes fast the Thirsty Islanders come down to greet +the new-comers and give them welcome to Australia. The new-chums are +inclined to patronise these simple, outlying people. Fresh from the +iniquities of the China-coast cocktail and the unhallowed orgies of the +Sourabaya Club, new-chums think they have little to learn in the way of +drink; at any rate, they haven't come all the way to Thursday Island +to be taught anything. Poor new-chums! Little do they know the kind of +people they are up against. + +The following description of a night at Thursday Island is taken from a +new-chum's note book: + +"Passed Proudfoot shoal and arrived at Thursday Island. First sight +of Australia. Lot of men came aboard, all called Captain. They are all +pearl-fishers or pilots, not a bit like the bushmen I expected. When +they came aboard they divided into parties. Some invaded the Captain's +cabin; others sat in the smoking room; the rest crowded into the saloon. +They talked to the passengers about the Boer War, and told us about +pearls worth 1000 pounds that had been found lately. + +"One captain pulled a handful of loose pearls out of a jar and handed +them round in a casual way for us to look at. The stewards opened +bottles and we all sat down for a drink and a smoke. I spoke to one +captain--an oldish man--and he grinned amiably, but did not answer. +Another captain leaned over to me and said, 'Don't take any notice of +him, he's boozed all this week.' + +"Conversation and drink became general. The night was very hot and +close, and some of the passengers seemed to be taking more than was good +for them. A contagious thirst spread round the ship, and before long the +stewards and firemen were at it. The saloon became an inferno of drink +and sweat and tobacco smoke. Perfect strangers were talking to each +other at the top of their voices. + +"Young MacTavish, who is in a crack English regiment, asked the captain +of a pearling lugger whether he didn't know Talbot de Cholmondeley in +the Blues. + +"The pearler said very likely he had met 'em, and no doubt he'd remember +their faces if he saw them, but he never could remember names. + +"Another passenger--a Jew--was trying to buy some pearls cheap from the +captains, but the more the captains drank the less anxious they became +to talk about pearls. + +"The night wore on, and still the drinks circulated. Young MacTavish +slept profoundly. + +"One passenger gave his steward a sovereign as he was leaving the +ship, and in half an hour the steward was carried to his berth in +a fit--alcoholic in its origin. Another steward was observed openly +drinking the passengers' whisky. When accused, he didn't even attempt +to defend himself; the great Thursday Island thirst seemed to have +communicated itself to everyone on board, and he simply _had_ to drink. + +"About three in the morning a tour of the ship disclosed the following +state of affairs: Captain's room full of captains solemnly tight; +smoking-room empty, except for the inanimate form of the captain who had +been boozed all the week, and was now sleeping peacefully with his feet +on the sofa and his head on the floor. The saloon was full of captains +and passengers--the latter mostly in a state of collapse or laughing and +singing deliriously; the rails lined with firemen who had business over +the side; stewards ditto. + +"At last the Thursday Islanders departed, unsteadily, but still on their +feet, leaving a demoralized ship behind them. And young MacTavish, +who has seen a thing or two in his brief span, staggered to his berth, +saying, 'My God! Is _all_ Australia like this place?'" + + * * * * * + +When no ships arrive, the Islanders just drop into the pubs, as a +matter of routine, for their usual evening soak. They drink weird +compounds--horehound beer, known as "lady dog", and things like that. +About two in the morning they go home speechless, but still able to +travel. It is very rarely that an Islander gets helplessly drunk, but +strangers generally have to be put to bed. + +The Japanese on the island are a strong faction. They have a club of +their own, and once gave a dinner to mark the death of one of their +members. He was shrewdly suspected of having tried to drown another +member by cutting his airpipe, so, when he died, the club celebrated +the event. The Japanese are not looked upon with favor by the white +islanders. They send their money to Japan--thousands of pounds a year go +through the little office in money-orders--and so they are not "good for +trade". + +The Manilamen and Kanakas and Torres Strait islanders, on the other +hand, bring all the money they do not spend on the pearling schooner to +the island, and "blow it in", like men. They knife each other sometimes, +and now and again have to be run in wholesale, but they are "good for +trade". The local lock-up has a record of eighteen drunks run in in +seven minutes. They weren't taken along in carriages-and-four, either; +they were mostly dragged along by the scruff of the neck. + +Billy Malkeela, the South Sea diver, summed up the Japanese +question--"Seems to me dis Islan' soon b'long Japanee altogedder. One +time pa-lenty rickatta (plenty regatta), all same Isle of Wight. Now no +more rickatta. All money go Japan!" + +An English new-chum made his appearance there lately--a most undefeated +sportsman. He was put down in a diving dress in about eight feet of +water, where he bubbled and struggled about in great style. Suddenly he +turned, rushed for the beach, and made for the foot of a tree, which he +tried to climb under the impression that he was still at the bottom of +the ocean. Then he was hauled in by the life-line. + +The pearlers thought to get some fun out of him by giving him an oyster +to open in which they had previously planted a pearl; he never saw the +pearl and threw the oyster into the scuppers with the rest, and the +pearlers had to go down on all fours and grope for that pearl among the +stinking oysters. It was funny--but not in the way they had intended. + +The pearlers go out in schooners called floating stations (their enemies +call them floating public-houses) and no man knows what hospitality +is till he has been a guest on a pearling schooner. They carry it to +extremes sometimes. Some pearlers were out in a lugger, and were passing +by one of these schooners. They determined not to go on board, as it was +late, and they were in a hurry. The captain of the schooner went below, +got his rifle and put two bullets through their foresail. Then they put +the helm down and went aboard; it was an invitation almost equivalent to +a royal command. They felt heartily ashamed of themselves as they slunk +up on deck, and the captain of the schooner eyed them reproachfully. + +"I couldn't let you disgrace yourselves by passing my schooner," he +said; "but if it ever happens again I'll fire at the deck. A man that +would pass a schooner in broad daylight is better dead." + +There is a fort and garrison at Thirsty Island, but they are not needed. +If an invading fleet comes this way it should be encouraged by every +possible means to land at the island; the heat, the thirst, the +horehound beer, and the Islanders may be trusted to do the rest. + + + + +DAN FITZGERALD EXPLAINS + + +The circus was having its afternoon siesta. Overhead the towering canvas +tent spread like a giant mushroom on a network of stalks--slanting +beams, interlaced with guys and wire ropes. + +The ring looked small and lonely; its circle of empty benches seemed +to stare intently at it, as though some sort of unseen performance were +going on for the benefit of a ghostly audience. Now and again a guy rope +creaked, or a loose end of canvas flapped like faint, unreal applause, +as the silence shut down again, it did not need much imagination to +people the ring with dead and gone circus riders performing for the +benefit of shadowy spectators packed on those benches. + +In the menagerie portion matters were different; here there was a free +and easy air, the animals realising that for the present the eyes of the +public were off them, and they could put in the afternoon as they chose. + +The big African apes had dropped the "business" of showing their teeth, +and pretending that they wanted to tear the spectators' faces off. They +were carefully and painstakingly trying to fix up a kind of rustic seat +in the corner of their cage with a short piece of board, which they +placed against the wall. This fell down every time they sat on it, and +the whole adjustment had to be gone through again. + +The camel had stretched himself full length on the tan, and was enjoying +a luxurious snooze, oblivious of the fact that before long he would +have to get up and assume that far-off ship-of-the-desert aspect. The +remainder of the animals were, like actors, "resting" before their +"turn" came on; even the elephant had ceased to sway about, while a +small monkey, asleep on a sloping tent pole, had an attack of nightmare +and would have fallen off his perch but for his big tail. It was a land +of the Lotus-eater + + "In which it seemed always afternoon." + +These visions were dispelled by the entry of a person who said, "D'ye +want to see Dan?" and soon Dan Fitzgerald, the man who knows all +about the training of horses, came into the tent with Montgomery, the +ringmaster, and between them they proceeded to expound the methods of +training horseflesh. + +"What sort of horse do we buy for circus work? Well, it depends what we +want 'em for. There are three sorts of horses in use in a circus--ring +horses, trick horses, and school horses; but it doesn't matter what he +is wanted for, a horse is all the better if he knows nothing. A horse +that has been pulled about and partly trained has to unlearn a lot +before he is any use to us. The less he knows, the better it is." + +"Then do you just try any sort of horse?" + +"Any sort, so long as he is a good sort, but it depends on what he is +wanted for. If we want a ring horse, he has to be a quiet sober-going +animal, not too well-bred and fiery. A ring horse is one that just goes +round the ring for the bareback riders and equestriennes to perform +on. The human being is the "star", and the horse in only a secondary +performer, a sort of understudy; yes, that's it, an understudy--he has +to study how to keep under the man." + +"Are they hard to train?" + +"Their work all depends on the men that ride them. In bareback riding +there's a knack in jumping on the horse. If a man lands awkwardly and +jars the horse's back, the horse will get out of step and flinch at each +jump, and he isn't nearly so good to perform on. A ring horse must +not swerve or change his pace; if you're up in the air, throwing a +somersault, and the horse swerves from underneath you--where are you?" + +"Some people think that horses take a lot of notice of the band--is that +so?" + +"Not that I know of. If there are any horses in the show with an ear +for music, I haven't heard of them. They take a lot of notice of the +ringmaster." + +"Does it take them long to learn this work?" + +"Not long; a couple of months will teach a ring horse; of course, some +are better than others." + +"First of all we teach them to come up to you, with the whip, like +horsebreakers do. Then we run them round the ring with a lunging rein +for a long time; then, when they are steady to the ring, we let them +run with the rein loose, and the trainer can catch hold of it if they go +wrong. Then we put a roller on them--a broad surcingle that goes round +the horse's body--and the boys jump on them and canter round, holding +on to the roller, or standing up, lying down, and doing tricks till the +horse gets used to it." + +"Well?" + +"Well, you give 'em a couple of hours of it, perhaps, and then dry them +and feed them, and give them a spell, and then bring them out again. +They soon get to know what you want; but you can't break in horses on +the move. The shifting and worry and noise and excitement put it all out +of their heads. We have a fixed camp where we break them in. And a horse +may know his work perfectly well when there is no one about, but bring +him into the ring at night, and he is all abroad." + +"Do you have to give them much whip?" + +"Not much. If a horse doesn't know what you want him to do, it only +ruins him to whip him. But once he does a thing a few times, and then +won't do it, then you must whip him." + +"What about trick horses?" + +"A trick horse rolls a barrel, or lies down and goes to bed with the +clown, or fires a pistol--does any trick like that. Some small circuses +make the same horses do both trick and ring work, but it isn't a good +line. A horse is all the better to have only one line of business--same +as a man." + +"How do you teach them tricks?" + +"Oh, it takes a long time and a lot of hard work and great patience. +Even to make a horse lie down when he's ordered takes a couple of months +sometimes. To make a horse lie down, you strap up one leg, and then pull +his head round; after a while he gets so tired of the strained position +that he lies down, after which he learns to do it at command. If you +want him to pick up a handkerchief, you put a bit of carrot in it, and +after a while they know that you want them to pick it up--but it takes +a long time. Then a strange hand in the ring will flurry them, and if +anything goes wrong, they get all abroad. A good active pony, with a bit +of Arab blood in him, is the best for tricks." + +"What's a school horse?" + +"Ah, that's a line of business that isn't appreciated enough out here. +On the Continent they think a lot of them. A school horse is one that is +taught to do passaging, to change his feet at command, to move sideways +and backwards; in fact, to drill. Out here no one thinks much of it. But +in Germany, where everyone goes through military riding schools, they +do. The Germans are the best horse-trainers in the world; and the big +German circus-proprietors have men to do all their business for them, +while they just attend to the horses." + +"How long does it take to turn out a school horse?" + +"Well, Chiarini was the best trainer out here, and he used to take two +years to get a horse to his satisfaction. For school horses, you must +have thoroughbreds, because their appearance is half their success. We +had a New Zealand thoroughbred that had raced, and was turning out a +splendid school horse, and he got burnt after costing a year's training. +That's the luck of the game, you know. You keep at it year after year, +and sometimes they die, and sometimes they get crippled--it's all in the +luck of the game. You may give fifty pounds for a horse, and find that +he can never get over his fear of the elephant, while you give ten +pounds for another, and find him a ready-made performer almost." + +We passed out through the ghostly circus and the menagerie tent down to +the stable tent. There, among a lot of others, a tranquil-looking animal +was munching some feed, while in front of him hung a placard, "Tiger +Horse". + +"That's a new sort! What is he, ring, trick, or school horse?" + +"Well, he's a class by himself. I suppose you'd call him a ring horse. +That's the horse that the tiger rides on." + +"Did it take him long to learn that?" + +"Well, it did not take this horse long; but we tried eleven others +before we could get one to stand it. They're just like men, all +different. What one will stand another won't look at. Well, good-bye." + +Just like men--no doubt; most men have to carry tigers of various sorts +through life to get a living. + + + + +THE CAT + + +Most people think that the cat is an unintelligent animal, fond of ease, +and caring little for anything but mice and milk. But a cat has really +more character than most human beings, and gets a great deal more +satisfaction out of life. Of all the animal kingdom, the cat has the +most many-sided character. + +He--or she--is an athlete, a musician, an acrobat, a Lothario, a grim +fighter, a sport of the first water. All day long the cat loafs about +the house, takes things easy, sleeps by the fire, and allows himself +to be pestered by the attentions of our womenfolk and annoyed by our +children. To pass the time away he sometimes watches a mouse-hole for +an hour or two--just to keep himself from dying of ennui; and people get +the idea that this sort of thing is all that life holds for the cat. +But watch him as the shades of evening fall, and you see the cat as he +really is. + +When the family sits down to tea, the cat usually puts in an appearance +to get his share, and purrs noisily, and rubs himself against the +legs of the family; and all the time he is thinking of a fight or a +love-affair that is coming off that evening. If there is a guest at +table the cat is particularly civil to him, because the guest is likely +to have the best of what is going. Sometimes, instead of recognizing +this civility with something to eat, the guest stoops down and strokes +the cat, and says, "Poor pussy! poor pussy!" + +The cat soon tires of that; he puts up his claw and quietly but firmly +rakes the guest in the leg. + +"Ow!" says the guest, "the cat stuck his claws into me!" The delighted +family remarks, "Isn't it sweet of him? Isn't he intelligent? _He wants +you to give him something to eat_." + +The guest dares not do what he would like to do--kick the cat through +the window--so, with tears of rage and pain in his eyes, he affects +to be very much amused, and sorts out a bit of fish from his plate and +hands it down. The cat gingerly receives it, with a look in his +eyes that says: "Another time, my friend, you won't be so dull of +comprehension," and purrs maliciously as he retires to a safe distance +from the guest's boot before eating it. A cat isn't a fool--not by a +long way. + +When the family has finished tea, and gathers round the fire to enjoy +the hours of indigestion, the cat slouches casually out of the room and +disappears. Life, true life, now begins for him. + +He saunters down his own backyard, springs to the top of the fence with +one easy bound, drops lightly down on the other side, trots across the +right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and skips to the roof of an empty +shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminacy of civilisation; his gait +becomes lithe and pantherlike; he looks quickly and keenly from side to +side, and moves noiselessly, for he has so many enemies--dogs, cabmen +with whips, and small boys with stones. + +Arrived on the top of the shed, the cat arches his back, rakes his claws +once or twice through the soft bark of the old roof, wheels round and +stretches himself a few times; just to see that every muscle is in full +working order; then, dropping his head nearly to his paws, he sends +across a league of backyards his call to his kindred--a call to love, or +war, or sport. + +Before long they come, gliding, graceful shadows, approaching +circuitously, and halting occasionally to reconnoitre--tortoiseshell, +tabby, and black, all domestic cats, but all transformed for the nonce +into their natural state. No longer are they the hypocritical, meek +creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk. They are now +ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of dignity. Their fights +are grim and determined, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons before he +will yield. + +Even young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human +beings, that they can work off jealousy, hatred, and malice in a +sprawling, yelling combat on a flat roof. All cats fight, and all keep +themselves more or less in training while they are young. Your cat may +be the acknowledged lightweight champion of his district--a Griffo of +the feline ring! + +Just think how much more he gets out of his life than you do out of +yours--what a hurricane of fighting and lovemaking his life is--and +blush for yourself. You have had one little love-affair, and never had a +good, all-out fight in your life! + +And the sport they have, too! As they get older and retire from the ring +they go in for sport more systematically; the suburban backyards, that +are to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting-grounds and +trysting-places where they may have more gallant adventure than ever had +King Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men. + +Grimalkin decides to kill a canary in a neighbouring verandah. Consider +the fascination of it--the stealthy reconnaissance from the top of the +fence; the care to avoid waking the house-dog, the noiseless approach +and the hurried dash, and the fierce clawing at the fluttering bird till +its mangled body is dragged through the bars of the cage; the exultant +retreat with the spoil; the growling over the feast that follows. Not +the least entertaining part of it is the demure satisfaction of arriving +home in time for breakfast and hearing the house-mistress say: "Tom must +be sick; he seems to have no appetite." + +It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more fond +of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like +to leave his country, the land where all his friends are, and where he +knows every landmark. Exiled in a strange land, he would have to learn a +new geography, to exploit another tribe of dogs, to fight and make love +to an entirely new nation of cats. Life isn't long enough for that sort +of thing. So, when the family moves, the cat, if allowed, will stay at +the old house and attach himself to the new tenants. He will give them +the privilege of boarding him while he enjoys life in his own way. He +is not going to sacrifice his whole career for the doubtful reward which +fidelity to his old master or mistress might bring. + + + + +SITTING IN JUDGMENT + + +The show ring was a circular enclosure of about four acres, with a +spiked batten fence round it, and a listless crowd of back-country +settlers propped along the fence. Behind them were the sheds for +produce, and the machinery sections where steam threshers and earth +scoops hummed and buzzed and thundered unnoticed. Crowds of sightseers +wandered past the cattle stalls to gape at the fat bullocks; side-shows +flourished, a blase goose drew marbles out of a tin canister, and a +boxing showman displayed his muscles outside his tent, while his partner +urged the youth of the district to come in and be thumped for the +edification of the spectators. + +Suddenly a gate opened at the end of the show ring, and horses, cattle, +dogs, vehicles, motor-cars, and bicyclists crowded into the arena. This +was the general parade, but it would have been better described as a +general chaos. Trotting horses and ponies, in harness, went whirling +round the ring, every horse and every driver fully certain that +every eye was fixed on them; the horses--the vainest creatures in the +world--arching their necks and lifting their feet, whizzed past in +bewildering succession, till the onlookers grew giddy. Inside the +whirling circle blood stallions stood on their hind legs, screaming +defiance to the world at large; great shaggy-fronted bulls, with dull +vindictive eyes, paced along, looking as though they were trying to +remember who it was that struck them last. A showground bull always +seems to be nursing a grievance. + +Mixed up with the stallions and bulls were dogs and donkeys. The dogs +were led by attendants, apparently selected on the principle of the +larger the dog the smaller the custodian; while the donkeys were the +only creatures unmoved by their surroundings, for they slept peaceably +through the procession, occasionally waking up to bray their sense of +boredom. + +In the centre of the ring a few lady-riders, stern-featured women for +the most part, were being "judged" by a trembling official, who feared +to look them in the face, but hurriedly and apologetically examined +horses and saddles, whispered his award to the stewards, and fled at +top speed to the official stand--his sanctuary from the fury of spurned +beauty. The defeated ladies immediately began to "perform"--that is, to +ask the universe at large whether anyone ever heard the like of that! +But the stewards strategically slipped away, and the injured innocents +had no resource left but to ride haughtily round the ring, glaring +defiance at the spectators. + +All this time stewards and committee-men were wandering among the +competitors, trying to find the animals for judgment. The clerk of the +ring--a huge man on a small cob--galloped around, roaring like a +bull: "This way for the fourteen stone 'acks! Come on, you twelve +'and ponies!" and by degrees various classes got judged, and dispersed +grumbling. Then the bulls filed out with their grievances still +unsettled, the lady riders were persuaded to withdraw, and the clerk of +the ring sent a sonorous bellow across the ground: "Where's the jumpin' +judges?" + +From the official stand came a brisk, dark-faced, wiry little man. He +had been a steeplechase rider and a trainer in his time. Long experience +of that tricky animal, the horse, had made him reserved and slow to +express an opinion. He mounted the table, and produced a note-book. +From the bar of the booth came a large, hairy, red-faced man, whose face +showed fatuous self-complacency. He was a noted show-judge because he +refused, on principle, to listen to others' opinions; or in those rare +cases when he did, only to eject a scornful contradiction. The third +judge was a local squatter, who was overwhelmed with a sense of his own +importance. + +They seated themselves on a raised platform in the centre of the ring, +and held consultation. The small dark man produced his note-book. + +"I always keep a scale of points," he said. "Give 'em so many points for +each fence. Then give 'em so many for make, shape, and quality, and so +many for the way they jump." + +The fat man looked infinite contempt. "I never want any scale of +points," he said. "One look at the 'orses is enough for me. A man that +judges by points ain't a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?" he +went on, turning to the squatter. "Do you go by points?" + +"Never," said the squatter, firmly; which, as he had never judged before +in his life, was strictly true. + +"Well, we'll each go our own way," said the little man. "I'll keep +points. Send 'em in." + +"Number One, Conductor!" roared the ring steward in a voice like +thunder, and a long-legged grey horse came trotting into the ring and +sidled about uneasily. His rider pointed him for the first jump, and +went at it at a terrific pace. Nearing the fence the horse made a wild +spring, and cleared it by feet, while the crowd yelled applause. At the +second jump he raced right under the obstacle, propped dead, and rose +in the air with a leap like a goat, while the crowd yelled their delight +again, and said: "My oath! ain't he clever?" As he neared the third +fence he shifted about uneasily, and finally took it at an angle, +clearing a wholly unnecessary thirty feet. Again the hurricane of cheers +broke out. "Don't he fly 'em," said one man, waving his hat. At the +last fence he made his spring yards too soon; his forelegs got over all +right, but his hind legs dropped on the rail with a sounding rap, and he +left a little tuft of hair sticking on it. + +"I like to see 'em feel their fences," said the fat man. "I had a +bay 'orse once, and he felt every fence he ever jumped; shows their +confidence." + +"I think he'll feel that last one for a while," said the little dark +man. "What's this now?" + +"Number Two, Homeward Bound!" An old, solid chestnut horse came out and +cantered up to each jump, clearing them coolly and methodically. The +crowd was not struck by the performance, and the fat man said: "No +pace!" but surreptitiously made two strokes (to indicate Number Two) on +the cuff of his shirt. + +"Number Eleven, Spite!" This was a leggy, weedy chestnut, +half-racehorse, half-nondescript, ridden by a terrified amateur, who +went at the fence with a white, set face. The horse raced up to the +fence, and stopped dead, amid the jeers of the crowd. The rider let +daylight into him with his spurs, and rushed him at it again. This time +he got over. + +Round he went, clouting some fences with his front legs, others with +his hind legs. The crowd jeered, but the fat man, from a sheer spirit +of opposition, said: "That would be a good horse if he was rode better." +And the squatter remarked: "Yes, he belongs to a young feller just near +me. I've seen him jump splendidly out in the bush, over brush fences." + +The little dark man said nothing, but made a note in his book. + +"Number Twelve, Gaslight!" "Now, you'll see a horse," said the fat man. +"I've judged this 'orse in twenty different shows, and gave him first +prize every time!" + +Gaslight turned out to be a fiddle-headed, heavy-shouldered brute, whose +long experience of jumping in shows where they give points for pace--as +if the affair was a steeplechase--had taught him to get the business +over as quickly as he could. He went thundering round the ring, pulling +double, and standing off his fences in a style that would infallibly +bring him to grief if following hounds across roads or through broken +timber. + +"Now," said the fat man, "that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is, when +you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on if +Ned Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter." + +The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, +while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. "I like to see a +bit of pace myself," he ventured. + +The fat man sat on him heavily. "You don't call that pace, do you?" he +said. "He was going dead slow." + +Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, some propping +and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing at their fences; +not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves into difficulties +by changing feet or misjudging the distance, and were loudly applauded +by the crowd for "cleverness" in getting themselves out of the +difficulties they had themselves created. + +A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, and the task +of deciding was entered on. + +"I have kept a record," said the little man, "of how they jumped each +fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make +and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that Homeward +Bound is the best, with Gaslight second." + +"Homeward Bound!" said the fat man. "Why, the pace he went wouldn't head +a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets +of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at +'em." Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note "No. II.", +mistook it for "Number Eleven", and said: "I want Number Eleven to go +another round." + +The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling +and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn. + +"What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?" he said. + +"Why," said the ring steward, "you said you wanted him." + +"Well," said the fat man, "if I said I wanted him I do want him. Let him +go the round." + +The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair, +and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions. This put the +fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record, and all the horses were +jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea, to give the first +prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open to argument. From sheer +contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be "all right if he were +rode better," and the squatter agreed. The little man was overruled, and +the prizes went--Gaslight, first; Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third. + +The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second +ribbon, and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that +he ought to boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the +stewards' stand, and on being asked how he came to give Spite the +second prize, remarked oracularly: "I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the +rider." This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink. + +Over the flowing bowl the fat man said: "You see, I don't believe in +this nonsense about points. I can judge 'em without that." + +Twenty dissatisfied competitors vowed they would never bring another +horse there in their lives. Gaslight's owner said: "Blimey, I knew it +would be all right with old Billy judging. 'E knows this 'orse." + + + + +THE DOG + + +The dog is a member of society who likes to have his day's work, and who +does it more conscientiously than most human beings. A dog always looks +as if he ought to have a pipe in his mouth and a black bag for his +lunch, and then he would go quite happily to office every day. + +A dog without work is like a man without work, a nuisance to himself and +everybody else. People who live about town, and keep a dog to give the +children hydatids and to keep the neighbours awake at night, imagine +that the animal is fulfilling his destiny. All town dogs, fancy dogs, +show dogs, lap-dogs, and other dogs with no work to do, should be +abolished; it is only in the country that a dog has any justification +for his existence. + +The old theory that animals have only instinct, not reason, to guide +them, is knocked endways by the dog. A dog can reason as well as a human +being on some subjects, and better on others, and the best reasoning dog +of all is the sheep-dog. The sheep-dog is a professional artist with a +pride in his business. Watch any drover's dogs bringing sheep into +the yards. How thoroughly they feel their responsibility, and how very +annoyed they get if a stray dog with no occupation wants them to stop +and fool about! They snap at him and hurry off, as much as to say: "You +go about your idleness. Don't you see this is my busy day?" + +Sheep-dogs are followers of Thomas Carlyle. They hold that the only +happiness for a dog in this life is to find his work and to do it. The +idle, 'dilettante', non-working, aristocratic dog they have no use for. + +The training of a sheep-dog for his profession begins at a very early +age. The first thing is to take him out with his mother and let him see +her working. He blunders lightheartedly, frisking along in front of the +horse, and his owner tries to ride over him, and generally succeeds. It +is amusing to see how that knocks all the gas out of a puppy, and with +what a humble air he falls to the rear and glues himself to the horse's +heels, scarcely daring to look to the right or to the left, for fear of +committing some other breach of etiquette. + +He has had his first lesson--to keep behind the horse until he is +wanted. Then he watches the old slut work, and is allowed to go with her +round the sheep; and if he shows any disposition to get out of hand +and frolic about, the old lady will bite him sharply to prevent his +interfering with her work. + +By degrees, slowly, like any other professional, he learns his business. +He learns to bring sheep after a horse simply at a wave of the hand; +to force the mob up to a gate where they can be counted or drafted; +to follow the scent of lost sheep, and to drive sheep through a town +without any master, one dog going on ahead to block the sheep from +turning off into by-streets while the other drives them on from the +rear. + +How do they learn all these things? Dogs for show work are taught +painstakingly by men who are skilled in handling them; but, after all, +they teach themselves more than the men teach them. It looks as if the +acquired knowledge of generations were transmitted from dog to dog. +The puppy, descended from a race of sheep-dogs, starts with all his +faculties directed towards the working of sheep; he is half-educated +as soon as he is born. He can no more help working sheep than a born +musician can help being musical, or a Hebrew can help gathering in +shekels. It is bred in him. If he can't get sheep to work, he will +work a fowl; often and often one can see a collie pup painstakingly and +carefully driving a bewildered old hen into a stable, or a stock-yard, +or any other enclosed space on which he has fixed his mind. How does he +learn to do that? He didn't learn it at all. The knowledge was born with +him. + +When the dog has been educated, or has educated himself, he enjoys his +work; but very few dogs like work "in the yards". The sun is hot, +the dust rises in clouds, and there is nothing to do but bark, bark, +bark--which is all very well for learners and amateurs, but is beneath +the dignity of the true professional sheep-dog. When they are hoarse +with barking and nearly choked with dust, the men lose their tempers and +swear at them, and throw clods of earth at them, and sing out to them +"Speak up, blast you!" + +Then the dogs suddenly decide that they have done enough for the day. +Watching their opportunity, they silently steal over the fence, and +hide in any cool place they can find. After a while the men notice that +hardly any are left, and operations are suspended while a great hunt is +made into outlying pieces of cover, where the dogs are sure to be found +lying low and looking as guilty as so many thieves. A clutch at the +scruff of the neck, a kick in the ribs, and they are hauled out of +hiding-places; and accompany their masters to the yard frolicking about +and pretending that they are quite delighted to be going back, and +only hid in those bushes out of sheer thoughtlessness. He is a champion +hypocrite, is the dog. + +Dogs, like horses, have very keen intuition. They know when the men +around them are frightened, though they may not know the cause. In a +great Queensland strike, when the shearers attacked and burnt Dagworth +shed, some rifle-volleys were exchanged. The air was full of human +electricity, each man giving out waves of fear and excitement. Mark now +the effect it had on the dogs. They were not in the fighting; nobody +fired at them, and nobody spoke to them; but every dog left his master, +left the sheep, and went away to the homestead, about six miles off. +There wasn't a dog about the shed next day after the fight. The noise of +the rifles had not frightened them, because they were well-accustomed to +that.* + + * The same thing happened constantly with horses in the + South African War. A loose horse would feed contentedly + while our men were firing, but when our troops were being + fired at the horses became uneasy, and the loose ones would + trot away. The excitement of the men communicated itself to + them. + +Dogs have an amazing sense of responsibility. Sometimes, when there are +sheep to be worked, an old slut who has young puppies may be greatly +exercised in her mind whether she should go out or not. On the one hand, +she does not care about leaving the puppies, on the other, she feels +that she really ought to go rather than allow the sheep to be knocked +about by those learners. Hesitatingly, with many a look behind her, she +trots out after the horses and the other dogs. An impassioned appeal +from the head boundary rider, "Go back home, will yer!" is treated with +the contempt it deserves. She goes out to the yards, works, perhaps half +the day, and then slips quietly under the fences and trots off home, +contented. + + + + +THE DOG--AS A SPORTSMAN + + +The sheep-dog and the cattle-dog are the workmen of the animal kingdom; +sporting and fighting dogs are the professionals and artists. + +A house-dog or a working-dog will only work for his master; a +professional or artistic dog will work for anybody, so long as he is +treated like an artist. A man going away for a week's shooting can +borrow a dog, and the dog will work for him loyally, just as a good +musician will do his best, though the conductor is strange to him, and +the other members of the band are not up to the mark. The musician's +art is sacred to him, and that is the case with the dog--Art before +everything. + +It is a grand sight to see a really good setter or pointer working up to +a bird, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the man with +the gun has not lost himself. He throws his whole soul into his work, +questing carefully over the cold scent, feathering eagerly when the bird +is close, and at last drawing up like a statue. Not Paganini himself +ever lost himself in his art more thoroughly than does humble Spot or +Ponto. It is not amusement and not a mere duty to him; it is a sacred +gift, which he is bound to exercise. + +A pointer in need of amusement will play with another dog--the pair +pretending to fight, and so on, but when there is work to be done, the +dog is lost in the artist. How crestfallen he looks if by any chance he +blunders on to a bird without pointing it! A fiddler who has played +a wrong note in a solo is the only creature who can look quite so +discomfited. Humanity, instead of going to the ant for wisdom, should +certainly go to the dog. + +Sporting dogs are like other artists, in that they are apt to get +careless of everything except their vocation. They are similarly quite +unreliable in their affections. They are not good watch dogs, and take +little interest in chasing cats. They look on a little dog that catches +rats much as a great musician looks on a cricketer--it's clever, but it +isn't Art. + +Hunting and fighting dogs are the gladiators of the animal world. +A fox-hound or a kangaroo-dog is always of the same opinion as Mr. +Jorrocks:--"All time is wasted what isn't spent in 'untin'." + +A greyhound will start out in the morning with three lame legs, but as +soon as he sees a hare start he _must_ go. He utterly forgets his sorrows +in the excitement, just as a rowing-man, all over boils and blisters, +will pull a desperate race without feeling any pain. Such dogs are not +easily excited by anything but a chase, and a burglar might come and rob +the house and murder the inmates without arousing any excitement among +them. Guarding a house is "not their pidgin" as the Chinese say. That +is one great reason for the success of the dog at whatever branch of his +tribe's work he goes in for--he is so thorough. Dogs who are forced to +combine half-a-dozen professions never make a success at anything. One +dog one billet is their motto. + +The most earnest and thorough of all the dog tribe is the fighting +dog. His intense self-respect, his horror of brawling, his cool +determination, make him a pattern to humanity. The bull-dog or +bull-terrier is generally the most friendly and best-tempered dog in the +world; but when he is put down in the ring he fights till he drops, in +grim silence, though his feet are bitten through and through, his ears +are in rags, and his neck a hideous mass of wounds. + +In a well-conducted dog-fight each dog in turn has to attack the other +dog, and one can see fierce earnestness blazing in the eye of the +attacker as he hurls himself on the foe. What makes him fight like +that? It is not bloodthirstiness, because they are neither savage nor +quarrelsome dogs: a bulldog will go all his life without a fight, unless +put into a ring. It is simply their strong self-respect and stubborn +pride which will not let them give in. The greyhound snaps at his +opponent and then runs for his life, but the fighting dog stands to it +till death. + +Just occasionally one sees the same type of human being--some +quiet-spoken, good-tempered man who has taken up glove-fighting for a +living, and who, perhaps, gets pitted against a man a shade better than +himself. After a few rounds he knows he is overmatched, but there is +something at the back of his brain that will not let him cave in. Round +after round he stands punishment, and round after round he grimly comes +up, till, possibly, his opponent loses heart, or a fluky hit turns the +scale in his favour. These men are to be found in every class of life. +Many of the gamest of the game are mere gutter-bred boys who will +continue to fight long after they have endured enough punishment to +entitle them to quit. + +You can see in their eyes the same hard glitter that shows in the +bulldog's eyes as he limps across the ring, or in the eye of the +racehorse as he lies down to it when his opponent is outpacing him. It +is grit, pluck, vim, nerve force; call it what you like, and there is no +created thing that has more of it than the dog. + +The blood-lust is a dog-phase that has never been quite understood. +Every station-owner knows that sometimes the house-dogs are liable to +take a sudden fit of sheep-killing. Any kind of dog will do it, from the +collie downward. Sometimes dogs from different homesteads meet in the +paddocks, having apparently arranged the whole affair beforehand. They +are very artful about it, too. They lie round the house till dark, and +then slink off and have a wild night's blood-spree, running down the +wretched sheep and tearing their throats open; before dawn they +slink back again and lie around the house as before. Many and many a +sheep-owner has gone out with a gun and shot his neighbour's dogs for +killing sheep which his own wicked, innocent-looking dogs had slain. + + + + +CONCERNING A STEEPLECHASE RIDER + + +Of all the ways in which men get a living there is none so hard and so +precarious as that of steeplechase-riding in Australia. It is bad enough +in England, where steeplechases only take place in winter, when the +ground is soft, where the horses are properly schooled before being +raced, and where most of the obstacles will yield a little if struck and +give the horse a chance to blunder over safely. + +In Australia the men have to go at racing-speed, on very hard ground, +over the most rigid and uncompromising obstacles--ironbark rails clamped +into solid posts with bands of iron. No wonder they are always coming +to grief, and are always in and out of hospital in splints and bandages. +Sometimes one reads that a horse has fallen and the rider has "escaped +with a severe shaking." + +That "shaking", gentle reader, would lay you or me up for weeks, with +a doctor to look after us and a crowd of sympathetic friends calling to +know how our poor back was. But the steeplechase-rider has to be out and +about again, "riding exercise" every morning, and "schooling" all sorts +of cantankerous brutes over the fences. These men take their lives in +their hands and look at grim death between their horses' ears every time +they race or "school". + +The death-record among Australian cross-country jockeys and horses is +very great; it is a curious instance of how custom sanctifies all things +that such horse-and-man slaughter is accepted in such a callous way. If +any theatre gave a show at which men and horses were habitually crippled +or killed in full sight of the audience, the manager would be put on his +trial for manslaughter. + +Our race-tracks use up their yearly average of horses and men without +attracting remark. One would suppose that the risk being so great the +profits were enormous; but they are not. In "the game" as played on +our racecourses there is just a bare living for a good capable horseman +while he lasts, with the certainty of an ugly smash if he keeps at it +long enough. + +And they don't need to keep at it very long. After a few good "shakings" +they begin to take a nip or two to put heart into them before they go +out, and after a while they have to increase the dose. At last they +cannot ride at all without a regular cargo of alcohol on board, and are +either "half-muzzy" or shaky according as they have taken too much or +too little. + +Then the game becomes suicidal; it is an axiom that as soon as a man +begins to funk he begins to fall. The reason is that a rider who has +lost his nerve is afraid of his horse making a mistake, and takes a +pull, or urges him onward, just at the crucial moment when the horse is +rattling up to his fence and judging his distance. That little, nervous +pull at his head or that little touch of the spur, takes his attention +from the fence, with the result that he makes his spring a foot too far +off or a foot too close in, and--smash! + +The loafers who hang about the big fences rush up to see if the jockey +is killed or stunned; if he is, they dispose of any jewellery he may +have about him; they have been known almost to tear a finger off in +their endeavours to secure a ring. The ambulance clatters up at a +canter, the poor rider is pushed in out of sight, and the ladies in the +stand say how unlucky they are--that brute of a horse falling after +they backed him. A wolfish-eyed man in the Leger-stand shouts to +a wolfish-eyed pal, "Bill, I believe that jock was killed when the +chestnut fell," and Bill replies, "Yes, damn him, I had five bob on +him." And the rider, gasping like a crushed chicken, is carried into the +casualty-room and laid on a little stretcher, while outside the window +the bookmakers are roaring "Four to one bar one," and the racing is +going on merrily as ever. + +These remarks serve to introduce one of the fraternity who may be +considered as typical of all. He was a small, wiry, hard-featured +fellow, the son of a stockman on a big cattle-station, and began life as +a horse-breaker; he was naturally a horseman, able and willing to ride +anything that could carry him. He left the station to go with cattle on +the road, and having picked up a horse that showed pace, amused himself +by jumping over fences. Then he went to Wagga, entered the horse in a +steeplechase, rode him himself, won handsomely, sold the horse at a good +price to a Sydney buyer, and went down to ride it in his Sydney races. + +In Sydney he did very well; he got a name as a fearless and clever +rider, and was offered several mounts on fine animals. So he pitched +his camp in Sydney, and became a fully-enrolled member of the worst +profession in the world. I had known him in the old days on the road, +and when I met him on the course one day I enquired how he liked the new +life. + +"Well, it's a livin'," he said, "but it's no great shakes. They don't +give steeplechase-riders a chance in Sydney. There's very few races, and +the big sweepstakes keep horses out of the game." + +"Do you get a fair share of the riding?" I asked. + +"Oh, yes; I get as much as anybody. But there's a lot of 'em got a +notion I won't take hold of a horse when I'm told (i.e., pull him to +prevent him winning). Some of these days I'll take hold of a horse when +they don't expect it." + +I smiled as I thought there was probably a sorry day in store for some +backer when the jockey "took hold" unexpectedly. + +"Do you have to pull horses, then, to get employment?" + +"Oh, well, it's this way," he said, rather apologetically, "if an owner +is badly treated by the handicapper, and is just giving his horse a run +to get weight off, then it's right enough to catch hold a bit. But when +a horse is favourite and the public are backing him it isn't right to +take hold of him then. _I_ would not do it." This was his whole code of +morals--not to pull a favourite; and he felt himself very superior to +the scoundrel who would pull favourites or outsiders indiscriminately. + +"What do you get for riding?" I asked him. + +"Well," he said, looking about uneasily, "we're supposed to get a +fiver for a losing mount and ten pounds if we win, but a lot of the +steeplechase-owners are what I call 'battlers'--men who have no money +and get along by owing everybody. They promise us all sorts of money if +we win, but they don't pay if we lose. I only got two pounds for that +last steeplechase." + +"Two pounds!" I made a rapid calculation. He had ridden over eighteen +fences for two pounds--had chanced his life eighteen times at less than +half-a-crown a time. + +"Good Heavens!" I said, "that's a poor game. Wouldn't you be better back +on the station?" + +"Oh, I don't know--sometimes we get laid a bit to nothing, and do well +out of a race. And then, you know, a steeplechase rider is somebody--not +like an ordinary fellow that is just working." + +I realised that I was an "ordinary fellow who was just working", and +felt small accordingly. + +"I'm just off to weigh now," he said--"I'm riding Contractor, and he'll +run well, but he always seems to fall at those logs. Still, I ought to +have luck to-day. I met a hearse as I was coming out. I'll get him over +the fences, somehow." + +"Do you think it lucky, then, to meet a hearse?" + +"Oh, yes," he said, "if you _meet_ it. You mustn't overtake it--that's +unlucky. So is a cross-eyed man unlucky. Cross-eyed men ought to be kept +off racecourses." + +He reappeared clad in his racing rig, and we set off to see the horse +saddled. We found the owner in a great state of excitement. It seemed he +had no money--absolutely none whatever--but had borrowed enough to pay +the sweepstakes, and stood to make something if the horse won and lose +nothing if he lost, as he had nothing to lose. My friend insisted on +being paid two pounds before he would mount, and the owner nearly had a +fit in his efforts to persuade him to ride on credit. At last a backer +of the horse agreed to pay 2 pounds 10s., win or lose, and the rider was +to get 25 pounds out of the prize if he won. So up he got; and as he and +the others walked the big muscular horses round the ring, nodding gaily +to friends in the crowd, I thought of the gladiators going out to fight +in the arena with the cry of "Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute +thee!" + +The story of the race is soon told. My friend went to the front at the +start and led nearly all the way, and "Contractor!" was on every one's +lips as the big horse sailed along in front of his field. He came at the +log-fence full of running, and it looked certain that he would get over. +But at the last stride he seemed to falter, then plunged right into the +fence, striking it with his chest, and, turning right over, landed on +his unfortunate rider. + +A crowd clustered round and hid horse and rider from view, and I ran +down to the casualty-room to meet him when the ambulance came in. The +limp form was carefully taken out and laid on a stretcher while a doctor +examined the crushed ribs, the broken arm, and all the havoc that the +horse's huge weight had wrought. + +There was no hope from the first. My poor friend, who had so often faced +Death for two pounds, lay very still awhile. Then he began to talk, +wandering in his mind, "Where are the cattle?"--his mind evidently going +back to the old days on the road. Then, quickly, "Look out there--give +me room!" and again "Five-and-twenty pounds, Mary, and a sure thing if +he don't fall at the logs." + +Mary was sobbing beside the bed, cursing the fence and the money that +had brought him to grief. At last, in a tone of satisfaction, he said, +quite clear and loud: "I know how it was--_There couldn't have been any +dead man in that hearse!_" + +And so, having solved the mystery to his own satisfaction, he drifted +away into unconsciousness--and woke somewhere on the other side of the +big fence that we can neither see through nor over, but all have to face +sooner or later. + + + + +VICTOR SECOND + + +We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races--an old grey +warrior called Tricolor--better known to the station boys as The +Trickler--and a mare for the hack race. Station horses don't get trained +quite like Carbine; some days we had no time to give them gallops at +all, so they had to gallop twice as far the next day to make up. + +One day the boy we had looking after The Trickler fell in with a mob of +sharps who told him we didn't know anything about training horses, and +that what the horse really wanted was "a twicer"--that is to say, a +gallop twice round the course. So the boy gave him "a twicer" on his own +responsibility. When we found out about it we gave the boy a twicer with +the strap, and he left and took out a summons against us. But somehow +or other we managed to get the old horse pretty fit, tried him against +hacks of different descriptions, and persuaded ourselves that we had the +biggest certainty ever known on a racecourse. + +When the horses were galloping in the morning the kangaroo-dog, Victor, +nearly always went down to the course to run round with them. It amused +him, apparently, and didn't hurt anyone, so we used to let him race; in +fact, we rather encouraged him, because it kept him in good trim to hunt +kangaroo. When we were starting for the meeting, someone said we had +better tie up Victor or he would be getting stolen at the races. We +called and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, so we started and +forgot all about him. + +Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk and +blasphemous. All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event--you had +to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards. + +The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for a quarter of an +hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight of which he was +an interested spectator. Every horse, as he did his preliminary gallop, +had a string of dogs after him, and the clerk of the course came full +cry after the dogs with a whip. + +By and by the horses strung across to the start at the far side of the +course. They fiddled about for a bit; then down went the flag and they +came sweeping along all bunched up together, one holding a nice +position on the inside. All of a sudden we heard a wild chorus of +imprecations--"Look at that dog!" Victor had chipped in with the +racehorses, and was running right in front of the field. It looked a +guinea to a gooseberry that some of them would fall on him. + +The owners danced and swore. What did we mean by bringing a something +mongrel there to trip up and kill horses that were worth a paddockful of +all the horses we had ever owned, or would ever breed or own, even if we +lived to be a thousand. We were fairly in it and no mistake. + +As the field came past the stand the first time we could hear the +riders swearing at our dog, and a wild yell of execration arose from +the public. He had got right among the ruck by this time, and was racing +alongside his friend The Trickler, thoroughly enjoying himself. After +passing the stand the pace became very merry; the dog stretched out all +he knew; when they began to make it too hot for him, he cut off corners, +and joined at odd intervals, and every time he made a fresh appearance +the people in the stand lifted up their voices and "swore cruel". + +The horses were all at the whip as they turned into the straight, and +then The Trickler and the publican's mare singled out. We could hear +the "chop, chop!" of the whips as they came along together, but the mare +could not suffer it as long as the old fellow, and she swerved off while +he struggled home a winner by a length or so. Just as they settled down +to finish Victor dashed up on the inside, and passed the post at old +Trickler's girths. The populace immediately went for him with stones, +bottles, and other missiles, and he had to scratch gravel to save his +life. But imagine the amazement of the other owners when the judge +placed Trickler first, Victor second, and the publican's mare third! + +The publican tried to argue it out with him. He said you couldn't place +a kangaroo-dog second in a horse-race. + +The judge said it was _his_ (hiccough) business what he placed, and that +those who (hiccough) interfered with him would be sorry for it. Also he +expressed a (garnished) opinion that the publican's mare was no rotten +good, and that she was the right sort of mare for a poor man to own, +because she would keep him poor. + +Then the publican called the judge a cow. The judge was willing; a rip, +tear, and chew fight ensued, which lasted some time. The judge won. + +Fifteen protests were lodged against our win, but we didn't worry about +that--we had laid the stewards a bit to nothing. Every second man we met +wanted to run us a mile for 100 pounds a side; and a drunken shearer, +spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were "brimming over with +bally science", and had ridden forty miles to find out. + +We didn't wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab +and stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown how a +kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate. + + + + +CONCERNING A DOG-FIGHT + + +Dog-fighting as a sport is not much in vogue now-a-days. To begin with +it is illegal. Not that _that_ matters much, for Sunday drinking is also +illegal. But dog-fighting is one of the cruel sports which the +community has decided to put down with all the force of public opinion. +Nevertheless, a certain amount of it is still carried on near Sydney, +and very neatly and scientifically carried on, too--principally by +gentlemen who live out Botany way and do not care for public opinion. + +The grey dawn was just breaking over Botany when we got to the +meeting-place. Away to the East the stars were paling in the faint flush +of coming dawn, and over the sandhills came the boom of breakers. It was +Sunday morning, and all the respectable, non-dog-fighting population of +that odoriferous suburb were sleeping their heavy, Sunday-morning +sleep. Some few people, however, were astir. In the dim light hurried +pedestrians plodded along the heavy road towards the sandhills. Now and +then a van, laden with ten or eleven of "the talent", and drawn by a +horse that cost fifteen shillings at auction, rolled softly along in the +same direction. These were dog-fighters who had got "the office", and +knew exactly where the match was to take place. + +The "meet" was on a main road, about half-a-mile from town; here some +two hundred people had assembled, and hung up their horses and vehicles +to the fence without the slightest concealment. They said the police +would not interfere with them--and they did not seem a nice crowd to +interfere with. + +One dog was on the ground when we arrived, having come out in a hansom +cab with his trainer. He was a white bull-terrier, weighing about forty +pounds, "trained to the hour", with the muscles standing out all over +him. He waited in the cab, licking his trainer's face at intervals to +reassure that individual of his protection and support; the rest of the +time he glowered out of the cab and eyed the public scornfully. He knew +as well as any human being that there was sport afoot, and looked about +eagerly and wickedly to see what he could get his teeth into. + +Soon a messenger came running up to know whether they meant to sit in +the cab till the police came; the other dog, he said, had arrived and +all was ready. The trainer and dog got out of the cab; we followed them +through a fence and over a rise--and there, about twenty yards from +the main road, was a neatly-pitched enclosure like a prize-ring, a +thirty-foot-square enclosure formed with stakes and ropes. About a +hundred people were at the ringside, and in the far corner, in the arms +of his trainer, was the other dog--a brindle. + +It was wonderful to see the two dogs when they caught sight of each +other. The white dog came up to the ring straining at his leash, nearly +dragging his trainer off his feet in his efforts to get at the enemy. At +intervals he emitted a hoarse roar of challenge and defiance. + +The brindled dog never uttered a sound. He fixed his eyes on his +adversary with a look of intense hunger, of absolute yearning for +combat. He never for an instant shifted his unwinking gaze. He seemed +like an animal who saw the hopes of years about to be realised. With +painful earnestness he watched every detail of the other dog's toilet; +and while the white dog was making fierce efforts to get at him, he +stood Napoleonic, grand in his courage, waiting for the fray. + +All details were carefully attended to, and all rules strictly +observed. People may think a dog-fight is a go-as-you-please outbreak of +lawlessness, but there are rules and regulations--simple, but effective. +There were two umpires, a referee, a timekeeper, and two seconds for +each dog. The stakes were said to be ten pounds a-side. After some talk, +the dogs were carried to the centre of the ring by their seconds and put +on the ground. Like a flash of lightning they dashed at each other, and +the fight began. + +Nearly everyone has seen dogs fight--"it is their nature to", as Dr. +Watts put it. But an ordinary worry between (say) a retriever and a +collie, terminating as soon as one or other gets his ear bitten, gives +a very faint idea of a real dog-fight. But bull-terriers are the +gladiators of the canine race. Bred and trained to fight, carefully +exercised and dieted for weeks beforehand, they come to the fray +exulting in their strength and determined to win. Each is trained to +fight for certain holds, a grip of the ear or the back of the neck being +of very slight importance. The foot is a favourite hold, the throat is, +of course, fashionable--if they can get it. + +The white and the brindle sparred and wrestled and gripped and threw +each other, fighting grimly, and disdaining to utter a sound. Their +seconds dodged round them unceasingly, giving them encouragement and +advice--"That's the style, Boxer--fight for his foot"--"Draw your foot +back, old man," and so on. Now and again one dog got a grip of the +other's foot and chewed savagely, and the spectators danced with +excitement. The moment the dogs let each other go they were snatched up +by their seconds and carried to their corners, and a minute's time was +allowed, in which their mouths were washed out and a cloth rubbed over +their bodies. + +Then came the ceremony of "coming to scratch". When time was called for +the second round the brindled dog was let loose in his own corner, and +was required by the rules to go across the ring of his own free will and +attack the other dog. If he failed to do this he would lose the fight. +The white dog, meanwhile, was held in his corner waiting the attack. +After the next round it was the white dog's turn to make the attack, and +so on alternately. The animals need not fight a moment longer than they +chose, as either dog could abandon the fight by failing to attack his +enemy. + +While their condition lasted they used to dash across the ring at +full run; but, after a while, when the punishment got severe and their +"fitness" began to fail, it became a very exciting question whether or +not a dog would "come to scratch". The brindled dog's condition was not +so good as the other's. He used to lie on his stomach between the rounds +to rest himself, and several times it looked as if he would not cross +the ring when his turn came. But as soon as time was called he would +start to his feet and limp slowly across glaring steadily at his +adversary; then, as he got nearer, he would quicken his pace, make a +savage rush, and in a moment they would be locked in combat. So they +battled on for fifty-six minutes, till the white dog (who was apparently +having all the best of it), on being called to cross the ring, only went +half-way across and stood there for a minute growling savagely. So he +lost the fight. + +No doubt it was a brutal exhibition. But it was not cruel to the animals +in the same sense that pigeon-shooting or hare-hunting is cruel. The +dogs are born fighters, anxious and eager to fight, desiring nothing +better. Whatever limited intelligence they have is all directed to +this one consuming passion. They could stop when they liked, but anyone +looking on could see that they gloried in the combat. Fighting is like +breath to them--they must have it. Nature has implanted in all animals a +fighting instinct for the weeding out of the physically unfit, and these +dogs have an extra share of that fighting instinct. + +Of course, now that militarism is going to be abolished, and the +world is going to be so good and teetotal, and only fight in debating +societies, these nasty savage animals will be out of date. We will not +be allowed to keep anything more quarrelsome than a poodle--and a man +of the future, the New Man, whose fighting instincts have not been +quite bred out of him, will, perhaps, be found at grey dawn of a Sunday +morning with a crowd of other unregenerates in some backyard frantically +cheering two of them to mortal combat. + + + + +HIS MASTERPIECE + + +Greenhide Billy was a stockman on a Clarence River cattle-station, and +admittedly the biggest liar in the district. He had been for many years +pioneering in the Northern Territory, the other side of the sun-down--a +regular "furthest-out man"--and this assured his reputation among +station-hands who award rank according to amount of experience. + +Young men who have always hung around the home districts, doing a job of +shearing here or a turn at horse-breaking there, look with reverence +on Riverine or Macquarie-River shearers who come in with tales of runs +where they have 300,000 acres of freehold land and shear 250,000 +sheep; these again pale their ineffectual fires before the glory of the +Northern Territory man who has all-comers on toast, because no one can +contradict him or check his figures. When two of them meet, however, +they are not fools enough to cut down quotations and spoil the market; +they lie in support of each other, and make all other bushmen feel mean +and pitiful and inexperienced. + +Sometimes a youngster would timidly ask Greenhide Billy about the +'terra incognita': "What sort of a place is it, Billy--how big are the +properties? How many acres had you in the place you were on?" + +"Acres be d----d!" Billy would scornfully reply; "hear him talking +about acres! D'ye think we were blanked cockatoo selectors! Out there we +reckon country by the hundred miles. You orter say, 'How many thousand +miles of country?' and then I'd understand you." + +Furthermore, according to Billy, they reckoned the rainfall in the +Territory by yards, not inches. He had seen blackfellows who could +jump at least three inches higher than anyone else had ever seen a +blackfellow jump, and every bushman has seen or personally known +a blackfellow who could jump over six feet. Billy had seen bigger +droughts, better country, fatter cattle, faster horses, and cleverer +dogs, than any other man on the Clarence River. But one night when the +rain was on the roof, and the river was rising with a moaning sound, and +the men were gathered round the fire in the hut smoking and staring at +the coals, Billy turned himself loose and gave us his masterpiece. + +"I was drovin' with cattle from Mungrybanbone to old Corlett's station +on the Buckadowntown River" (Billy always started his stories with some +paralysing bush names). "We had a thousand head of store-cattle, wild, +mountain-bred wretches that'd charge you on sight; they were that handy +with their horns they could skewer a mosquito. There was one or two +one-eyed cattle among 'em--and you know how a one-eyed beast always +keeps movin' away from the mob, pokin' away out to the edge of them so +as they won't git on his blind side, so that by stirrin' about he keeps +the others restless. + +"They had been scared once or twice, and stampeded and gave us all we +could do to keep them together; and it was wet and dark and thundering, +and it looked like a real bad night for us. It was my watch. I was on +one side of the cattle, like it might be here, with a small bit of a +fire; and my mate, Barcoo Jim, he was right opposite on the other side +of the cattle, and had gone to sleep under a log. The rest of the men +were in the camp fast asleep. Every now and again I'd get on my horse +and prowl round the cattle quiet like, and they seemed to be settled +down all right, and I was sitting by my fire holding my horse and +drowsing, when all of a sudden a blessed 'possum ran out from some +saplings and scratched up a tree right alongside me. I was half-asleep, +I suppose, and was startled; anyhow, never thinking what I was doing, I +picked up a firestick out of the fire and flung it at the 'possum. + +"Whoop! Before you could say Jack Robertson, that thousand head of +cattle were on their feet, and made one wild, headlong, mad rush right +over the place where poor old Barcoo Jim was sleeping. There was no +time to hunt up materials for the inquest; I had to keep those cattle +together, so I sprang into the saddle, dashed the spurs into the old +horse, dropped my head on his mane, and sent him as hard as he could leg +it through the scrub to get to the lead of the cattle and steady them. +It was brigalow, and you know what that is. + +"You know how the brigalow grows," continued Bill; "saplings about as +thick as a man's arm, and that close together a dog can't open his mouth +to bark in 'em. Well, those cattle swept through that scrub, levelling +it like as if it had been cleared for a railway line. They cleared +a track a quarter of a mile wide, and smashed every stick, stump and +sapling on it. You could hear them roaring and their hoofs thundering +and the scrub smashing three or four miles off. + +"And where was I? I was racing parallel with the cattle, with my head +down on the horse's neck, letting him pick his way through the scrub in +the pitchy darkness. This went on for about four miles. Then the cattle +began to get winded, and I dug into the old stock-horse with the spurs, +and got in front, and began to crack the whip and sing out, so as to +steady them a little; after awhile they dropped slower and slower, and I +kept the whip going. I got them all together in a patch of open country, +and there I rode round and round 'em all night till daylight. + +"And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; for a man +couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark. The cattle were +all knocked about--horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; but they were +all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as the daylight broke +I took 'em back to the camp--that is, all that could travel, because I +had to leave a few broken-legged ones." + +Billy paused in his narrative. He knew that some suggestions would be +made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, +and he prepared himself accordingly. His motto was "No surrender"; he +never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark on +them, he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out the +intruder. + +"That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy," said one of the +men at last, admiringly. "It's a wonder you wasn't killed. I suppose +your clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?" + +"Never touched a twig," said Billy. + +"Ah!" faltered the inquirer, "then no doubt you had a real ringin' good +stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that full-split in +the dark, and not hit you against anything." + +"No, he wasn't a good un," said Billy decisively, "he was the worst +horse in the camp. Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' +down on his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on +him and pull his ears." + +Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best. After a pause +another took up the running. + +"How did your mate get on, Billy? I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!" + +"No," said Billy, "he wasn't hurt a bit. I told you he was sleeping +under the shelter of a log. Well, when those cattle rushed they swept +over that log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd took the +log in his stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy by about four +inches." + +The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well into +their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try. + +"It's a wonder then, Billy," he said, "that your mate didn't come after +you and give you a hand to steady the cattle." + +"Well, perhaps it was," said Billy, "only that there was a bigger wonder +than that at the back of it." + +"What was that?" + +"My mate never woke up all through it." + +Then the men knocked the ashes out of their pipes and went to bed. + + + + +DONE FOR THE DOUBLE + +by Knott Gold + +Author of "Flogged for a Furlong", "Won by a Winker", etc., etc. + + + + +Chapter I.--WANTED, A PONY + + +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy beyond the +dreams of avarice. Other merchants might dress more lavishly, and wear +larger watch chains; but the bank balance is the true test of mercantile +superiority, and in a trial of bank balances Algernon de Montgomery +Smythers represented Tyson at seven stone. He was unbeatable. + +He lived in comfort, not to say luxury. He had champagne for breakfast +every morning, and his wife always slept with a pair of diamond earrings +worth a small fortune in her ears. It is things like these that show +true gentility. + +Though they had been married many years, the A. de M. Smythers had but +one child--a son and heir. No Christmas Day was allowed to pass by his +doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle worth about +150 pounds, less the discount for cash. He had six play-rooms, all +filled with the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices. +He had a phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, and a +mechanical parrot that sang "The Wearing of the Green". And still he was +not happy. + +Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses and six +under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about with the +little boys he met there. One day he gave one of them a sovereign for +a locust. Certainly the locust was a "double-drummer", and could deafen +the German Band when shaken up judiciously; still, it was dear at a +sovereign. + +It is ever thus. + +What we have we do not value, and what other people have we are not +strong enough to take from them. + +Such is life. + +Christmas was approaching, and the question of Algy's Christmas present +agitated the bosom of his parents. He already had nearly everything a +child could want; but one morning a bright inspiration struck Algy's +father. Algy should have a pony. + +With Mr. Smythers to think was to act. He was not a man who believed +in allowing grass to grow under his feet. His motto was, "Up and be +doing--somebody." So he put an advertisement in the paper that same day. + +"Wanted, a boy's pony. Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, +intelligent. Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, and motor +'buses. Any failure in above respects will disqualify. Certificate of +birth required as well as references from last place. Price no object." + + + + +Chapter II.--BLINKY BILL'S SACRIFICE + + +Down in a poverty-stricken part of the city lived Blinky Bill, the +horse-dealer. + +His yard was surrounded by loose-boxes made of any old timber, +galvanized iron, sheets of roofing-felt, and bark he could gather +together. + +He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts. There were harness +horses, that wouldn't pull, and saddle horses that wouldn't go--or, if +they went, used to fall down. Nearly every animal about the place had +something the matter with it. + +When the bailiff dropped in, as he did every two or three weeks, Bill +and he would go out together, and "have a punt" on some of Bill's +ponies, or on somebody else's ponies--the latter for choice. But +periodical punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf +from the door. Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not and +Blinky Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation when he +saw the advertisement mentioned at the end of last chapter. + +It was like a ray of hope to him. At once there flashed upon him what he +must do. + +He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II. + +Sausage II. was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day. Time and +again he had gone out to race when, to use William's own words, it was +a blue duck for Bill's chance of keeping afloat; and every time did the +gallant race pony pull his owner through. + +Bill owed more to Sausage II. than he owed to his creditors. + +Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy. He +would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, it was quite +a common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky to a country +meeting and look about him for a likely "mark". If he could find a fleet +youth with a reputedly fast pony, Bill would offer to "pull the little +cuddy out of the sulky and run yer for a fiver." Sometimes he got +beaten; but as he never paid, that didn't matter. He did not believe in +fighting; but he would always sooner fight than pay. + +But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end. He had +no feed for his ponies, and no money to buy it; the corn merchant had +written his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse. +Under the circumstances, what was he to do? Sausage II. must be sold. + +With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected. He saw Mr. +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers, and measured him with his eye. He saw +it would be no use to talk about racing to him, so he went on the other +track. + +He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, who used to +drive him in a "shay". There are no shays in this country; but Bill had +read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable. "Yus, sir," +he said, "'e goes lovely in a shay," and he was just starting off at +twenty words a second, when he was stopped. + +Mr. A. de M. Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this he +made a mistake. Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, and +disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk. + +"If you want to sell this pony, dry up," he said. "I don't believe a +word you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying." + +Fatal mistake! You should never stop a horse-dealer's talk. And call him +anything you like, but never say you doubt his word. + +Both these things Mr. Smythers did; and, though he bought the pony at a +high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill. + +As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered to +himself, "Ha! ha! Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II., +the greatest 13.2 pony of the century. Let him beware how he gets +alongside anything. That's all! Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!" + + + + +Chapter III.--EXIT ALGY + + +Christmas Day came. Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled, +and led round to the front door. Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers, +spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the principal +event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate agreed +with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter. + +The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those who +are fat--the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long, +miserable walks. Well has one of our greatest poets written, "Take up +the fat man's burden." But we digress. + +When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was +riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave to go +out in the street--and that was where the trouble began. + +Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till +suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. With +a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second there +was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. Sausage II. +was off after them with his precious burden. + +The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead +for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he +was left yelping far behind. Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the +flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while +the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way were just +one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard +of Blinky Bill. + + + + +Chapter IV.--RUNNING THE RULE + + +As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted. + +"You here," he said, "Ha, ha, revenge is mine! I'll get a tidy reward +for taking you back, my young shaver." + +Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three +sovereigns. These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he +was going home again. He expected to get at least a tenner ready money +for bringing Algy back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the +watch into the bargain. + +With a light heart he went down town with Algy's watch and sovereigns in +his pocket. He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife with +bad news. + +"Can't give the boy up," he said. "I moskenoed his block and tackle, and +blued it in the school." In other words, he had pawned the boy's watch +and chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss. + +"Nothing for it but to move," he said, "and take the kid with us." + +So move they did. + +The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother +of little Algy sought for their lost one. They put the matter into the +hands of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses of +the force to get in their fine work. There was nothing doing. + +Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy was yet +unsolved. The horse-dealer's revenge was complete. + +The boy's mother consulted a clairvoyant, who murmured mystically "What +went by the ponies, will come by the ponies;" and with that they had to +remain satisfied. + + + + +Chapter V.--THE TRICKS OF THE TURF + + +It was race day at Pulling'em Park, and the ponies were doing their +usual performances. + +Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond +earrings. Does the reader recognize her? It is little Algy's mother. +Her husband is dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, and, +having developed a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in "doing it +in on the ponies". She is one of the biggest bettors in the game. + +When women take to betting they are worse than men. + +But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings. She +remembers the clairvoyant's "What went by the ponies will come by the +ponies." And always she searches in the ranks of the talent for her lost +Algy. + +Here enters another of our dramatis personae--Blinky Bill, prosperous +once more. He has got a string of ponies and punters together. The +first are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of all +temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters the +mother of the child he stole. But the poor lady regularly punts on his +ponies, and just as regularly is "sent up"--in other words, loses her +money. + +To-day she has backed Blinky's pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the +double. Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, can +win the second half of the double. Is he on the job? The prices are +lengthening against him, and the poor lady recognises that once more she +is "in the cart". + +Just then she meets Tin Can's jockey, Dodger Smith, face to face. A +piercing scream rends the atmosphere, as if a thousand school children +drew a thousand slate pencils down a thousand slates simultaneously. "Me +cheild! Me cheild! Me long-lost Algy!" + +It did not take long to convince Algy that he would be better off as a +son to a wealthy lady than as a jockey, subject to the fiendish caprices +of Blinky Bill. + +"All right, mother," he said. "Put all you can raise on Tin Can. I'm +going to send Blinky up. It's time I had a cut on me own, anyway." + +The horses went to the post. Tons of money were at the last moment +hurled on to Tin Can. The books, knowing he was "dead", responded +gamely, and wrote his name till their wrists gave out. Blinky Bill had +a half-share in all the bookies' winnings, so he chuckled grimly as he +went to the rails to watch the race. + +They're off. And what is this that flashes to the front, while the howls +of the bookies rise like the yelping of fiends in torment? It is Dodger +Smith on Tin Can, and from the grandstand there is a shrill feminine +yell of triumph as the gallant pony sails past the post. + +The bookies thought that Blinky Bill had sold them, and they discarded +him for ever. + +Algy and his mother were united, and backed horses together happily ever +after, and sometimes out in the back yard of their palatial mansion +they hand the empty bottles, free of charge, to a poor old broken-down +bottle-O, called Blinky Bill. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Three Elephant Power, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE ELEPHANT POWER *** + +***** This file should be named 307.txt or 307.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/307/ + +Produced by A. Light and L. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +Three Elephant Power and Other Stories + +by Andrew Barton `Banjo' Paterson [Australian Poet, Reporter -- 1864-1941.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. +Some obvious errors have been corrected.] + +[This etext is transcribed from the original edition of 1917, +which was published in Sydney.] + + + + + + +Three Elephant Power and Other Stories +By A. B. Paterson, Author of The Man from Snowy River, Rio Grande, +Saltbush Bill, J.P., An Outback Marriage, Etc. + + + + + + +These stories appeared originally in several Australian journals. + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Three Elephant Power +The Oracle +The Cast-iron Canvasser +The Merino Sheep +The Bullock +White-when-he's-wanted +The Downfall of Mulligan's +The Amateur Gardener +Thirsty Island +Dan Fitzgerald Explains +The Cat +Sitting in Judgment +The Dog +The Dog -- as a Sportsman +Concerning a Steeplechase Rider +Victor Second +Concerning a Dog-fight +His Masterpiece +Done for the Double + + + + + + +Three Elephant Power + + + +"Them things," said Alfred the chauffeur, tapping the speed indicator +with his fingers, "them things are all right for the police. But, Lord, +you can fix 'em up if you want to. Did you ever hear about Henery, +that used to drive for old John Bull -- about Henery and the elephant?" + +Alfred was chauffeur to a friend of mine who owned a very powerful car. +Alfred was part of that car. Weirdly intelligent, of poor physique, +he might have been any age from fifteen to eighty. His education had been +somewhat hurried, but there was no doubt as to his mechanical ability. +He took to a car like a young duck to water. He talked motor, +thought motor, and would have accepted -- I won't say with enthusiasm, +for Alfred's motto was `Nil admirari' -- but without hesitation, +an offer to drive in the greatest race in the world. +He could drive really well, too; as for belief in himself, +after six months' apprenticeship in a garage he was prepared +to vivisect a six-cylinder engine with the confidence of +a diplomaed bachelor of engineering. + +Barring a tendency to flash driving, and a delight in persecuting slow cars +by driving just in front of them and letting them come up +and enjoy his dust, and then shooting away again, +he was a respectable member of society. When his boss was in the car +he cloaked the natural ferocity of his instincts; but this day, +with only myself on board, and a clear run of a hundred and twenty miles +up to the station before him, he let her loose, confident that +if any trouble occurred I would be held morally responsible. + +As we flew past a somnolent bush pub, Alfred, whistling softly, +leant forward and turned on a little more oil. + +"You never heard about Henery and the elephant?" he said. +"It was dead funny. Henery was a bushwacker, but clean mad on motorin'. +He was wood and water joey at some squatter's place until he seen +a motor-car go past one day, the first that ever they had in the districk. + +"`That's my game,' says Henery; `no more wood and water joey for me.' + +"So he comes to town and gets a job off Miles that had that garage +at the back of Allison's. An old cove that they called John Bull +-- I don't know his right name, he was a fat old cove -- +he used to come there to hire cars, and Henery used to drive him. +And this old John Bull he had lots of stuff, so at last he reckons +he's going to get a car for himself, and he promises Henery a job +to drive it. A queer cove this Henery was -- half mad, I think, +but the best hand with a car ever I see." + +While he had been talking we topped a hill, and opened up a new stretch +of blue-grey granite-like road. Down at the foot of the hill +was a teamster's waggon in camp; the horses in their harness munching at +their nose-bags, while the teamster and a mate were boiling a billy +a little off to the side of the road. There was a turn in the road +just below the waggon which looked a bit sharp, so of course +Alfred bore down on it like a whirlwind. The big stupid team-horses +huddled together and pushed each other awkwardly as we passed. +A dog that had been sleeping in the shade of the waggon sprang out +right in front of the car, and was exterminated without ever knowing +what struck him. + +There was just room to clear the tail of the waggon and negotiate the turn. +Alfred, with the calm decision of a Napoleon, swung round the bend +to find that the teamster's hack, fast asleep, was tied to the tail +of the waggon. Nothing but a lightning-like twist of the steering-wheel +prevented our scooping the old animal up, and taking him on board +as a passenger. As it was, we carried off most of his tail as a trophy +on the brass of the lamp. The old steed, thus rudely awakened, +lashed out good and hard, but by that time we were gone, +and he missed the car by a quarter of a mile. + +During this strenuous episode Alfred never relaxed +his professional stolidity, and, when we were clear, went on with his story +in the tone of a man who found life wanting in animation. + +"Well, at fust, the old man would only buy one of these little +eight-horse rubby-dubbys that go strugglin' up 'ills with a death-rattle +in its throat, and all the people in buggies passin' it. +O' course that didn't suit Henery. He used to get that spiked +when a car passed him, he'd nearly go mad. And one day he nearly +got the sack for dodgin' about up a steep 'ill in front of one o' them +big twenty-four Darracqs, full of 'owlin' toffs, and not lettin' 'em +get a chance to go past till they got to the top. But at last he persuaded +old John Bull to let him go to England and buy a car for him. +He was to do a year in the shops, and pick up all the wrinkles, +and get a car for the old man. Bit better than wood and water joeying, +wasn't it?" + +Our progress here was barred by our rounding a corner right on to a flock +of sheep, that at once packed together into a solid mass in front of us, +blocking the whole road from fence to fence. + +"Silly cows o' things, ain't they?" said Alfred, putting on his +emergency brake, and skidding up till the car came softly to rest against +the cushion-like mass -- a much quicker stop than any horse-drawn vehicle +could have made. A few sheep were crushed somewhat, but it is well known +that a sheep is practically indestructible by violence. +Whatever Alfred's faults were, he certainly could drive. + +"Well," he went on, lighting a cigarette, unheeding the growls +of the drovers, who were trying to get the sheep to pass the car, +"well, as I was sayin', Henery went to England, and he got a car. +Do you know wot he got?" + +"No, I don't." + +"'E got a ninety," said Alfred slowly, giving time for the words +to soak in. + +"A ninety! What do you mean?" + +"'E got a ninety -- a ninety-horse-power racin' engine wot was made +for some American millionaire and wasn't as fast as wot +some other millionaire had, so he sold it for the price of the iron, +and Henery got it, and had a body built for it, and he comes out here +and tells us all it's a twenty mongrel -- you know, one of them cars +that's made part in one place and part in another, the body here +and the engine there, and the radiator another place. +There's lots of cheap cars made like that. + +"So Henery he says that this is a twenty mongrel -- +only a four-cylinder engine; and nobody drops to what she is +till Henery goes out one Sunday and waits for the big Napier +that Scotty used to drive -- it belonged to the same bloke wot owned +that big racehorse wot won all the races. So Henery and Scotty +they have a fair go round the park while both their bosses is at church, +and Henery beat him out o' sight -- fair lost him -- and so Henery +was reckoned the boss of the road. No one would take him on after that." + +A nasty creek-crossing here required Alfred's attention. A little girl, +carrying a billy-can of water, stood by the stepping stones, +and smiled shyly as we passed. Alfred waved her a salute quite as though +he were an ordinary human being. I felt comforted. He had his moments +of relaxation evidently, and his affections like other people. + +"What happened to Henry and the ninety-horse machine?" I asked. +"And where does the elephant come in?" + +Alfred smiled pityingly. + +"Ain't I tellin' yer," he said. "You wouldn't understand if I didn't +tell yer how he got the car and all that. So here's Henery," he went on, +"with old John Bull goin' about in the fastest car in Australia, +and old John, he's a quiet old geezer, that wouldn't drive faster +than the regulations for anything, and that short-sighted he can't see +to the side of the road. So what does Henery do? He fixes up +the speed-indicator -- puts a new face on it, so that when the car +is doing thirty, the indicator only shows fifteen, and twenty for forty, +and so on. So out they'd go, and if Henery knew there was a big car +in front of him, he'd let out to forty-five, and the pace would very near +blow the whiskers off old John; and every now and again he'd look +at the indicator, and it'd be showin' twenty-two and a half, and he'd say: + +"`Better be careful, Henery, you're slightly exceedin' the speed limit; +twenty miles an hour, you know, Henery, should be fast enough for anybody, +and you're doing over twenty-two.' + +"Well, one day, Henery told me, he was tryin' to catch up a big car +that just came out from France, and it had a half-hour start of him, +and he was just fairly flyin', and there was a lot of cars on the road, +and he flies past 'em so fast the old man says, `It's very strange, +Henery,' he says, `that all the cars that are out to-day are comin' +this way,' he says. You see he was passin' 'em so fast he thought +they were all comin' towards him. + +"And Henery sees a mate of his comin', so he lets out a notch or two, +and the two cars flew by each other like chain lightnin'. They were each +doin' about forty, and the old man, he says, `There's a driver +must be travellin' a hundred miles an hour,' he says. `I never see a car +go by so fast in my life,' he says. `If I could find out who he is, +I'd report him,' he says. `Did you know the car, Henery?' +But of course Henery, he doesn't know, so on they goes. + +"The owner of the big French car thinks he has the fastest car +in Australia, and when he sees Henery and the old man coming, he tells +his driver to let her out a little; but Henery gives the ninety-horse +the full of the lever, and whips up alongside in one jump. And then +he keeps there just half a length ahead of him, tormentin' him like. +And the owner of the French car he yells out to old John Bull, +`You're going a nice pace for an old 'un,' he says. Old John has a blink +down at the indicator. `We're doing twenty-five,' he yells out. +`Twenty-five grandmothers,' says the bloke; but Henery he put on +his accelerator, and left him. It wouldn't do to let the old man +get wise to it, you know." + +We topped a big hill, and Alfred cut off the engine and let the car swoop, +as swiftly and noiselessly as an eagle, down to the flat country below. + +"You're a long while coming to the elephant, Alfred," I said. + +"Well, now, I'll tell you about the elephant," said Alfred, +letting his clutch in again, and taking up the story to the accompaniment +of the rhythmic throb of the engine. + +"One day Henery and the old man were going out a long trip +over the mountain, and down the Kangaroo Valley Road that's all cut out +of the side of the 'ill. And after they's gone a mile or two, +Henery sees a track in the road -- the track of the biggest car +he ever seen or 'eard of. An' the more he looks at it, the more he reckons +he must ketch that car and see what she's made of. So he slows down +passin' two yokels on the road, and he says, `Did you see a big car +along 'ere?' + +"`Yes, we did,' they says. + +"`How big is she?' says Henery. + +"`Biggest car ever we see,' says the yokels, and they laughed +that silly way these yokels always does. + +"`How many horse-power do you think she was?' says Henery. + +"`Horse-power,' they says; `elephant-power, you mean! +She was three elephant-power,' they says; and they goes `Haw, haw!' +and Henery drops his clutch in, and off he goes after that car." + +Alfred lit another cigarette as a preliminary to the climax. + +"So they run for miles, and all the time there's the track ahead of 'em, +and Henery keeps lettin' her out, thinkin' that he'll never ketch that car. +They went through a town so fast, the old man he says, `What house was that +we just passed,' he says. At last they come to the top of the big 'ill, +and there's the tracks of the big car goin' straight down ahead of 'em. + +"D'you know that road? It's all cut out of the side of the mountain, +and there's places where if she was to side-slip you'd go down +'undreds of thousands of feet. And there's sharp turns, too; +but the surface is good, so Henery he lets her out, and down they go, +whizzin' round the turns and skatin' out near the edge, +and the old cove sittin' there enjoyin' it, never knowin' the danger. +And comin' to one turn Henery gives a toot on the 'orn, +and then he heard somethin' go `toot, toot' right away down the mountain. + +"'Bout a mile ahead it seemed to be, and Henery reckoned he'd go +another four miles before he'd ketch it, so he chances them turns +more than ever. And she was pretty hot, too; but he kept her at it, +and he hadn't gone a full mile till he come round a turn +about forty miles an hour, and before he could stop he run right into it, +and wot do you think it was?" + +I hadn't the faintest idea. + +"A circus. One of them travellin' circuses, goin' down the coast; +and one of the elephants had sore feet, so they put him in a big waggon, +and another elephant pulled in front and one pushed behind. +Three elephant-power it was, right enough. That was the waggon wot made +the big track. Well, it was all done so sudden. Before Henery could stop, +he runs the radiator -- very near boiling she was -- up against the +elephant's tail, and prints the pattern of the latest honeycomb radiator +on the elephant as clear as if you done it with a stencil. + +"The elephant, he lets a roar out of him like one of them bulls bellerin', +and he puts out his nose and ketches Henery round the neck, +and yanks him out of the car, and chucks him right clean over the cliff, +'bout a thousand feet. But he never done nothin' to the old bloke." + +"Good gracious!" + +"Well, it finished Henery, killed him stone dead, of course, +and the old man he was terrible cut up over losin' such a steady, +trustworthy man. `Never get another like him,' he says." + +We were nearly at our journey's end, and we turned through a gate +into the home paddocks. Some young stock, both horses and cattle, +came frisking and cantering after the car, and the rough bush track +took all Alfred's attention. We crossed a creek, the water swishing +from the wheels, and began the long pull up to the homestead. +Over the clamour of the little-used second speed, Alfred concluded +his narrative. + +"The old bloke advertised," he said, "for another driver, a steady, +reliable man to drive a twenty horse-power, four-cylinder touring car. +Every driver in Sydney put in for it. Nothing like a fast car +to fetch 'em, you know. And Scotty got it. Him wot used to drive +the Napier I was tellin' you about." + +"And what did the old man say when he found he'd been running +a racing car?" + +"He don't know now. Scotty never told 'im. Why should he? +He's drivin' about the country now, the boss of the roads, +but he won't chance her near a circus. Thinks he might bump +the same elephant. And that elephant, every time he smells a car +passin' in the road, he goes near mad with fright. If he ever sees +that car again, do you think he'd know it?" + +Not being used to elephants, I could not offer an opinion. + + + + +The Oracle + + + +No tram ever goes to Randwick races without him; he is always fat, +hairy, and assertive; he is generally one of a party, +and takes the centre of the stage all the time -- +collects and hands over the fares, adjusts the change, +chaffs the conductor, crushes the thin, apologetic stranger next him +into a pulp, and talks to the whole compartment as if they had asked +for his opinion. + +He knows all the trainers and owners, or takes care to give the impression +that he does. He slowly and pompously hauls out his race book, +and one of his satellites opens the ball by saying, in a deferential way: + +"What do you like for the 'urdles, Charley?" + +The Oracle looks at the book and breathes heavily; no one else +ventures to speak. + +"Well," he says, at last, "of course there's only one in it -- +if he's wanted. But that's it -- will they spin him? I don't think +they will. They's only a lot o' cuddies, any'ow." + +No one likes to expose his own ignorance by asking which horse he refers to +as the "only one in it"; and the Oracle goes on to deal out +some more wisdom in a loud voice. + +"Billy K---- told me" (he probably hardly knows Billy K---- by sight) +"Billy K---- told me that that bay 'orse ran the best mile-an'-a-half +ever done on Randwick yesterday; but I don't give him a chance, +for all that; that's the worst of these trainers. They don't know +when their horses are well -- half of 'em." + +Then a voice comes from behind him. It is that of the thin man, +who is crushed out of sight by the bulk of the Oracle. + +"I think," says the thin man, "that that horse of Flannery's +ought to run well in the Handicap." + +The Oracle can't stand this sort of thing at all. He gives a snort, +wheels half-round and looks at the speaker. Then he turns back +to the compartment full of people, and says: "No 'ope." + +The thin man makes a last effort. "Well, they backed him last night, +anyhow." + +"Who backed 'im?" says the Oracle. + +"In Tattersall's," says the thin man. + +"I'm sure," says the Oracle; and the thin man collapses. + +On arrival at the course, the Oracle is in great form. Attended by his +string of satellites, he plods from stall to stall staring at the horses. +Their names are printed in big letters on the stalls, but the Oracle +doesn't let that stop his display of knowledge. + +"'Ere's Blue Fire," he says, stopping at that animal's stall, +and swinging his race book. "Good old Blue Fire!" he goes on loudly, +as a little court collects. "Jimmy B----" (mentioning a popular jockey) +"told me he couldn't have lost on Saturday week if he had only +been ridden different. I had a good stake on him, too, that day. +Lor', the races that has been chucked away on this horse. +They will not ride him right." + +A trainer who is standing by, civilly interposes. "This isn't Blue Fire," +he says. "Blue Fire's out walking about. This is a two-year-old filly +that's in the stall ----" + +"Well, I can see that, can't I," says the Oracle, crushingly. +"You don't suppose I thought Blue Fire was a mare, did you?" +and he moves off hurriedly. + +"Now, look here, you chaps," he says to his followers at last. +"You wait here. I want to go and see a few of the talent, and it don't do +to have a crowd with you. There's Jimmy M---- over there now" +(pointing to a leading trainer). "I'll get hold of him in a minute. +He couldn't tell me anything with so many about. Just you wait here." + +He crushes into a crowd that has gathered round the favourite's stall, +and overhears one hard-faced racing man say to another, "What do you like?" +to which the other answers, "Well, either this or Royal Scot. +I think I'll put a bit on Royal Scot." This is enough for the Oracle. +He doesn't know either of the men from Adam, or either of the horses +from the great original pachyderm, but the information will do +to go on with. He rejoins his followers, and looks very mysterious. + +"Well, did you hear anything?" they say. + +The Oracle talks low and confidentially. + +"The crowd that have got the favourite tell me they're not afraid +of anything but Royal Scot," he says. "I think we'd better put +a bit on both." + +"What did the Royal Scot crowd say?" asks an admirer deferentially. + +"Oh, they're going to try and win. I saw the stable commissioner, +and he told me they were going to put a hundred on him. Of course, +you needn't say I told you, 'cause I promised him I wouldn't tell." +And the satellites beam with admiration of the Oracle, and think +what a privilege it is to go to the races with such a knowing man. + +They contribute their mites to the general fund, some putting in a pound, +others half a sovereign, and the Oracle takes it into the ring to invest, +half on the favourite and half on Royal Scot. He finds that the favourite +is at two to one, and Royal Scot at threes, eight to one being offered +against anything else. As he ploughs through the ring, a Whisperer +(one of those broken-down followers of the turf who get their living +in various mysterious ways, but partly by giving "tips" to backers) +pulls his sleeve. + +"What are you backing?" he says. + +"Favourite and Royal Scot," says the Oracle. + +"Put a pound on Bendemeer," says the tipster. "It's a certainty. +Meet me here if it comes off, and I'll tell you something +for the next race. Don't miss it now. Get on quick!" + +The Oracle is humble enough before the hanger-on of the turf. +A bookmaker roars "10 to 1 Bendemeer;" he suddenly fishes out a sovereign +of his own -- and he hasn't money to spare, for all his knowingness -- +and puts it on Bendemeer. His friends' money he puts on the favourite +and Royal Scot as arranged. Then they all go round to watch the race. + +The horses are at the post; a distant cluster of crowded animals +with little dots of colour on their backs. Green, blue, yellow, purple, +French grey, and old gold, they change about in a bewildering manner, +and though the Oracle has a cheap pair of glasses, he can't make out +where Bendemeer has got to. Royal Scot and the favourite +he has lost interest in, and secretly hopes that they will be +left at the post or break their necks; but he does not confide +his sentiment to his companions. + +They're off! The long line of colours across the track +becomes a shapeless clump and then draws out into a long string. +"What's that in front?" yells someone at the rails. +"Oh, that thing of Hart's," says someone else. But the Oracle +hears them not; he is looking in the mass of colour +for a purple cap and grey jacket, with black arm bands. +He cannot see it anywhere, and the confused and confusing mass +swings round the turn into the straight. + +Then there is a babel of voices, and suddenly a shout of "Bendemeer! +Bendemeer!" and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, +takes up the cry feverishly. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" he yells, +waggling his glasses about, trying to see where the animal is. + +"Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?" screams one +of his friends, in agony. "'Ow's he doin'?" + +"No 'ope!" says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" + +The horses are at the Leger stand now, whips are out, and three horses +seem to be nearly abreast; in fact, to the Oracle there seem to be +a dozen nearly abreast. Then a big chestnut sticks his head in front +of the others, and a small man at the Oracle's side emits +a deafening series of yells right by the Oracle's ear: + +"Go on, Jimmy! Rub it into him! Belt him! It's a cake-walk! +A cake-walk! The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, +seems to stick his body clear of his opponents, and passes the post +a winner by a length. The Oracle doesn't know what has won, but fumbles +with his book. The number on the saddle-cloth catches his eye -- No. 7; +he looks hurriedly down the page. No. 7 -- Royal Scot. Second is No. 24 +-- Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere. + +Hardly has he realised it, before his friends are cheering and clapping him +on the back. "By George, Charley, it takes you to pick 'em." +"Come and 'ave a wet!" "You 'ad a quid in, didn't you, Charley?" +The Oracle feels very sick at having missed the winner, but he dies game. +"Yes, rather; I had a quid on," he says. "And" (here he nerves himself +to smile) "I had a saver on the second, too." + +His comrades gasp with astonishment. "D'you hear that, eh? Charley backed +first and second. That's pickin' 'em if you like." They have a wet, +and pour fulsome adulation on the Oracle when he collects their money. + +After the Oracle has collected the winnings for his friends +he meets the Whisperer again. + +"It didn't win?" he says to the Whisperer in inquiring tones. + +"Didn't win," says the Whisperer, who has determined to brazen +the matter out. "How could he win? Did you see the way he was ridden? +That horse was stiffened just after I seen you, and he never tried a yard. +Did you see the way he was pulled and hauled about at the turn? +It'd make a man sick. What was the stipendiary stewards doing, I wonder?" + +This fills the Oracle with a new idea. All that he remembers of the race +at the turn was a jumble of colours, a kaleidoscope of horses and of riders +hanging on to the horses' necks. But it wouldn't do to admit that he +didn't see everything, and didn't know everything; so he plunges in boldly. + +"O' course I saw it," he says. "And a blind man could see it. +They ought to rub him out." + +"Course they ought," says the Whisperer. "But, look here, +put two quid on Tell-tale; you'll get it all back!" + +The Oracle does put on "two quid", and doesn't get it all back. +Neither does he see any more of this race than he did of the last one -- +in fact, he cheers wildly when the wrong horse is coming in. +But when the public begin to hoot he hoots as loudly as anybody -- +louder if anything; and all the way home in the tram he lays down the law +about stiff running, and wants to know what the stipendiaries are doing. + +If you go into any barber's shop, you can hear him at it, and he flourishes +in suburban railway carriages; but he has a tremendous local reputation, +having picked first and second in the handicap, and it would be a bold man +who would venture to question the Oracle's knowledge of racing +and of all matters relating to it. + + + + +The Cast-iron Canvasser + + + +The firm of Sloper and Dodge, publishers and printers, +was in great distress. These two enterprising individuals had worked up +an enormous business in time-payment books, which they sold +all over Australia by means of canvassers. They had put +all the money they had into the business; and now, just when everything +was in thorough working order, the public had revolted against them. + +Their canvassers were molested by the country folk in divers +strange bush ways. One was made drunk, and then a two-horse harrow +was run over him; another was decoyed into the ranges on pretence +of being shown a gold-mine, and his guide galloped away +and left him to freeze all night in the bush. In mining localities +the inhabitants were called together by beating a camp-oven lid +with a pick, and the canvasser was given ten minutes in which +to get out of the town alive. If he disregarded the hint he would, +as likely as not, fall accidentally down a disused shaft. + +The people of one district applied to their M.P. to have canvassers +brought under the "Noxious Animals Act", and demanded that a reward +should be offered for their scalps. Reports appeared in the country press +about strange, gigantic birds that appeared at remote selections +and frightened the inhabitants to death -- these were Sloper and Dodge's +sober and reliable agents, wearing neat, close-fitting suits +of tar and feathers. + +In fact, it was altogether too hot for the canvassers, +and they came in from North and West and South, crippled and disheartened, +to tender their resignations. To make matters worse, Sloper and Dodge had +just got out a large Atlas of Australasia, and if they couldn't sell it, +ruin stared them in the face; and how could they sell it +without canvassers? + +The members of the firm sat in their private office. Sloper was a long, +sanctimonious individual, very religious and very bald. +Dodge was a little, fat American, with bristly, black hair and beard, +and quick, beady eyes. He was eternally smoking a reeking black pipe, +and puffing the smoke through his nose in great whiffs, like a locomotive +on a steep grade. Anybody walking into one of those whiffs +was liable to get paralysis. + +Just as things were at their very blackest, something had turned up +that promised to relieve all their difficulties. An inventor had offered +to supply them with a patent cast-iron canvasser -- a figure which +(he said) when wound up would walk, talk, collect orders, +and stand any amount of ill-usage and wear and tear. If this could +indeed be done, they were saved. They had made an appointment +with the genius; but he was half-an-hour late, and the partners +were steeped in gloom. + +They had begun to despair of his appearing at all, when a cab rattled up +to the door. Sloper and Dodge rushed unanimously to the window. +A young man, very badly dressed, stepped out of the cab, +holding over his shoulder what looked like the upper half of a man's body. +In his disengaged hand he held a pair of human legs +with boots and trousers on. Thus burdened he turned to ask his fare, +but the cabman gave a yell of terror, whipped up his horse, +and disappeared at a hand-gallop; and a woman who happened to be going by, +ran down the street, howling that Jack the Ripper had come to town. +The man bolted in at the door, and toiled up the dark stairs +tramping heavily, the legs and feet, which he dragged after him, +making an unearthly clatter. He came in and put his burden down +on the sofa. + +"There you are, gents," he said; "there's your canvasser." + +Sloper and Dodge recoiled in horror. The upper part of the man +had a waxy face, dull, fishy eyes, and dark hair; he lounged on the sofa +like a corpse at ease, while his legs and feet stood by, leaning stiffly +against the wall. The partners gazed at him for a while in silence. + +"Fix him together, for God's sake," said Dodge. "He looks awful." + +The Genius grinned, and fixed the legs on. + +"Now he looks better," said Dodge, poking about the figure -- +"looks as much like life as most -- ah, would you, you brute!" +he exclaimed, springing back in alarm, for the figure had made +a violent La Blanche swing at him. + +"That's all right," said the Inventor. "It's no good having his face +knocked about, you know -- lot of trouble to make that face. +His head and body are full of springs, and if anybody hits him in the face, +or in the pit of the stomach -- favourite places to hit canvassers, +the pit of the stomach -- it sets a strong spring in motion, +and he fetches his right hand round with a swipe that'll knock them into +the middle of next week. It's an awful hit. Griffo couldn't dodge it, +and Slavin couldn't stand up against it. No fear of any man +hitting HIM twice. + +"And he's dog-proof, too. His legs are padded with tar and oakum, +and if a dog bites a bit out of him, it will take that dog weeks +to pick his teeth clean. Never bite anybody again, that dog won't. +And he'll talk, talk, talk, like a suffragist gone mad; +his phonograph can be charged for 100,000 words, and all you've got to do +is to speak into it what you want him to say, and he'll say it. +He'll go on saying it till he talks his man silly, or gets an order. +He has an order-form in his hand, and as soon as anyone signs it +and gives it back to him, that sets another spring in motion, +and he puts the order in his pocket, turns round, and walks away. +Grand idea, isn't he? Lor' bless you, I fairly love him." + +He beamed affectionately on his monster. + +"What about stairs?" said Dodge. + +"No stairs in the bush," said the Inventor, blowing a speck of dust +off his apparition; "all ground-floor houses. Anyhow, if there were stairs +we could carry him up and let him fall down afterwards, +or get flung down like any other canvasser." + +"Ha! Let's see him walk," said Dodge. + +The figure walked all right, stiff and erect. + +"Now let's hear him yabber." + +The Genius touched a spring, and instantly, in a queer, tin-whistly voice, +he began to sing, "Little Annie Rooney". + +"Good!" said Dodge; "he'll do. We'll give you your price. +Leave him here to-night, and come in to-morrow. We'll send you off +to the back country with him. Ninemile would be a good place to start in. +Have a cigar?" + +Mr. Dodge, much elated, sucked at his pipe, and blew through his nose +a cloud of nearly solid smoke, through which the Genius sidled out. +They could hear him sneezing and choking all the way down the stairs. + +Ninemile is a quiet little place, sleepy beyond description. +When the mosquitoes in that town settle on anyone, +they usually go to sleep, and forget to bite him. The climate is so hot +that the very grasshoppers crawl into the hotel parlours out of the sun, +climb up the window curtains, and then go to sleep. The Riot Act +never had to be read in Ninemile. The only thing that can arouse +the inhabitants out of their lethargy is the prospect of a drink +at somebody else's expense. + +For these reasons it had been decided to start the Cast-iron Canvasser +there, and then move him on to more populous and active localities +if he proved a success. They sent up the Genius, and one of their men +who knew the district well. The Genius was to manage the automaton, +and the other was to lay out the campaign, choose the victims, +and collect the money, geniuses being notoriously unreliable +and loose in their cash. They got through a good deal of whisky +on the way up, and when they arrived at Ninemile were in a cheerful mood, +and disposed to take risks. + +"Who'll we begin on?" said the Genius. + +"Oh, hang it all," said the other, "let's make a start with Macpherson." + +Macpherson was a Land Agent, and the big bug of the place. +He was a gigantic Scotchman, six feet four in his socks, +and freckled all over with freckles as big as half-crowns. +His eyebrows would have made decent-sized moustaches for a cavalryman, +and his moustaches looked like horns. He was a fighter from the ground up, +and had a desperate "down" on canvassers generally, +and on Sloper and Dodge's canvassers in particular. + +Sloper and Dodge had published a book called "Remarkable Colonials", +and Macpherson had written out his own biography for it. He was +intensely proud of his pedigree and his relations, and in his narrative +made out that he was descended from the original Fhairshon +who swam round Noah's Ark with his title-deeds in his teeth. +He showed how his people had fought under Alexander the Great and Timour, +and had come over to Scotland some centuries before William the Conqueror +landed in England. He proved that he was related in a general way +to one emperor, fifteen kings, twenty-five dukes, and earls and lords +and viscounts innumerable. And then, after all, the editor +of "Remarkable Colonials" managed to mix him up with some other fellow, +some low-bred Irish McPherson, born in Dublin of poor but honest parents. + +It was a terrible outrage. Macpherson became president of +the Western District Branch of the "Remarkable Colonials" Defence League, +a fierce and homicidal association got up to resist, legally and otherwise, +paying for the book. He had further sworn by all he held sacred +that every canvasser who came to harry him in future should die, +and had put up a notice on his office-door, "Canvassers come in +at their own risk." + +He had a dog of what he called the Hold'em breed, who could tell +a canvasser by his walk, and would go for him on sight. +The reader will understand, therefore, that, when the Genius and his mate +proposed to start on Macpherson, they were laying out a capacious contract +for the Cast-iron Canvasser, and could only have been inspired by a morbid +craving for excitement, aided by the influence of backblock whisky. + +The Inventor wound the figure up in the back parlour of the pub. +There were a frightful lot of screws to tighten before the thing +would work, but at last he said it was ready, and they shambled off +down the street, the figure marching stiffly between them. +It had a book tucked under its arm and an order-form in its hand. +When they arrived opposite Macpherson's office, the Genius started +the phonograph working, pointed the figure straight at Macpherson's door, +and set it going. Then the two conspirators waited, like Guy Fawkes +in his cellar. + +The automaton marched across the road and in at the open door, +talking to itself loudly in a hoarse, unnatural voice. + +Macpherson was writing at his table, and looked up. + +The figure walked bang through a small collection of flower-pots, +sent a chair flying, tramped heavily in the spittoon, and then brought up +against the table with a loud crash and stood still. It was talking +all the time. + +"I have here," it said, "a most valuable work, an Atlas of Australia, +which I desire to submit to your notice. The large and increasing demand +of bush residents for time-payment works has induced the publishers +of this ----" + +"My God!" said Macpherson, "it's a canvasser. Here, Tom Sayers, +Tom Sayers!" and he whistled and called for his dog. "Now," he said, +"will you go out of this office quietly, or will you be thrown out? +It's for yourself to decide, but you've only got while a duck wags his tail +to decide in. Which'll it be?" + +"---- works of modern ages," said the canvasser. "Every person +subscribing to this invaluable work will receive, in addition, +a flat-iron, a railway pass for a year, and a pocket-compass. +If you will please sign this order ----" + +Just here Tom Sayers came tearing through the office, +and without waiting for orders hitched straight on to the canvasser's calf. +To Macpherson's amazement the piece came clear away, and Tom Sayers +rolled about on the floor with his mouth full of a sticky substance +which seemed to surprise him badly. + +The long Scotchman paused awhile before this mystery, but at last +he fancied he had got the solution. "Got a cork leg, have you?" said he -- +"Well, let's see if your ribs are cork too," and he struck the canvasser +an awful blow on the fifth button of the waistcoat. + +Quicker than lightning came that terrific right-hand cross-counter. +Macpherson never even knew what happened to him. The canvasser's +right hand, which had been adjusted by his inventor for a high blow, +had landed on the butt of Macpherson's ear and dropped him like a fowl. +The gasping, terrified bull-dog fled the scene, and the canvasser +stood over his fallen foe, still intoning the virtues of his publication. +He had come there merely as a friend, he said, to give the inhabitants +of Ninemile a chance to buy a book which had recently earned the approval +of King O'Malley and His Excellency the Governor-General. + +The Genius and his mate watched this extraordinary drama +through the window. The stimulant habitually consumed by the Ninemilers +had induced in them a state of superlative Dutch courage, +and they looked upon the whole affair as a wildly hilarious joke. + +"By Gad! he's done him," said the Genius, as Macpherson went down, +"done him in one hit. If he don't pay as a canvasser I'll take him to town +and back him to fight Les Darcy. Look out for yourself; +don't you handle him!" he continued as the other approached the figure. +"Leave him to me. As like as not, if you get fooling about him, +he'll give you a clout that'll paralyse you." + +So saying, he guided the automaton out of the office and into the street, +and walked straight into a policeman. + +By a common impulse the Genius and his mate ran rapidly away +in different directions, leaving the figure alone with the officer. + +He was a fully-ordained sergeant -- by name Aloysius O'Grady; a squat, +rosy little Irishman. He hated violent arrests and all that sort of thing, +and had a faculty of persuading drunks and disorderlies and other +fractious persons to "go quietly along wid him," that was little short +of marvellous. Excited revellers, who were being carried by their mates, +struggling violently, would break away to prance gaily along to the lock-up +with the sergeant. Obstinate drunks who had done nothing +but lie on the ground and kick their feet in the air, +would get up like birds, serpent-charmed, to go with him to durance vile. + +As soon as he saw the canvasser, and noted his fixed, unearthly stare, +and listened to his hoarse, unnatural voice, the sergeant knew +what was the matter; it was a man in the horrors, a common enough spectacle +at Ninemile. He resolved to decoy him into the lock-up, and accosted him +in a friendly, free-and-easy way. + +"Good day t'ye," he said. + +"---- most magnificent volume ever published, jewelled in fourteen holes, +working on a ruby roller, and in a glass case," said the book-canvasser. +"The likenesses of the historical personages are so natural +that the book must not be left open on the table, or the mosquitoes +will ruin it by stinging the portraits." + +It then dawned on the sergeant that this was no mere case of the horrors -- +he was dealing with a book-canvasser. + +"Ah, sure," he said, "fwhat's the use uv tryin' to sell books at all, +at all; folks does be peltin' them out into the street, and the nanny-goats +lives on them these times. Oi send the childer out to pick 'em up, +and we have 'em at me place in barrow-loads. Come along wid me now, +and Oi'll make you nice and comfortable for the night," +and he laid his hand on the outstretched palm of the figure. + +It was a fatal mistake. He had set in motion the machinery which operated +the figure's left arm, and it moved that limb in towards its body, +and hugged the sergeant to its breast, with a vice-like grip. +Then it started in a faltering and uneven, but dogged, way +to walk towards the river. + +"Immortial Saints!" gasped the sergeant, "he's squazin' the livin' breath +out uv me. Lave go now loike a dacent sowl, lave go. And oh, +for the love uv God, don't be shpakin' into me ear that way;" +for the figure's mouth was pressed tight against the sergeant's ear, +and its awful voice went through and through the little man's head, +as it held forth about the volume. The sergeant struggled violently, +and by so doing set some more springs in motion, and the figure's right arm +made terrific swipes in the air. A following of boys and loafers +had collected by this time. "Blimey, how does he lash out!" was the remark +they made. But they didn't interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant's +frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his subordinate, +Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene. + +Dooley, better known as The Wombat because of his sleepy disposition, +was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney, +and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious "pushes" of Bondi, +Surry Hills and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child's play, +and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; +it was beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. +If they wouldn't come any other way, he would take them by the ankles +and drag them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp +of an inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight. + +"I'll soon make him lave go, sergeant," he said, and he caught hold +of the figure's right arm, to put on the "police twist". Unfortunately, +at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in +the creature's breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, +it lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley +a thud on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot. + +For a few minutes he "lay as only dead men lie". Then he got up +bit by bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, +and mentioned casually to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, +and had taken the sergeant away to drown him. After which, +having given orders that anybody who called was to be told +that he had gone fifteen miles out of town to serve a summons on a man +for not registering a dog, he locked himself up in a cell +for the rest of the day. + +Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant +tightly clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river. +Something had disorganised its vocal arrangements, and it was now +positively shrieking in the sergeant's ear, and, as it yelled, +the little man yelled still louder. + +"Oi don't want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!" +He beat with his fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail. +A short, staggering rush, a wild shriek from the officer, +and they both toppled over the steep bank and went souse into the depths +of Ninemile Creek. + +That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate +returned to town hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted +for murder. Constable Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police +which contained so many strange statements that the Police department +concluded the sergeant must have got drunk and drowned himself, +and that Dooley saw him do it, but was too drunk to pull him out. + +Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report +of the occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers. +As a matter of fact the storekeeper did think of writing one, +but decided that it was too much trouble. There was some idea +of asking the Government to fish the two bodies out of the river; +but about that time an agitation was started in Ninemile +to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else mattered. + +The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand +of whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became +a Sub-Inspector of Police; Sloper entered the Christian ministry; +Dodge was elected to the Federal Parliament; and a vague tradition about +"a bloke who came up here in the horrors, and drownded poor old O'Grady," +is the only memory that remains of that wonderful creation, +the Cast-iron Canvasser. + + + + +The Merino Sheep + + + +People have got the impression that the merino is a gentle, bleating animal +that gets its living without trouble to anybody, and comes up every year +to be shorn with a pleased smile upon its amiable face. +It is my purpose here to exhibit the merino sheep in its true light. + +First let us give him his due. No one can accuse him of being +a ferocious animal. No one could ever say that a sheep attacked him +without provocation; although there is an old bush story of a man +who was discovered in the act of killing a neighbour's wether. + +"Hello!" said the neighbour, "What's this? Killing my sheep! +What have you got to say for yourself?" + +"Yes," said the man, with an air of virtuous indignation. +"I AM killing your sheep. I'll kill ANY man's sheep that bites ME!" + +But as a rule the merino refrains from using his teeth on people. +He goes to work in another way. + +The truth is that he is a dangerous monomaniac, and his one idea +is to ruin the man who owns him. With this object in view +he will display a talent for getting into trouble and a genius for dying +that are almost incredible. + +If a mob of sheep see a bush fire closing round them, do they run away +out of danger? Not at all, they rush round and round in a ring +till the fire burns them up. If they are in a river-bed, +with a howling flood coming down, they will stubbornly refuse +to cross three inches of water to save themselves. Dogs may bark +and men may shriek, but the sheep won't move. They will wait there +till the flood comes and drowns them all, and then their corpses +go down the river on their backs with their feet in the air. + +A mob will crawl along a road slowly enough to exasperate a snail, +but let a lamb get away in a bit of rough country, +and a racehorse can't head him back again. If sheep are put into +a big paddock with water in three corners of it, they will resolutely +crowd into the fourth, and die of thirst. + +When being counted out at a gate, if a scrap of bark be left on the ground +in the gateway, they will refuse to step over it until dogs and men +have sweated and toiled and sworn and "heeled 'em up", and "spoke to 'em", +and fairly jammed them at it. At last one will gather courage, +rush at the fancied obstacle, spring over it about six feet in the air, +and dart away. The next does exactly the same, but jumps a bit higher. +Then comes a rush of them following one another in wild bounds +like antelopes, until one overjumps himself and alights on his head. +This frightens those still in the yard, and they stop running out. + +Then the dogging and shrieking and hustling and tearing have to be +gone through all over again. (This on a red-hot day, mind you, +with clouds of blinding dust about, the yolk of wool irritating your eyes, +and, perhaps, three or four thousand sheep to put through). +The delay throws out the man who is counting, and he forgets whether +he left off at 45 or 95. The dogs, meanwhile, have taken the first chance +to slip over the fence and hide in the shade somewhere, and then +there are loud whistlings and oaths, and calls for Rover and Bluey. +At last a dirt-begrimed man jumps over the fence, unearths Bluey, +and hauls him back by the ear. Bluey sets to work barking +and heeling-'em up again, and pretends that he thoroughly enjoys it; +but all the while he is looking out for another chance to "clear". +And THIS time he won't be discovered in a hurry. + +There is a well-authenticated story of a ship-load of sheep that was lost +because an old ram jumped overboard, and all the rest followed him. +No doubt they did, and were proud to do it. A sheep won't go through +an open gate on his own responsibility, but he would gladly and proudly +"follow the leader" through the red-hot portals of Hades: +and it makes no difference whether the lead goes voluntarily, +or is hauled struggling and kicking and fighting every inch of the way. + +For pure, sodden stupidity there is no animal like the merino. +A lamb will follow a bullock-dray, drawn by sixteen bullocks +and driven by a profane person with a whip, under the impression +that the aggregate monstrosity is his mother. A ewe never knows +her own lamb by sight, and apparently has no sense of colour. +She can recognise its voice half a mile off among a thousand other voices +apparently exactly similar; but when she gets within five yards of it +she starts to smell all the other lambs within reach, +including the black ones -- though her own may be white. + +The fiendish resemblance which one sheep bears to another +is a great advantage to them in their struggles with their owners. +It makes it more difficult to draft them out of a strange flock, +and much harder to tell when any are missing. + +Concerning this resemblance between sheep, there is a story told +of a fat old Murrumbidgee squatter who gave a big price for a famous ram +called Sir Oliver. He took a friend out one day to inspect Sir Oliver, +and overhauled that animal with a most impressive air of sheep-wisdom. + +"Look here," he said, "at the fineness of the wool. See the serrations +in each thread of it. See the density of it. Look at the way +his legs and belly are clothed -- he's wool all over, that sheep. +Grand animal, grand animal!" + +Then they went and had a drink, and the old squatter said, "Now, +I'll show you the difference between a champion ram and a second-rater." +So he caught a ram and pointed out his defects. "See here -- not half +the serrations that other sheep had. No density of fleece to speak of. +Bare-bellied as a pig, compared with Sir Oliver. Not that this isn't +a fair sheep, but he'd be dear at one-tenth Sir Oliver's price. +By the way, Johnson" (to his overseer), "what ram IS this?" + +"That, sir," replied the astounded functionary -- "that IS Sir Oliver, +sir!" + +There is another kind of sheep in Australia, as great a curse +in his own way as the merino -- namely, the cross-bred, +or half-merino-half-Leicester animal. The cross-bred will get through, +under, or over any fence you like to put in front of him. +He is never satisfied with his owner's run, but always thinks +other people's runs must be better, so he sets off to explore. +He will strike a course, say, south-east, and so long as the fit takes him +he will keep going south-east through all obstacles -- rivers, fences, +growing crops, anything. The merino relies on passive resistance +for his success; the cross-bred carries the war into the enemy's camp, +and becomes a living curse to his owner day and night. + +Once there was a man who was induced in a weak moment to buy +twenty cross-bred rams. From that hour the hand of Fate was upon him. +They got into all the paddocks they shouldn't have been in. +They scattered themselves over the run promiscuously. +They visited the cultivation paddock and the vegetable-garden +at their own sweet will. And then they took to roving. In a body +they visited the neighbouring stations, and played havoc with the sheep +all over the district. + +The wretched owner was constantly getting fiery letters +from his neighbours: "Your blanky rams are here. Come and take them away +at once," and he would have to go nine or ten miles to drive them home. +Any man who has tried to drive rams on a hot day knows what purgatory is. +He was threatened every week with actions for trespass. + +He tried shutting them up in the sheep-yard. They got out and went back +to the garden. Then he gaoled them in the calf-pen. +Out again and into a growing crop. Then he set a boy to watch them; +but the boy went to sleep, and they were four miles away across country +before he got on to their tracks. + +At length, when they happened accidentally to be at home +on their owner's run, there came a big flood. His sheep, mostly merinos, +had plenty of time to get on to high ground and save their lives; +but, of course, they didn't, and were almost all drowned. The owner sat +on a rise above the waste of waters and watched the dead animals go by. +He was a ruined man. But he said, "Thank God, those cross-bred rams +are drowned, anyhow." Just as he spoke there was a splashing in the water, +and the twenty rams solemnly swam ashore and ranged themselves in front +of him. They were the only survivors of his twenty thousand sheep. +He broke down, and was taken to an asylum for insane paupers. +The cross-breds had fulfilled their destiny. + +The cross-bred drives his owner out of his mind, but the merino +ruins his man with greater celerity. Nothing on earth +will kill cross-breds; nothing will keep merinos alive. +If they are put on dry salt-bush country they die of drought. +If they are put on damp, well-watered country they die of worms, fluke, +and foot-rot. They die in the wet seasons and they die in the dry ones. + +The hard, resentful look on the faces of all bushmen comes from +a long course of dealing with merino sheep. The merino dominates the bush, +and gives to Australian literature its melancholy tinge, +its despairing pathos. The poems about dying boundary-riders, +and lonely graves under mournful she-oaks, are the direct outcome +of the poet's too close association with that soul-destroying animal. +A man who could write anything cheerful after a day in the drafting-yards +would be a freak of nature. + + + + +The Bullock + + + +The typical Australian bullock -- long-horned, sullen-eyed, stupid, +and vindictive -- is bred away out in Queensland, on remote stations +in the Never Never land, where men live on damper and beef, +and occasionally eat a whole bottle of hot pickles at a sitting, +simply to satisfy their craving for vegetable food. Here, +under the blazing tropic sun, among flies and dust and loneliness, +they struggle with the bullock from year's end to year's end. +It is not to be supposed that they take up this kind of thing for fun. +The man who worked cattle for sport would wheel bricks for amusement. + +At periodical intervals a boom in cattle-country arises in the cities, +and syndicates are formed to take up country and stock it. +It looks so beautifully simple -- ON PAPER. + +You get your country, thousands of miles of it, for next to nothing. +You buy your breeding herd for a ridiculously small sum, +on long-dated bills. Your staff consists of a manager, +who toils for a share of the profits, a couple of half-civilized +white stockmen at low wages, and a handful of blacks, +who work harder for a little opium ash than they would for much money. +Plant costs nothing, improvements nothing -- no woolshed is needed, +there are no shearers to pay, and no carriage to market, for the bullock +walks himself down to his doom. Granted that prices are low, +still it is obvious that there must be huge profits in the business. +So the cattle start away out to "the country", where they are supposed +to increase and multiply, and enrich their owners. Alas! for such hopes. +There is a curse on cattle. + +No one has ever been able to explain exactly how the deficit arises. +Put the figures before the oldest and most experienced cattleman, +and he will fail to show why they don't work out right. +And yet they never do. It is not the fault of the cattle themselves. +Sheep would rather die than live -- and when one comes to think of +the life they lead, one can easily understand their preference for death; +but cattle, if given half a chance, will do their best to prolong +their existence. + +If they are running on low-lying country and are driven off +when a flood comes, they will probably walk back into the flood-water +and get drowned as soon as their owner turns his back. But, as a rule, +cattle are not suicidal. They sort themselves into mobs, +they pick out the best bits of country, they find their way to the water, +they breed habitually; but it always ends in the same way. +The hand of Fate is against them. + +If a drought comes, they eat off the grass near the water +and have to travel far out for a feed. Then they fall away and get weak, +and when they come down to drink they get bogged in the muddy waterholes +and die there. + +Or Providence sends the pleuro, and big strong beasts slink away +by themselves, and stand under trees glaring savagely till death comes. +Or else the tick attacks them, and soon a fine, strong beast becomes +a miserable, shrunken, tottering wreck. Once cattle get really low +in condition they are done for. Sheep can be shifted when their +pasture fails, but you can't shift cattle. They die quicker on the roads +than on the run. The only thing is to watch and pray for rain. +It always comes -- after the cattle are dead. + +As for describing the animals themselves, it would take volumes. +Sheep are all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road +get to know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock -- +the one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, +the inquisitive bullock that is always walking over towards the drover +as if he were going to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always +trying to get up a stampede and prodding the others with his horns. + +In poor Boake's "Where the Dead Men Lie" he says: + + Only the hand of Night can free them -- + That's when the dead men fly! + Only the frightened cattle see them -- + See the dead men go by! + Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, + Bidding the stockman know no leisure -- + That's when the dead men take their pleasure! + That's when the dead men fly! + +Cattle on a camp see ghosts, sure enough -- else, why is it that, +when hundreds are in camp at night -- some standing, some lying asleep, +all facing different ways -- in an instant, at some invisible +cause of alarm, the whole mob are on their feet and all racing +IN THE SAME DIRECTION, away from some unseen terror? + +It doesn't do to sneak round cattle at night; it is better +to whistle and sing than to surprise them by a noiseless appearance. +Anyone sneaking about frightens them, and then they will charge +right over the top of somebody on the opposite side, +and away into the darkness, becoming more and more frightened as they go, +smashing against trees and stumps, breaking legs and ribs, +and playing the dickens with themselves generally. Cattle "on the road" +are unaccountable animals; one cannot say for certain what they will do. +In this respect they differ from sheep, whose movements can be predicted +with absolute certainty. + +All the cussedness of the bovine race is centred in the cow. In Australia +the most opprobious epithet one can apply to a man or other object +is "cow". In the whole range of a bullock-driver's vocabulary +there is no word that expresses his blistering scorn so well as "cow". +To an exaggerated feminine perversity the cow adds a fiendish ingenuity +in making trouble. + +A quiet milking-cow will "plant" her calf with such skill that ten stockmen +cannot find him in a one-mile paddock. While the search goes on +she grazes unconcernedly, as if she never had a calf in her life. +If by chance he be discovered, then one notices a curious thing. +The very youngest calf, the merest staggering-Bob two days old, +will not move till the old lady gives him orders to do so. +One may pull him about without getting a move out of him. +If sufficiently persecuted he will at last sing out for help, and then +his mother will arrive full-gallop, charge men and horses indiscriminately, +and clear out with him to the thickest timber in the most rugged part +of the creek-bed, defying man to get her to the yard. + +While in his mother's company he seconds her efforts with great judgment. +But, if he be separated from her, he will follow a horse and rider +up to the yard thinking he is following his mother, though she bellow +instructions to him from the rear. Then the guileless agriculturist, +having penned him up, sets a dog on him, and his cries soon fetch +the old cow full-run to his assistance. Once in the yard she is roped, +hauled into the bail, propped up to prevent her throwing herself down, +and milked by sheer brute-force. After a while she steadies down +and will walk into the bail, knowing her turn and behaving like +a respectable female. + +Cows and calves have no idea of sound or distance. If a cow is on +the opposite side of the fence, and wishes to communicate with her calf, +she will put her head through the fence, place her mouth against his ear +as if she were going to whisper, and then utter a roar that can be heard +two miles off. It would stun a human being; but the calf thinks it over +for a moment, and then answers with a prolonged yell in the old cow's ear. +So the dialogue goes on for hours without either party dropping dead. + +There is an element of danger in dealing with cattle that makes men +smart and self-reliant and independent. Men who deal with sheep +get gloomy and morbid, and are for ever going on strike. Nobody ever heard +of a stockman's strike. The true stockrider thinks himself just as good +a man as his boss, and inasmuch as "the boss" never makes any money, +while the stockman gets his wages, the stockman may be considered as having +the better position of the two. + +Sheepmen like to think that they know all about cattle, and could work them +if they chose. A Queensland drover once took a big mob from the Gulf +right down through New South Wales, selling various lots as he went. +He had to deliver some to a small sheep-man, near Braidwood, +who was buying a few hundred cattle as a spec. By the time they arrived, +the cattle had been on the road eight months, and were quiet as milkers. +But the sheep-man and his satellites came out, riding stable-fed horses and +brandishing twenty-foot whips, all determined to sell their lives dearly. +They galloped round the astonished cattle and spurred their horses +and cracked their whips, till they roused the weary mob. Then they started +to cut out the beasts they wanted. The horses rushed and pulled, +and the whips maddened the cattle, and all was turmoil and confusion. + +The Queensland drovers looked on amazed, sitting their patient +leg-weary horses they had ridden almost continuously for eight months. +At last, seeing the hash the sheep-men were making of it, +the drovers set to work, and in a little while, without a shout, +or crack of a whip, had cut out the required number. +These the head drover delivered to the buyer, simply remarking, +"Many's the time YOU never cut-out cattle." + +As I write, there rises a vision of a cattle-camp on an open plain, +the blue sky overhead, the long grass rustling below, +the great mob of parti-coloured cattle eddying restlessly about, +thrusting at each other with their horns; and in among +the sullen half-savage animals go the light, wiry stock-riders, +horse and man working together, watchful, quick, and resolute. + +A white steer is wanted that is right in the throng. Way! -- make way! +and horse and rider edge into the restless sea of cattle, +the man with his eye fixed on the selected animal, the horse, +glancing eagerly about him, trying to discover which is the wanted one. +The press divides and the white steer scuttles along the edge of the mob +trying to force his way in again. Suddenly he and two or three others +are momentarily eddied out to the outskirts of the mob, and in that second +the stockman dashes his horse between them and the main body. +The lumbering beasts rush hither and thither in a vain attempt +to return to their comrades. Those not wanted are allowed to return, +but the white steer finds, to his dismay, that wherever he turns that horse +and man and dreaded whip are confronting him. He doubles and dodges +and makes feints to charge, but the horse anticipates every movement +and wheels quicker than the bullock. At last the white steer sees +the outlying mob he is required to join, and trots off to them quite happy, +while horse and rider return to cut out another. + +It is a pretty exhibition of skill and intelligence, doubly pleasant +to watch because of the undoubted interest that the horses take in it. +Big, stupid creatures that they are, cursed with highly-strung nerves, +and blessed with little sense, they are pathetically anxious to do +such work as they can understand. So they go into the cutting-out camp +with a zest, and toil all day edging lumbering bullocks out of the mob, +but as soon as a bad rider gets on them and begins +to haul their mouths about, their nerves overcome them, +and they get awkward and frightened. A horse that is a crack camp-horse +in one man's hands may be a hopeless brute in the hands of another. + + + + +White-when-he's-wanted + + + +Buckalong was a big freehold of some 80,000 acres, belonging to +an absentee syndicate, and therefore run in most niggardly style. +There was a manager on 200 pounds a year, Sandy M'Gregor to wit -- +a hard-headed old Scotchman known as "four-eyed M'Gregor", +because he wore spectacles. For assistants, he had half-a-dozen of us -- +jackaroos and colonial-experiencers -- who got nothing a year, +and earned it. + +We had, in most instances, paid premiums to learn the noble art +of squatting -- which now appears to me hardly worth studying, +for so much depends on luck that a man with a head as long as a horse's +has little better chance than the fool just imported. +Besides the manager and the jackaroos, there were a few boundary riders +to prowl round the fences of the vast paddocks. This constituted +the whole station staff. + +Buckalong was on one of the main routes by which stock were taken +to market, or from the plains to the tablelands, and vice versa. +Great mobs of travelling sheep constantly passed through the run, +eating up the grass and vexing the soul of the manager. By law, +sheep must travel six miles per day, and they must be kept to within +half-a-mile of the road. Of course we kept all the grass near the road +eaten bare, to discourage travellers from coming that way. + +Such hapless wretches as did venture through Buckalong used to try hard +to stray from the road and pick up a feed, but old Sandy was always +ready for them, and would have them dogged right through the run. +This bred feuds, and bad language, and personal combats between us +and the drovers, whom we looked upon as natural enemies. + +The men who came through with mobs of cattle used to pull down +the paddock fences at night, and slip the cattle in for refreshments, +but old Sandy often turned out at 2 or 3 a.m. to catch a mob of bullocks +in the horse-paddock, and then off they went to Buckalong pound. +The drovers, as in duty bound, attributed the trespass to accident -- +broken rails, and so on -- and sometimes they tried to rescue the cattle, +which again bred strife and police-court summonses. + +Besides having a particular aversion to drovers, old M'Gregor had +a general "down" on the young Australians whom he comprehensively described +as a "feckless, horrse-dealin', horrse-stealin', crawlin' lot o' wretches." +According to him, a native-born would sooner work a horse to death +than work for a living any day. He hated any man who wanted +to sell him a horse. + +"As aw walk the street," he used to say, "the fouk disna stawp me +to buy claes nor shoon, an' wheerfore should they stawp me to buy horrses? +It's `Mister M'Gregor, will ye purrchase a horrse?' Let them wait +till I ask them to come wi' their horrses." + +Such being his views on horseflesh and drovers, we felt +no little excitement when one Sunday, at dinner, the cook came in to say +there was "a drover-chap outside wanted the boss to come and have a look +at a horse." M'Gregor simmered a while, and muttered something about +the "Sawbath day"; but at last he went out, and we filed after him +to see the fun. + +The drover stood by the side of his horse, beneath the acacia trees +in the yard. He had a big scar on his face, apparently the result +of collision with a fence; he looked thin and sickly and seemed +poverty-stricken enough to disarm hostility. Obviously, he was down +on his luck. Had it not been for that indefinable self-reliant look +which drovers -- the Ishmaels of the bush -- always acquire, one might +have taken him for a swagman. His horse was in much the same plight. +It was a ragged, unkempt pony, pitifully poor and very footsore, +at first sight, an absolute "moke"; but a second glance showed +colossal round ribs, square hips, and a great length of rein, +the rest hidden beneath a wealth of loose hair. He looked like +"a good journey horse", possibly something better. + +We gathered round while M'Gregor questioned the drover. +The man was monosyllabic to a degree, as the real bushmen generally are. +It is only the rowdy and the town-bushy that are fluent of speech. + +"Guid mornin'," said M'Gregor. + +"Mornin', boss," said the drover, shortly. + +"Is this the horrse ye hae for sale?" + +"Yes." + +"Ay," and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike +don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs, +and opened the passive creature's mouth. "H'm," he said. +Then he turned to the drover. "Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. +Ye're thin like. What's been the matter?" + +"Been sick with fever -- Queensland fever. Just come through +from the North. Been out on the Diamantina last." + +"Ay. I was there mysel'," said M'Gregor. "Hae ye the fever on ye still?" + +"Yes -- goin' home to get rid of it." + +A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he can +carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his strength +and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, the malady moves +with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at regular intervals +to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually it wears itself out, +often wearing its patient out at the same time. M'Gregor had been through +the experience, and there was a slight change in his voice as he went on +with his palaver. + +"Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?" + +"Monaro -- my people live in Monaro." + +"Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?" + +"Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin'," said the drover, +while a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. +"I've rode him far enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. +I wouldn't sell him, only I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now +to get the money to go home." + +"Hoo auld is he?" + +"Seven." + +"Is he a guid horrse on a camp?" asked M'Gregor. + +"No better camp-horse in Queensland," said the drover. "You can chuck +the reins on his neck, an' he'll cut out a beast by himself." + +M'Gregor's action in this matter puzzled us. We spent our time +crawling after sheep, and a camp-horse would be about as much use to us +as side-pockets to a pig. We had expected Sandy to rush the fellow +off the place at once, and we couldn't understand how it was that he took +so much interest in him. Perhaps the fever-racked drover +and the old camp-horse appealed to him in a way incomprehensible to us. +We had never been on the Queensland cattle-camps, nor shaken and shivered +with the fever, nor lived the roving life of the overlanders. +M'Gregor had done all this, and his heart (I can see it all now) went out +to the man who brought the old days back to him. + +"Ah, weel," he said, "we hae'na muckle use for a camp-horrse here, +ye ken; wi'oot some of these lads wad like to try theer han' +cuttin' oot the milkers' cawves frae their mithers." And the old man +laughed contemptuously, while we felt humbled in the sight of the man +from far back. "An' what'll ye be wantin' for him?" asked M'Gregor. + +"Reckon he's worth fifteen notes," said the drover. + +This fairly staggered us. Our estimates had varied between +thirty shillings and a fiver. We thought the negotiations +would close abruptly; but M'Gregor, after a little more examination, +agreed to give the price, provided the saddle and bridle, +both grand specimens of ancient art, were given in. This was agreed to, +and the drover was sent off to get his meals in the hut before leaving +by the coach. + +"The mon is verra harrd up, an' it's a sair thing that Queensland fever," +was the only remark M'Gregor made. But we knew now that there was +a soft spot in his heart somewhere. + +Next morning the drover got a crisp-looking cheque. He said no word +while the cheque was being written, but, as he was going away, +the horse happened to be in the yard, and he went over to the old comrade +that had carried him so many miles, and laid a hand on his neck. + +"He ain't much to look at," said the drover, speaking slowly and awkwardly, +"but he's white when he's wanted." And just before the coach rattled off, +the man of few words leant down from the box and nodded impressively, +and repeated, "Yes, he's white when he's wanted." + +We didn't trouble to give the new horse a name. Station horses +are generally called after the man from whom they are bought. +"Tom Devine", "The Regan mare", "Black M'Carthy" and "Bay M'Carthy" +were among the appellations of our horses at that time. As we didn't know +the drover's name, we simply called the animal "The new horse" +until a still newer horse was one day acquired. Then, one of the hands +being told to take the new horse, said, "D'yer mean the NEW new horse +or the OLD new horse?" + +"Naw," said the boss, "not the new horrse -- that bay horrse we bought +frae the drover. The ane he said was white when he's wanted." + +And so, by degrees, the animal came to be referred to as the horse +that's white when he's wanted, and at last settled down +to the definite name of "White-when-he's-wanted". + +White-when-he's-wanted didn't seem much of an acquisition. He was sent out +to do slavery for Greenhide Billy, a boundary-rider who plumed himself +on having once been a cattle-man. After a week's experience of "White", +Billy came in to the homestead disgusted. The pony was so lazy +that he had to build a fire under him to get him to move, and so rough +that it made a man's nose bleed to ride him more than a mile. "The boss +must have been off his head to give fifteen notes for such a cow." + +M'Gregor heard this complaint. "Verra weel, Mr. Billy," said he, hotly, +"ye can juist tak' ane of the young horrses in yon paddock, +an' if he bucks wi' ye an' kills ye, it's yer ain fault. +Ye're a cattleman -- so ye say -- dommed if ah believe it. +Ah believe ye're a dairy-farmin' body frae Illawarra. Ye ken neither +horrse nor cattle. Mony's the time ye never rode buckjumpers, Mr. Billy" +-- and with this parting-shot the old man turned into the house, +and White-when-he's-wanted came back to the head station. + +For a while he was a sort of pariah. He used to yard the horses, +fetch up the cows, and hunt travelling sheep through the run. +He really was lazy and rough, and we all decided that Billy's opinion +of him was correct, until the day came to make one of our periodical raids +on the wild horses in the hills at the back of the run. + +Every now and again we formed parties to run in some of these animals, +and, after nearly galloping to death half-a-dozen good horses, +we would capture three or four brumbies, and bring them in triumph +to the homestead to be broken in. By the time they had thrown +half the crack riders on the station, broken all the bridles, +rolled on all the saddles, and kicked all the dogs, they would be +marketable (and no great bargains) at about thirty shillings a head. + +Yet there is no sport in the world to be mentioned in the same volume +as "running horses", and we were very keen on it. All the crack nags +were got as fit as possible, and fed up beforehand; +and on this particular occasion White-when-he's-wanted, being in good trim, +was given a week's hard feed and lent to a harum-scarum fellow from +the Upper Murray, who happened to be working in a survey camp on the run. +How he did open our eyes! + +He ran the mob from hill to hill, from range to range, +across open country and back again to the hills, over flats and gullies, +through hop-scrub and stringybark ridges; and all the time +White-when-he's-wanted was on the wing of the mob, pulling double. +The mares and foals dropped out, the colts and young stock pulled up +dead beat, and only the seasoned veterans were left. Most of our horses +caved in altogether; one or two were kept in the hunt by judicious nursing +and shirking the work; but White-when-he's-wanted was with the quarry +from end to end of the run, doing double his share; and at the finish, +when a chance offered to wheel them into the trapyard, he simply +smothered them for pace, and slewed them into the wings before they knew +where they were. Such a capture had not fallen to our lot for many a day, +and the fame of White-when-he's-wanted was speedily noised abroad. + +He was always fit for work, always hungry, always ready +to lie down and roll, and always lazy. But when he heard the rush +of the brumbies' feet in the scrub he became frantic with excitement. +He could race over the roughest ground without misplacing a hoof +or altering his stride, and he could sail over fallen timber +and across gullies like a kangaroo. Nearly every Sunday +we were after the brumbies, until they got as lean as greyhounds +and as cunning as policemen. We were always ready +to back White-when-he's-wanted to run-down, single-handed, +any animal in the bush that we liked to put him after -- wild horses, +wild cattle, kangaroos, emus, dingoes, kangaroo-rats -- we barred nothing, +for, if he couldn't beat them for pace, he would outlast them. + +And then one day he disappeared from the paddock, and we never +saw him again. We knew there were plenty of men in the district +who would steal him; but, as we knew also of many more who would "inform" +for a pound or two, we were sure that it could not have been local "talent" +that had taken him. We offered good rewards and set some of the right sort +to work, but heard nothing of him for about a year. + +Then the surveyor's assistant turned up again, after a trip +to the interior. He told us the usual string of back-block lies, +and wound up by saying that out on the very fringe of settlement +he had met an old acquaintance. + +"Who was that?" + +"Why, that little bay horse that I rode after the brumbies that time. +The one you called White-when-he's-wanted." + +"The deuce you did! Are you sure? Who had him?" + +"Sure! I'd swear to him anywhere. A little drover fellow had him. +A little fellow, with a big scar across his forehead. Came from Monaro way +somewhere. He said he bought the horse from you for fifteen notes." + +The King's warrant doesn't run much out west of Boulia, +and it is not likely that any of us will ever see the drover again, +or will ever again cross the back of "White-when-he's-wanted". + + + + +The Downfall of Mulligan's + + + +The sporting men of Mulligan's were an exceedingly knowing lot; +in fact, they had obtained the name amongst their neighbours +of being a little bit too knowing. They had "taken down" +the adjoining town in a variety of ways. They were always winning +maiden plates with horses which were shrewdly suspected to be old +and well-tried performers in disguise. + +When the sports of Paddy's Flat unearthed a phenomenal runner in the shape +of a blackfellow called Frying-pan Joe, the Mulligan contingent +immediately took the trouble to discover a blackfellow of their own, +and they made a match and won all the Paddy's Flat money +with ridiculous ease; then their blackfellow turned out to be +a well-known Sydney performer. They had a man who could fight, +a man who could be backed to jump five-feet-ten, a man who could +kill eight pigeons out of nine at thirty yards, a man who could make +a break of fifty or so at billiards if he tried; they could all drink, +and they all had that indefinite look of infinite wisdom +and conscious superiority which belongs only to those who know something +about horseflesh. + +They knew a great many things never learnt at Sunday-school. +They were experts at cards and dice. They would go to immense trouble +to work off any small swindle in the sporting line. +In short the general consensus of opinion was that they were +a very "fly" crowd at Mulligan's, and if you went there you wanted to +"keep your eyes skinned" or they'd "have" you over a threepenny-bit. + +There were races at Sydney one Christmas, and a select band of +the Mulligan sportsmen were going down to them. They were in high feather, +having just won a lot of money from a young Englishman at pigeon-shooting, +by the simple method of slipping blank cartridges into his gun +when he wasn't looking, and then backing the bird. + +They intended to make a fortune out of the Sydney people, +and admirers who came to see them off only asked them as a favour +to leave money enough in Sydney to make it worth while +for another detachment to go down later on. Just as the train +was departing a priest came running on to the platform, +and was bundled into the carriage where our Mulligan friends were; +the door was slammed to, and away they went. His Reverence was hot +and perspiring, and for a few minutes mopped himself with a handkerchief, +while the silence was unbroken except by the rattle of the train. + +After a while one of the Mulligan fraternity got out a pack of cards +and proposed a game to while away the time. There was a young squatter +in the carriage who looked as if he might be induced to lose a few pounds, +and the sportsmen thought they would be neglecting their opportunities +if they did not try to "get a bit to go on with" from him. +He agreed to play, and, just as a matter of courtesy, they asked the priest +whether he would take a hand. + +"What game d'ye play?" he asked, in a melodious brogue. + +They explained that any game was equally acceptable to them, +but they thought it right to add that they generally played for money. + +"Sure an' it don't matter for wanst in a way," said he -- +"Oi'll take a hand bedad -- Oi'm only going about fifty miles, +so Oi can't lose a fortune." + +They lifted a light portmanteau on to their knees to make a table, +and five of them -- three of the Mulligan crowd and the two strangers -- +started to have a little game of poker. Things looked rosy +for the Mulligan boys, who chuckled as they thought how soon +they were making a beginning, and what a magnificent yarn they would have +to tell about how they rooked a priest on the way down. + +Nothing sensational resulted from the first few deals, and the priest began +to ask questions. + +"Be ye going to the races?" + +They said they were. + +"Ah! and Oi suppose ye'll be betting wid thim bookmakers -- +betting on the horses, will yez? They do be terrible knowing men, +thim bookmakers, they tell me. I wouldn't bet much if Oi was ye," he said, +with an affable smile. "If ye go bettin' ye will be took in +wid thim bookmakers." + +The boys listened with a bored air and reckoned that by the time +they parted the priest would have learnt that they were well able +to look after themselves. They went steadily on with the game, +and the priest and the young squatter won slightly; this was part +of the plan to lead them on to plunge. They neared the station +where the priest was to get out. He had won rather more than they liked, +so the signal was passed round to "put the cross on". Poker is a game +at which a man need not risk much unless he feels inclined, +and on this deal the priest stood out. Consequently, +when they drew up at his station he was still a few pounds in. + +"Bedad," he said, "Oi don't loike goin' away wid yer money. +Oi'll go on to the next station so as ye can have revinge." +Then he sat down again, and play went on in earnest. + +The man of religion seemed to have the Devil's own luck. When he was dealt +a good hand he invariably backed it well, and if he had a bad one +he would not risk anything. The sports grew painfully anxious +as they saw him getting further and further ahead of them, +prattling away all the time like a big schoolboy. The squatter was +the biggest loser so far, but the priest was the only winner. +All the others were out of pocket. His reverence played with great dash, +and seemed to know a lot about the game, so that on arrival +at the second station he was a good round sum in pocket. + +He rose to leave them with many expressions of regret, and laughingly +promised full revenge next time. Just as he was opening the carriage door, +one of the Mulligan fraternity said in a stage-whisper: +"He's a blanky sink-pocket. If he can come this far, +let him come on to Sydney and play for double the stakes." +Like a shot the priest turned on him. + +"Bedad, an' if THAT'S yer talk, Oi'll play ye fer double stakes +from here to the other side of glory. Do yez think men are mice +because they eat cheese? It isn't one of the Ryans would be fearing +to give any man his revinge!" + +He snorted defiance at them, grabbed his cards and waded in. +The others felt that a crisis was at hand and settled down to play +in a dead silence. But the priest kept on winning steadily, +and the "old man" of the Mulligan push saw that something decisive +must be done, and decided on a big plunge to get all the money back +on one hand. By a dexterous manipulation of the cards +he dealt himself four kings, almost the best hand at poker. +Then he began with assumed hesitation to bet on his hand, +raising the stake little by little. + +"Sure ye're trying to bluff, so ye are!" said the priest, +and immediately raised it. + +The others had dropped out of the game and watched with painful interest +the stake grow and grow. The Mulligan fraternity felt a cheerful certainty +that the "old man" had made things safe, and regarded themselves +as mercifully delivered from an unpleasant situation. The priest went on +doggedly raising the stake in response to his antagonist's challenges +until it had attained huge dimensions. + +"Sure that's high enough," said he, putting into the pool +sufficient to entitle him to see his opponent's hand. + +The "old man" with great gravity laid down his four kings, +whereat the Mulligan boys let a big sigh of relief escape them. + +Then the priest laid down four aces and scooped the pool. + +The sportsmen of Mulligan's never quite knew how they got out to Randwick. +They borrowed a bit of money in Sydney, and found themselves +in the saddling-paddock in a half-dazed condition, trying to realize +what had happened to them. During the afternoon they were up at the end +of the lawn near the Leger stand and could hear the babel of tongues, +small bookmakers, thimble riggers, confidence men, and so on, +plying their trades outside. In the tumult of voices they heard one +that sounded familiar. Soon suspicion grew into certainty, +and they knew that it was the voice of "Father" Ryan. +They walked to the fence and looked over. This is what he was saying: -- + +"Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don't put down a brick +you can't pick up a castle! I'll bet no one here can pick +the knave of hearts out of these three cards. I'll bet half-a-sovereign +no one here can find the knave!" + +Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening +they could see him distinctly, doing a great business +and showing wonderful dexterity with the pasteboard. + +There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worth while +for another detachment to come down from Mulligan's; but the next lot +will hesitate about playing poker with priests in the train. + + + + +The Amateur Gardener + + + +The first step in amateur gardening is to sit down and consider what good +you are going to get by it. If you are only a tenant by the month, +as most people are, it is obviously not of much use for you to plant +a fruit orchard or an avenue of oak trees. What you want is something +that will grow quickly, and will stand transplanting, for when you move +it would be a sin to leave behind you the plants on which you have spent +so much labour and so much patent manure. + +We knew a man once who was a bookmaker by trade -- +and a Leger bookmaker at that -- but had a passion for horses and flowers. +When he "had a big win", as he occasionally did, it was his custom +to have movable wooden stables, built on skids, put up in the yard, +and to have tons of the best soil that money could buy +carted into the garden of the premises which he was occupying. + +Then he would keep splendid horses, and grow rare roses +and show-bench chrysanthemums. His landlord passing by +would see the garden in a blaze of colour, and promise himself +to raise the bookmaker's rent next quarter day. + +However, when the bookmaker "took the knock", as he invariably did at least +twice a year, it was his pleasing custom to move without giving notice. +He would hitch two cart-horses to the stables, and haul them right away +at night. He would not only dig up the roses, trees, and chrysanthemums +he had planted, but would also cart away the soil he had brought in; +in fact, he used to shift the garden bodily. He had one garden +that he shifted to nearly every suburb in Sydney; and he always argued +that the change of air was invaluable for chrysanthemums. + +Being determined, then, to go in for gardening on common-sense principles, +and having decided on the shrubs you mean to grow, the next consideration +is your chance of growing them. + +If your neighbour keeps game fowls, it may be taken for granted +that before long they will pay you a visit, and you will see the rooster +scratching your pot plants out by the roots as if they were so much straw, +just to make a nice place to lie down and fluff the dust over himself. +Goats will also stray in from the street, and bite the young shoots off, +selecting the most valuable plants with a discrimination +that would do credit to a professional gardener. + +It is therefore useless to think of growing delicate or squeamish plants. +Most amateur gardeners maintain a lifelong struggle against +the devices of Nature; but when the forces of man and the forces of Nature +come into conflict Nature wins every time. Nature has decreed +that certain plants shall be hardy, and therefore suitable to suburban +amateur gardeners; the suburban amateur gardener persists in trying to grow +quite other plants, and in despising those marked out by Nature +for his use. It is to correct this tendency that this article is written. + +The greatest standby to the amateur gardener should undoubtedly be +the blue-flowered shrub known as "plumbago". This homely but hardy plant +will grow anywhere. It naturally prefers a good soil, +and a sufficient rainfall, but if need be it will worry along +without either. Fowls cannot scratch it up, and even the goat +turns away dismayed from its hard-featured branches. +The flower is not strikingly beautiful nor ravishingly scented, +but it flowers nine months out of the year; smothered with street dust +and scorched by the summer sun, you will find that faithful old plumbago +plugging along undismayed. A plant like this should be encouraged -- +but the misguided amateur gardener as a rule despises it. + +The plant known as the churchyard geranium is also one marked out +by Providence for the amateur; so is Cosmea, which comes up year after year +where once planted. In creepers, bignonia and lantana will hold their own +under difficulties perhaps as well as any that can be found. +In trees the Port Jackson fig is a patriotic one to grow. +It is a fine plant to provide exercise, as it sheds its leaves unsparingly, +and requires the whole garden to be swept up every day. + +Your aim as a student of Nature should be to encourage +the survival of the fittest. There is a grass called nut grass, +and another called Parramatta grass, either of which holds its own +against anything living or dead. The average gardening manual +gives you recipes for destroying these. Why should you destroy them +in favour of a sickly plant that needs constant attention? No. +The Parramatta grass is the selected of Nature, and who are you +to interfere with Nature? + +Having decided to go in for strong, simple plants that will hold their own, +and a bit over, you must get your implements of husbandry. + +The spade is the first thing, but the average ironmonger will show you +an unwieldy weapon only meant to be used by navvies. Don't buy it. +Get a small spade, about half-size -- it is nice and light and doesn't +tire the wrist, and with it you can make a good display of enthusiasm, +and earn the hypocritical admiration of your wife. After digging +for half-an-hour or so, get her to rub your back with any +of the backache cures. From that moment you will have no further need +for the spade. + +A barrow is about the only other thing needed; anyhow, +it is almost a necessity for wheeling cases of whisky up to the house. +A rake is useful when your terrier dog has bailed up a cat, +and will not attack it until the cat is made to run. + +Talking of terrier dogs, an acquaintance of ours has a dog that does all +his gardening. The dog is a small elderly terrier with a failing memory. +As soon as the terrier has planted a bone in the garden +the owner slips over, digs it up and takes it away. When that terrier +goes back and finds the bone gone, he distrusts his memory, +and begins to think that perhaps he has made a mistake, +and has dug in the wrong place; so he sets to work, and digs patiently +all over the garden, turning over acres of soil in the course of +his search. This saves his master a lot of backache. + +The sensible amateur gardener, then, will not attempt to fight with Nature +but will fall in with her views. What more pleasant than to get out of bed +at 11.30 on a Sunday morning; to look out of your window at a lawn +waving with the feathery plumes of Parramatta grass, and to see beyond it +the churchyard geranium flourishing side by side with the plumbago +and the Port Jackson fig? + +The garden gate blows open, and the local commando of goats, +headed by an aged and fragrant patriarch, locally known as De Wet, +rushes in; but their teeth will barely bite through the wiry stalks +of the Parramatta grass, and the plumbago and the figtree fail +to attract them, and before long they stand on one another's shoulders, +scale the fence, and disappear into the next-door garden, +where a fanatic is trying to grow show roses. + +After the last goat has scaled your neighbour's fence, and only De Wet +is left, your little dog discovers him. De Wet beats a hurried retreat, +apparently at full speed, with the dog exactly one foot behind him +in frantic pursuit. We say apparently at full speed, because experience +has taught that De Wet can run as fast as a greyhound when he likes; +but he never exerts himself to go faster than is necessary +to keep just in front of whatever dog is after him. + +Hearing the scrimmage, your neighbour comes on to his verandah, +and sees the chase going down the street. + +"Ha! that wretched old De Wet again!" he says. "Small hope your dog has +of catching him! Why don't you get a garden gate like mine, +so that he won't get in?" + +"No; he can't get in at your gate," is the reply; "but I think his commando +are in your back garden now." + +Then follows a frantic rush. Your neighbour falls downstairs in his haste, +and the commando, after stopping to bite some priceless pot plants +of your neighbour's as they come out, skips easily back over the fence +and through your gate into the street again. + +If a horse gets in his hoofs make no impression on the firm turf +of the Parramatta grass, and you get quite a hearty laugh +by dropping a chair on him from the first-floor window. + +The game fowls of your other neighbour come fluttering into your garden, +and scratch and chuckle and fluff themselves under your plumbago bush; +but you don't worry. Why should you? They can't hurt it; and, besides, +you know that the small black hen and the big yellow one, +who have disappeared from the throng, are even now laying their daily egg +for you behind the thickest bush. + +Your little dog rushes frantically up and down the front bed +of your garden, barking and racing, and tearing up the ground, +because his rival little dog, who lives down the street, is going past +with his master, and each pretends that he wants to be at the other -- +as they have pretended every day for the past three years. The performance +he is going through doesn't disturb you. Why should it? By following +the directions in this article you have selected plants he cannot hurt. + +After breakfasting at noon, you stroll out, and, perhaps, +smooth with your foot, or with your spade, the inequalities +made by the hens; you gather up casually the eggs they have laid; +you whistle to your little dog, and go out for a stroll with a light heart. + + + + +Thirsty Island + + + +Travellers approaching a bush township are sure to find some distance +from the town a lonely public-house waiting by the roadside +to give them welcome. Thirsty (miscalled Thursday) Island +is the outlying pub of Australia. + +When the China and British-India steamers arrive from the North +the first place they come to is Thirsty Island, the sentinel at the gate +of Torres Straits. New chums on the steamers see a fleet +of white-sailed pearling luggers, a long pier clustered with a hybrid crowd +of every colour, caste and creed under Heaven, and at the back of it all +a little galvanized-iron town shining in the sun. + +For nine months of the year a crisp, cool south-east wind blows, +the snow-white beach is splashed with spray and dotted with +the picturesque figures of Japanese divers and South Sea Island boatmen. +Coco-nut palms line the roads by the beach, and back of the town +are the barracks and a fort nestling among the trees on the hillside. +Thirsty Island is a nice place -- to look at. + +When a vessel makes fast the Thirsty Islanders come down +to greet the new-comers and give them welcome to Australia. +The new-chums are inclined to patronise these simple, outlying people. +Fresh from the iniquities of the China-coast cocktail +and the unhallowed orgies of the Sourabaya Club, new-chums think they have +little to learn in the way of drink; at any rate, they haven't come +all the way to Thursday Island to be taught anything. Poor new-chums! +Little do they know the kind of people they are up against. + +The following description of a night at Thursday Island is taken from +a new-chum's note book: + +"Passed Proudfoot shoal and arrived at Thursday Island. +First sight of Australia. Lot of men came aboard, all called Captain. +They are all pearl-fishers or pilots, not a bit like the bushmen +I expected. When they came aboard they divided into parties. Some invaded +the Captain's cabin; others sat in the smoking room; the rest crowded +into the saloon. They talked to the passengers about the Boer War, +and told us about pearls worth 1000 pounds that had been found lately. + +"One captain pulled a handful of loose pearls out of a jar +and handed them round in a casual way for us to look at. +The stewards opened bottles and we all sat down for a drink and a smoke. +I spoke to one captain -- an oldish man -- and he grinned amiably, +but did not answer. Another captain leaned over to me and said, +`Don't take any notice of him, he's boozed all this week.' + +"Conversation and drink became general. The night was very hot and close, +and some of the passengers seemed to be taking more than was good for them. +A contagious thirst spread round the ship, and before long the stewards +and firemen were at it. The saloon became an inferno of drink and sweat +and tobacco smoke. Perfect strangers were talking to each other +at the top of their voices. + +"Young MacTavish, who is in a crack English regiment, +asked the captain of a pearling lugger whether he didn't know +Talbot de Cholmondeley in the Blues. + +"The pearler said very likely he had met 'em, and no doubt he'd remember +their faces if he saw them, but he never could remember names. + +"Another passenger -- a Jew -- was trying to buy some pearls cheap +from the captains, but the more the captains drank the less anxious +they became to talk about pearls. + +"The night wore on, and still the drinks circulated. Young MacTavish +slept profoundly. + +"One passenger gave his steward a sovereign as he was leaving the ship, +and in half an hour the steward was carried to his berth in a fit -- +alcoholic in its origin. Another steward was observed openly drinking +the passengers' whisky. When accused, he didn't even attempt +to defend himself; the great Thursday Island thirst seemed to have +communicated itself to everyone on board, and he simply HAD to drink. + +"About three in the morning a tour of the ship disclosed the following +state of affairs: Captain's room full of captains solemnly tight; +smoking-room empty, except for the inanimate form of the captain +who had been boozed all the week, and was now sleeping peacefully +with his feet on the sofa and his head on the floor. The saloon was full +of captains and passengers -- the latter mostly in a state of collapse +or laughing and singing deliriously; the rails lined with firemen +who had business over the side; stewards ditto. + +"At last the Thursday Islanders departed, unsteadily, but still on +their feet, leaving a demoralized ship behind them. And young MacTavish, +who has seen a thing or two in his brief span, staggered to his berth, +saying, `My God! Is ALL Australia like this place?'" + + * * * * * + +When no ships arrive, the Islanders just drop into the pubs, +as a matter of routine, for their usual evening soak. +They drink weird compounds -- horehound beer, known as "lady dog", +and things like that. About two in the morning they go home speechless, +but still able to travel. It is very rarely that an Islander gets +helplessly drunk, but strangers generally have to be put to bed. + +The Japanese on the island are a strong faction. They have a club +of their own, and once gave a dinner to mark the death +of one of their members. He was shrewdly suspected of having tried +to drown another member by cutting his airpipe, so, when he died, +the club celebrated the event. The Japanese are not looked upon with favor +by the white islanders. They send their money to Japan -- +thousands of pounds a year go through the little office in money-orders -- +and so they are not "good for trade". + +The Manilamen and Kanakas and Torres Strait islanders, +on the other hand, bring all the money they do not spend +on the pearling schooner to the island, and "blow it in", like men. +They knife each other sometimes, and now and again have to be +run in wholesale, but they are "good for trade". The local lock-up +has a record of eighteen drunks run in in seven minutes. +They weren't taken along in carriages-and-four, either; +they were mostly dragged along by the scruff of the neck. + +Billy Malkeela, the South Sea diver, summed up the Japanese question -- +"Seems to me dis Islan' soon b'long Japanee altogedder. +One time pa-lenty rickatta (plenty regatta), all same Isle of Wight. +Now no more rickatta. All money go Japan!" + +An English new-chum made his appearance there lately -- +a most undefeated sportsman. He was put down in a diving dress +in about eight feet of water, where he bubbled and struggled about +in great style. Suddenly he turned, rushed for the beach, +and made for the foot of a tree, which he tried to climb +under the impression that he was still at the bottom of the ocean. +Then he was hauled in by the life-line. + +The pearlers thought to get some fun out of him by giving him +an oyster to open in which they had previously planted a pearl; +he never saw the pearl and threw the oyster into the scuppers +with the rest, and the pearlers had to go down on all fours +and grope for that pearl among the stinking oysters. It was funny -- +but not in the way they had intended. + +The pearlers go out in schooners called floating stations +(their enemies call them floating public-houses) and no man knows +what hospitality is till he has been a guest on a pearling schooner. +They carry it to extremes sometimes. Some pearlers were out in a lugger, +and were passing by one of these schooners. They determined +not to go on board, as it was late, and they were in a hurry. +The captain of the schooner went below, got his rifle and put two bullets +through their foresail. Then they put the helm down and went aboard; +it was an invitation almost equivalent to a royal command. +They felt heartily ashamed of themselves as they slunk up on deck, +and the captain of the schooner eyed them reproachfully. + +"I couldn't let you disgrace yourselves by passing my schooner," he said; +"but if it ever happens again I'll fire at the deck. A man that would +pass a schooner in broad daylight is better dead." + +There is a fort and garrison at Thirsty Island, but they are not needed. +If an invading fleet comes this way it should be encouraged +by every possible means to land at the island; the heat, the thirst, +the horehound beer, and the Islanders may be trusted to do the rest. + + + + +Dan Fitzgerald Explains + + + +The circus was having its afternoon siesta. Overhead the towering +canvas tent spread like a giant mushroom on a network of stalks -- +slanting beams, interlaced with guys and wire ropes. + +The ring looked small and lonely; its circle of empty benches seemed +to stare intently at it, as though some sort of unseen performance +were going on for the benefit of a ghostly audience. Now and again +a guy rope creaked, or a loose end of canvas flapped like faint, +unreal applause, as the silence shut down again, it did not need +much imagination to people the ring with dead and gone circus riders +performing for the benefit of shadowy spectators packed on those benches. + +In the menagerie portion matters were different; here there was +a free and easy air, the animals realising that for the present +the eyes of the public were off them, and they could put in the afternoon +as they chose. + +The big African apes had dropped the "business" of showing their teeth, +and pretending that they wanted to tear the spectators' faces off. +They were carefully and painstakingly trying to fix up a kind of +rustic seat in the corner of their cage with a short piece of board, +which they placed against the wall. This fell down every time +they sat on it, and the whole adjustment had to be gone through again. + +The camel had stretched himself full length on the tan, and was enjoying +a luxurious snooze, oblivious of the fact that before long he would have to +get up and assume that far-off ship-of-the-desert aspect. The remainder +of the animals were, like actors, "resting" before their "turn" came on; +even the elephant had ceased to sway about, while a small monkey, +asleep on a sloping tent pole, had an attack of nightmare +and would have fallen off his perch but for his big tail. +It was a land of the Lotus-eater + + "In which it seemed always afternoon." + +These visions were dispelled by the entry of a person who said, +"D'ye want to see Dan?" and soon Dan Fitzgerald, the man who knows +all about the training of horses, came into the tent with Montgomery, +the ringmaster, and between them they proceeded to expound the methods +of training horseflesh. + +"What sort of horse do we buy for circus work? Well, it depends what +we want 'em for. There are three sorts of horses in use in a circus -- +ring horses, trick horses, and school horses; but it doesn't matter +what he is wanted for, a horse is all the better if he knows nothing. +A horse that has been pulled about and partly trained has to unlearn a lot +before he is any use to us. The less he knows, the better it is." + +"Then do you just try any sort of horse?" + +"Any sort, so long as he is a good sort, but it depends on what +he is wanted for. If we want a ring horse, he has to be a quiet +sober-going animal, not too well-bred and fiery. A ring horse is one +that just goes round the ring for the bareback riders and equestriennes +to perform on. The human being is the "star", and the horse in only +a secondary performer, a sort of understudy; yes, that's it, +an understudy -- he has to study how to keep under the man." + +"Are they hard to train?" + +"Their work all depends on the men that ride them. In bareback riding +there's a knack in jumping on the horse. If a man lands awkwardly +and jars the horse's back, the horse will get out of step +and flinch at each jump, and he isn't nearly so good to perform on. +A ring horse must not swerve or change his pace; if you're up in the air, +throwing a somersault, and the horse swerves from underneath you -- +where are you?" + +"Some people think that horses take a lot of notice of the band -- +is that so?" + +"Not that I know of. If there are any horses in the show +with an ear for music, I haven't heard of them. They take a lot of notice +of the ringmaster." + +"Does it take them long to learn this work?" + +"Not long; a couple of months will teach a ring horse; of course, +some are better than others." + +"First of all we teach them to come up to you, with the whip, +like horsebreakers do. Then we run them round the ring with a lunging rein +for a long time; then, when they are steady to the ring, we let them run +with the rein loose, and the trainer can catch hold of it if they go wrong. +Then we put a roller on them -- a broad surcingle that goes round +the horse's body -- and the boys jump on them and canter round, +holding on to the roller, or standing up, lying down, and doing tricks +till the horse gets used to it." + +"Well?" + +"Well, you give 'em a couple of hours of it, perhaps, and then dry them +and feed them, and give them a spell, and then bring them out again. +They soon get to know what you want; but you can't break in horses +on the move. The shifting and worry and noise and excitement put it all +out of their heads. We have a fixed camp where we break them in. +And a horse may know his work perfectly well when there is no one about, +but bring him into the ring at night, and he is all abroad." + +"Do you have to give them much whip?" + +"Not much. If a horse doesn't know what you want him to do, +it only ruins him to whip him. But once he does a thing a few times, +and then won't do it, then you must whip him." + +"What about trick horses?" + +"A trick horse rolls a barrel, or lies down and goes to bed with the clown, +or fires a pistol -- does any trick like that. Some small circuses +make the same horses do both trick and ring work, but it isn't a good line. +A horse is all the better to have only one line of business -- +same as a man." + +"How do you teach them tricks?" + +"Oh, it takes a long time and a lot of hard work and great patience. +Even to make a horse lie down when he's ordered takes a couple of months +sometimes. To make a horse lie down, you strap up one leg, +and then pull his head round; after a while he gets so tired +of the strained position that he lies down, after which +he learns to do it at command. If you want him to pick up a handkerchief, +you put a bit of carrot in it, and after a while they know +that you want them to pick it up -- but it takes a long time. +Then a strange hand in the ring will flurry them, +and if anything goes wrong, they get all abroad. A good active pony, +with a bit of Arab blood in him, is the best for tricks." + +"What's a school horse?" + +"Ah, that's a line of business that isn't appreciated enough out here. +On the Continent they think a lot of them. A school horse is one +that is taught to do passaging, to change his feet at command, +to move sideways and backwards; in fact, to drill. Out here +no one thinks much of it. But in Germany, where everyone goes through +military riding schools, they do. The Germans are the best horse-trainers +in the world; and the big German circus-proprietors have men +to do all their business for them, while they just attend to the horses." + +"How long does it take to turn out a school horse?" + +"Well, Chiarini was the best trainer out here, and he used to take +two years to get a horse to his satisfaction. For school horses, you must +have thoroughbreds, because their appearance is half their success. +We had a New Zealand thoroughbred that had raced, and was turning out +a splendid school horse, and he got burnt after costing a year's training. +That's the luck of the game, you know. You keep at it year after year, +and sometimes they die, and sometimes they get crippled -- +it's all in the luck of the game. You may give fifty pounds for a horse, +and find that he can never get over his fear of the elephant, while you +give ten pounds for another, and find him a ready-made performer almost." + +We passed out through the ghostly circus and the menagerie tent +down to the stable tent. There, among a lot of others, +a tranquil-looking animal was munching some feed, while in front of him +hung a placard, "Tiger Horse". + +"That's a new sort! What is he, ring, trick, or school horse?" + +"Well, he's a class by himself. I suppose you'd call him a ring horse. +That's the horse that the tiger rides on." + +"Did it take him long to learn that?" + +"Well, it did not take this horse long; but we tried eleven others +before we could get one to stand it. They're just like men, all different. +What one will stand another won't look at. Well, good-bye." + +Just like men -- no doubt; most men have to carry tigers of various sorts +through life to get a living. + + + + +The Cat + + + +Most people think that the cat is an unintelligent animal, +fond of ease, and caring little for anything but mice and milk. +But a cat has really more character than most human beings, +and gets a great deal more satisfaction out of life. +Of all the animal kingdom, the cat has the most many-sided character. + +He -- or she -- is an athlete, a musician, an acrobat, a Lothario, +a grim fighter, a sport of the first water. All day long +the cat loafs about the house, takes things easy, sleeps by the fire, +and allows himself to be pestered by the attentions of our womenfolk +and annoyed by our children. To pass the time away +he sometimes watches a mouse-hole for an hour or two -- +just to keep himself from dying of ennui; and people get the idea +that this sort of thing is all that life holds for the cat. But watch him +as the shades of evening fall, and you see the cat as he really is. + +When the family sits down to tea, the cat usually puts in an appearance +to get his share, and purrs noisily, and rubs himself against the legs +of the family; and all the time he is thinking of a fight or a love-affair +that is coming off that evening. If there is a guest at table +the cat is particularly civil to him, because the guest is likely to have +the best of what is going. Sometimes, instead of recognizing this civility +with something to eat, the guest stoops down and strokes the cat, and says, +"Poor pussy! poor pussy!" + +The cat soon tires of that; he puts up his claw and quietly but firmly +rakes the guest in the leg. + +"Ow!" says the guest, "the cat stuck his claws into me!" +The delighted family remarks, "Isn't it sweet of him? +Isn't he intelligent? HE WANTS YOU TO GIVE HIM SOMETHING TO EAT." + +The guest dares not do what he would like to do -- kick the cat +through the window -- so, with tears of rage and pain in his eyes, +he affects to be very much amused, and sorts out a bit of fish +from his plate and hands it down. The cat gingerly receives it, +with a look in his eyes that says: "Another time, my friend, +you won't be so dull of comprehension," and purrs maliciously +as he retires to a safe distance from the guest's boot before eating it. +A cat isn't a fool -- not by a long way. + +When the family has finished tea, and gathers round the fire to enjoy +the hours of indigestion, the cat slouches casually out of the room +and disappears. Life, true life, now begins for him. + +He saunters down his own backyard, springs to the top of the fence +with one easy bound, drops lightly down on the other side, +trots across the right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and skips to the roof +of an empty shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminacy +of civilisation; his gait becomes lithe and pantherlike; +he looks quickly and keenly from side to side, and moves noiselessly, +for he has so many enemies -- dogs, cabmen with whips, +and small boys with stones. + +Arrived on the top of the shed, the cat arches his back, rakes his claws +once or twice through the soft bark of the old roof, wheels round +and stretches himself a few times; just to see that every muscle +is in full working order; then, dropping his head nearly to his paws, +he sends across a league of backyards his call to his kindred -- +a call to love, or war, or sport. + +Before long they come, gliding, graceful shadows, approaching circuitously, +and halting occasionally to reconnoitre -- tortoiseshell, tabby, and black, +all domestic cats, but all transformed for the nonce +into their natural state. No longer are they the hypocritical, +meek creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk. +They are now ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of dignity. +Their fights are grim and determined, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons +before he will yield. + +Even young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human beings, +that they can work off jealousy, hatred, and malice in a sprawling, +yelling combat on a flat roof. All cats fight, and all keep themselves +more or less in training while they are young. Your cat may be +the acknowledged lightweight champion of his district -- +a Griffo of the feline ring! + +Just think how much more he gets out of his life than you do out of yours +-- what a hurricane of fighting and lovemaking his life is -- +and blush for yourself. You have had one little love-affair, +and never had a good, all-out fight in your life! + +And the sport they have, too! As they get older and retire from the ring +they go in for sport more systematically; the suburban backyards, +that are to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting-grounds +and trysting-places where they may have more gallant adventure +than ever had King Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men. + +Grimalkin decides to kill a canary in a neighbouring verandah. +Consider the fascination of it -- the stealthy reconnaissance +from the top of the fence; the care to avoid waking the house-dog, +the noiseless approach and the hurried dash, and the fierce clawing +at the fluttering bird till its mangled body is dragged through +the bars of the cage; the exultant retreat with the spoil; +the growling over the feast that follows. Not the least entertaining part +of it is the demure satisfaction of arriving home in time for breakfast +and hearing the house-mistress say: "Tom must be sick; he seems to have +no appetite." + +It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more fond +of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like +to leave his country, the land where all his friends are, +and where he knows every landmark. Exiled in a strange land, +he would have to learn a new geography, to exploit another tribe of dogs, +to fight and make love to an entirely new nation of cats. +Life isn't long enough for that sort of thing. So, when the family moves, +the cat, if allowed, will stay at the old house and attach himself +to the new tenants. He will give them the privilege of boarding him +while he enjoys life in his own way. He is not going to sacrifice +his whole career for the doubtful reward which fidelity to his old master +or mistress might bring. + + + + +Sitting in Judgment + + + +The show ring was a circular enclosure of about four acres, +with a spiked batten fence round it, and a listless crowd +of back-country settlers propped along the fence. Behind them were +the sheds for produce, and the machinery sections where steam threshers +and earth scoops hummed and buzzed and thundered unnoticed. +Crowds of sightseers wandered past the cattle stalls to gape at +the fat bullocks; side-shows flourished, a blase goose drew marbles +out of a tin canister, and a boxing showman displayed his muscles +outside his tent, while his partner urged the youth of the district +to come in and be thumped for the edification of the spectators. + +Suddenly a gate opened at the end of the show ring, and horses, cattle, +dogs, vehicles, motor-cars, and bicyclists crowded into the arena. +This was the general parade, but it would have been better described +as a general chaos. Trotting horses and ponies, in harness, +went whirling round the ring, every horse and every driver fully certain +that every eye was fixed on them; the horses -- the vainest creatures +in the world -- arching their necks and lifting their feet, +whizzed past in bewildering succession, till the onlookers grew giddy. +Inside the whirling circle blood stallions stood on their hind legs, +screaming defiance to the world at large; great shaggy-fronted bulls, +with dull vindictive eyes, paced along, looking as though they were trying +to remember who it was that struck them last. A showground bull +always seems to be nursing a grievance. + +Mixed up with the stallions and bulls were dogs and donkeys. +The dogs were led by attendants, apparently selected on the principle +of the larger the dog the smaller the custodian; while the donkeys +were the only creatures unmoved by their surroundings, +for they slept peaceably through the procession, occasionally waking up +to bray their sense of boredom. + +In the centre of the ring a few lady-riders, stern-featured women +for the most part, were being "judged" by a trembling official, +who feared to look them in the face, but hurriedly and apologetically +examined horses and saddles, whispered his award to the stewards, +and fled at top speed to the official stand -- his sanctuary from the fury +of spurned beauty. The defeated ladies immediately began to "perform" -- +that is, to ask the universe at large whether anyone ever heard +the like of that! But the stewards strategically slipped away, +and the injured innocents had no resource left but to ride haughtily +round the ring, glaring defiance at the spectators. + +All this time stewards and committee-men were wandering among +the competitors, trying to find the animals for judgment. +The clerk of the ring -- a huge man on a small cob -- galloped around, +roaring like a bull: "This way for the fourteen stone 'acks! Come on, +you twelve 'and ponies!" and by degrees various classes got judged, +and dispersed grumbling. Then the bulls filed out with their grievances +still unsettled, the lady riders were persuaded to withdraw, +and the clerk of the ring sent a sonorous bellow across the ground: +"Where's the jumpin' judges?" + +From the official stand came a brisk, dark-faced, wiry little man. +He had been a steeplechase rider and a trainer in his time. +Long experience of that tricky animal, the horse, had made him reserved +and slow to express an opinion. He mounted the table, +and produced a note-book. From the bar of the booth came a large, hairy, +red-faced man, whose face showed fatuous self-complacency. +He was a noted show-judge because he refused, on principle, +to listen to others' opinions; or in those rare cases when he did, +only to eject a scornful contradiction. The third judge was +a local squatter, who was overwhelmed with a sense of his own importance. + +They seated themselves on a raised platform in the centre of the ring, +and held consultation. The small dark man produced his note-book. + +"I always keep a scale of points," he said. "Give 'em so many points +for each fence. Then give 'em so many for make, shape, and quality, +and so many for the way they jump." + +The fat man looked infinite contempt. "I never want any scale of points," +he said. "One look at the 'orses is enough for me. A man that judges +by points ain't a judge at all, I reckon. What do you think?" he went on, +turning to the squatter. "Do you go by points?" + +"Never," said the squatter, firmly; which, as he had never judged before +in his life, was strictly true. + +"Well, we'll each go our own way," said the little man. "I'll keep points. +Send 'em in." + +"Number One, Conductor!" roared the ring steward in a voice like thunder, +and a long-legged grey horse came trotting into the ring +and sidled about uneasily. His rider pointed him for the first jump, +and went at it at a terrific pace. Nearing the fence the horse made +a wild spring, and cleared it by feet, while the crowd yelled applause. +At the second jump he raced right under the obstacle, propped dead, +and rose in the air with a leap like a goat, while the crowd +yelled their delight again, and said: "My oath! ain't he clever?" +As he neared the third fence he shifted about uneasily, and finally +took it at an angle, clearing a wholly unnecessary thirty feet. +Again the hurricane of cheers broke out. "Don't he fly 'em," said one man, +waving his hat. At the last fence he made his spring yards too soon; +his forelegs got over all right, but his hind legs dropped on the rail +with a sounding rap, and he left a little tuft of hair sticking on it. + +"I like to see 'em feel their fences," said the fat man. +"I had a bay 'orse once, and he felt every fence he ever jumped; +shows their confidence." + +"I think he'll feel that last one for a while," said the little dark man. +"What's this now?" + +"Number Two, Homeward Bound!" An old, solid chestnut horse came out +and cantered up to each jump, clearing them coolly and methodically. +The crowd was not struck by the performance, and the fat man said: +"No pace!" but surreptitiously made two strokes (to indicate Number Two) +on the cuff of his shirt. + +"Number Eleven, Spite!" This was a leggy, weedy chestnut, half-racehorse, +half-nondescript, ridden by a terrified amateur, who went at the fence +with a white, set face. The horse raced up to the fence, and stopped dead, +amid the jeers of the crowd. The rider let daylight into him +with his spurs, and rushed him at it again. This time he got over. + +Round he went, clouting some fences with his front legs, +others with his hind legs. The crowd jeered, but the fat man, +from a sheer spirit of opposition, said: "That would be a good horse +if he was rode better." And the squatter remarked: "Yes, +he belongs to a young feller just near me. I've seen him jump splendidly +out in the bush, over brush fences." + +The little dark man said nothing, but made a note in his book. + +"Number Twelve, Gaslight!" "Now, you'll see a horse," said the fat man. +"I've judged this 'orse in twenty different shows, and gave him first prize +every time!" + +Gaslight turned out to be a fiddle-headed, heavy-shouldered brute, +whose long experience of jumping in shows where they give points for pace +-- as if the affair was a steeplechase -- had taught him +to get the business over as quickly as he could. He went thundering +round the ring, pulling double, and standing off his fences in a style +that would infallibly bring him to grief if following hounds across roads +or through broken timber. + +"Now," said the fat man, "that's a 'unter, that is. What I say is, +when you come to judge at a show, pick out the 'orse you'd soonest be on +if Ned Kelly was after you, and there you have the best 'unter." + +The little man did not reply, but made the usual scrawl in his book, +while the squatter hastened to agree with the fat man. "I like to see +a bit of pace myself," he ventured. + +The fat man sat on him heavily. "You don't call that pace, +do you?" he said. "He was going dead slow." + +Various other competitors did their turn round the ring, +some propping and bucking over the jumps, others rushing and tearing +at their fences; not one jumped as a hunter should. Some got themselves +into difficulties by changing feet or misjudging the distance, +and were loudly applauded by the crowd for "cleverness" +in getting themselves out of the difficulties they had themselves created. + +A couple of rounds narrowed the competitors down to a few, +and the task of deciding was entered on. + +"I have kept a record," said the little man, "of how they jumped +each fence, and I give them points for style of jumping, and for their make +and shape and hunting qualities. The way I bring it out is that +Homeward Bound is the best, with Gaslight second." + +"Homeward Bound!" said the fat man. "Why, the pace he went wouldn't head +a duck. He didn't go as fast as a Chinaman could trot with two baskets +of stones. I want to have three of 'em in to have another look at 'em." +Here he looked surreptitiously at his cuff, saw a note "No. II.", +mistook it for "Number Eleven", and said: "I want Number Eleven +to go another round." + +The leggy, weedy chestnut, with the terrified amateur up, came sidling +and snorting out into the ring. The fat man looked at him with scorn. + +"What is that fiddle-headed brute doing in the ring?" he said. + +"Why," said the ring steward, "you said you wanted him." + +"Well," said the fat man, "if I said I wanted him I do want him. +Let him go the round." + +The terrified amateur went at his fences with the rashness of despair, +and narrowly escaped being clouted off on two occasions. +This put the fat man in a quandary. He had kept no record, +and all the horses were jumbled up in his head; but he had one fixed idea, +to give the first prize to Gaslight; as to the second he was open +to argument. From sheer contrariness he said that Number Eleven would be +"all right if he were rode better," and the squatter agreed. +The little man was overruled, and the prizes went -- Gaslight, first; +Spite, second; Homeward Bound, third. + +The crowd hooted loudly as Spite's rider came round with the second ribbon, +and small boys suggested to the fat judge in shrill tones that he ought to +boil his head. The fat man stalked majestically into the stewards' stand, +and on being asked how he came to give Spite the second prize, +remarked oracularly: "I judge the 'orse, I don't judge the rider." +This silenced criticism, and everyone adjourned to have a drink. + +Over the flowing bowl the fat man said: "You see, I don't believe +in this nonsense about points. I can judge 'em without that." + +Twenty dissatisfied competitors vowed they would never bring +another horse there in their lives. Gaslight's owner said: "Blimey, +I knew it would be all right with old Billy judging. 'E knows this 'orse." + + + + +The Dog + + + +The dog is a member of society who likes to have his day's work, +and who does it more conscientiously than most human beings. +A dog always looks as if he ought to have a pipe in his mouth +and a black bag for his lunch, and then he would go quite happily to office +every day. + +A dog without work is like a man without work, a nuisance to himself +and everybody else. People who live about town, and keep a dog +to give the children hydatids and to keep the neighbours awake at night, +imagine that the animal is fulfilling his destiny. All town dogs, +fancy dogs, show dogs, lap-dogs, and other dogs with no work to do, +should be abolished; it is only in the country that a dog has +any justification for his existence. + +The old theory that animals have only instinct, not reason, to guide them, +is knocked endways by the dog. A dog can reason as well as a human being +on some subjects, and better on others, and the best reasoning dog of all +is the sheep-dog. The sheep-dog is a professional artist with a pride +in his business. Watch any drover's dogs bringing sheep into the yards. +How thoroughly they feel their responsibility, and how very annoyed +they get if a stray dog with no occupation wants them to stop +and fool about! They snap at him and hurry off, as much as to say: +"You go about your idleness. Don't you see this is my busy day?" + +Sheep-dogs are followers of Thomas Carlyle. They hold that +the only happiness for a dog in this life is to find his work and to do it. +The idle, `dilettante', non-working, aristocratic dog they have no use for. + +The training of a sheep-dog for his profession begins at a very early age. +The first thing is to take him out with his mother and let him see +her working. He blunders lightheartedly, frisking along +in front of the horse, and his owner tries to ride over him, +and generally succeeds. It is amusing to see how that knocks all the gas +out of a puppy, and with what a humble air he falls to the rear +and glues himself to the horse's heels, scarcely daring to look +to the right or to the left, for fear of committing some other breach +of etiquette. + +He has had his first lesson -- to keep behind the horse until he is wanted. +Then he watches the old slut work, and is allowed to go with her +round the sheep; and if he shows any disposition to get out of hand +and frolic about, the old lady will bite him sharply to prevent +his interfering with her work. + +By degrees, slowly, like any other professional, he learns his business. +He learns to bring sheep after a horse simply at a wave of the hand; +to force the mob up to a gate where they can be counted or drafted; +to follow the scent of lost sheep, and to drive sheep through a town +without any master, one dog going on ahead to block the sheep from +turning off into by-streets while the other drives them on from the rear. + +How do they learn all these things? Dogs for show work +are taught painstakingly by men who are skilled in handling them; +but, after all, they teach themselves more than the men teach them. +It looks as if the acquired knowledge of generations were transmitted +from dog to dog. The puppy, descended from a race of sheep-dogs, +starts with all his faculties directed towards the working of sheep; +he is half-educated as soon as he is born. He can no more help +working sheep than a born musician can help being musical, +or a Hebrew can help gathering in shekels. It is bred in him. +If he can't get sheep to work, he will work a fowl; +often and often one can see a collie pup painstakingly and carefully +driving a bewildered old hen into a stable, or a stock-yard, +or any other enclosed space on which he has fixed his mind. +How does he learn to do that? He didn't learn it at all. +The knowledge was born with him. + +When the dog has been educated, or has educated himself, +he enjoys his work; but very few dogs like work "in the yards". +The sun is hot, the dust rises in clouds, and there is nothing to do +but bark, bark, bark -- which is all very well for learners and amateurs, +but is beneath the dignity of the true professional sheep-dog. +When they are hoarse with barking and nearly choked with dust, +the men lose their tempers and swear at them, and throw clods of earth +at them, and sing out to them "Speak up, blast you!" + +Then the dogs suddenly decide that they have done enough for the day. +Watching their opportunity, they silently steal over the fence, +and hide in any cool place they can find. After a while the men notice +that hardly any are left, and operations are suspended while +a great hunt is made into outlying pieces of cover, where the dogs +are sure to be found lying low and looking as guilty as so many thieves. +A clutch at the scruff of the neck, a kick in the ribs, and they are +hauled out of hiding-places; and accompany their masters to the yard +frolicking about and pretending that they are quite delighted to be +going back, and only hid in those bushes out of sheer thoughtlessness. +He is a champion hypocrite, is the dog. + +Dogs, like horses, have very keen intuition. They know when the men +around them are frightened, though they may not know the cause. +In a great Queensland strike, when the shearers attacked and burnt +Dagworth shed, some rifle-volleys were exchanged. The air was full +of human electricity, each man giving out waves of fear and excitement. +Mark now the effect it had on the dogs. They were not in the fighting; +nobody fired at them, and nobody spoke to them; but every dog +left his master, left the sheep, and went away to the homestead, +about six miles off. There wasn't a dog about the shed next day +after the fight. The noise of the rifles had not frightened them, +because they were well-accustomed to that.* + +* The same thing happened constantly with horses in the South African War. +A loose horse would feed contentedly while our men were firing, +but when our troops were being fired at the horses became uneasy, +and the loose ones would trot away. The excitement of the men +communicated itself to them. + +Dogs have an amazing sense of responsibility. Sometimes, +when there are sheep to be worked, an old slut who has young puppies +may be greatly exercised in her mind whether she should go out or not. +On the one hand, she does not care about leaving the puppies, on the other, +she feels that she really ought to go rather than allow the sheep +to be knocked about by those learners. Hesitatingly, with many a look +behind her, she trots out after the horses and the other dogs. +An impassioned appeal from the head boundary rider, +"Go back home, will yer!" is treated with the contempt it deserves. +She goes out to the yards, works, perhaps half the day, +and then slips quietly under the fences and trots off home, contented. + + + + +The Dog -- as a Sportsman + + + +The sheep-dog and the cattle-dog are the workmen of the animal kingdom; +sporting and fighting dogs are the professionals and artists. + +A house-dog or a working-dog will only work for his master; +a professional or artistic dog will work for anybody, so long as he +is treated like an artist. A man going away for a week's shooting +can borrow a dog, and the dog will work for him loyally, just as +a good musician will do his best, though the conductor is strange to him, +and the other members of the band are not up to the mark. +The musician's art is sacred to him, and that is the case with the dog -- +Art before everything. + +It is a grand sight to see a really good setter or pointer +working up to a bird, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see +if the man with the gun has not lost himself. He throws his whole soul +into his work, questing carefully over the cold scent, feathering eagerly +when the bird is close, and at last drawing up like a statue. +Not Paganini himself ever lost himself in his art more thoroughly than does +humble Spot or Ponto. It is not amusement and not a mere duty to him; +it is a sacred gift, which he is bound to exercise. + +A pointer in need of amusement will play with another dog -- +the pair pretending to fight, and so on, but when there is work to be done, +the dog is lost in the artist. How crestfallen he looks if by any chance +he blunders on to a bird without pointing it! A fiddler who has played +a wrong note in a solo is the only creature who can look +quite so discomfited. Humanity, instead of going to the ant for wisdom, +should certainly go to the dog. + +Sporting dogs are like other artists, in that they are apt to get careless +of everything except their vocation. They are similarly +quite unreliable in their affections. They are not good watch dogs, +and take little interest in chasing cats. They look on a little dog +that catches rats much as a great musician looks on a cricketer -- +it's clever, but it isn't Art. + +Hunting and fighting dogs are the gladiators of the animal world. +A fox-hound or a kangaroo-dog is always of the same opinion +as Mr. Jorrocks: -- "All time is wasted what isn't spent in 'untin'." + +A greyhound will start out in the morning with three lame legs, +but as soon as he sees a hare start he MUST go. He utterly forgets +his sorrows in the excitement, just as a rowing-man, all over +boils and blisters, will pull a desperate race without feeling any pain. +Such dogs are not easily excited by anything but a chase, +and a burglar might come and rob the house and murder the inmates +without arousing any excitement among them. Guarding a house +is "not their pidgin" as the Chinese say. That is one great reason +for the success of the dog at whatever branch of his tribe's work +he goes in for -- he is so thorough. Dogs who are forced to combine +half-a-dozen professions never make a success at anything. +One dog one billet is their motto. + +The most earnest and thorough of all the dog tribe is the fighting dog. +His intense self-respect, his horror of brawling, his cool determination, +make him a pattern to humanity. The bull-dog or bull-terrier is generally +the most friendly and best-tempered dog in the world; but when he +is put down in the ring he fights till he drops, in grim silence, +though his feet are bitten through and through, his ears are in rags, +and his neck a hideous mass of wounds. + +In a well-conducted dog-fight each dog in turn has to attack the other dog, +and one can see fierce earnestness blazing in the eye of the attacker +as he hurls himself on the foe. What makes him fight like that? It is not +bloodthirstiness, because they are neither savage nor quarrelsome dogs: +a bulldog will go all his life without a fight, unless put into a ring. +It is simply their strong self-respect and stubborn pride which will not +let them give in. The greyhound snaps at his opponent and then runs +for his life, but the fighting dog stands to it till death. + +Just occasionally one sees the same type of human being -- +some quiet-spoken, good-tempered man who has taken up glove-fighting +for a living, and who, perhaps, gets pitted against a man a shade better +than himself. After a few rounds he knows he is overmatched, but there is +something at the back of his brain that will not let him cave in. +Round after round he stands punishment, and round after round +he grimly comes up, till, possibly, his opponent loses heart, +or a fluky hit turns the scale in his favour. These men are to be found +in every class of life. Many of the gamest of the game are mere +gutter-bred boys who will continue to fight long after they have endured +enough punishment to entitle them to quit. + +You can see in their eyes the same hard glitter that shows +in the bulldog's eyes as he limps across the ring, or in the eye +of the racehorse as he lies down to it when his opponent is outpacing him. +It is grit, pluck, vim, nerve force; call it what you like, +and there is no created thing that has more of it than the dog. + +The blood-lust is a dog-phase that has never been quite understood. +Every station-owner knows that sometimes the house-dogs are liable to take +a sudden fit of sheep-killing. Any kind of dog will do it, +from the collie downward. Sometimes dogs from different homesteads meet +in the paddocks, having apparently arranged the whole affair beforehand. +They are very artful about it, too. They lie round the house till dark, +and then slink off and have a wild night's blood-spree, +running down the wretched sheep and tearing their throats open; +before dawn they slink back again and lie around the house as before. +Many and many a sheep-owner has gone out with a gun +and shot his neighbour's dogs for killing sheep which his own wicked, +innocent-looking dogs had slain. + + + + +Concerning a Steeplechase Rider + + + +Of all the ways in which men get a living there is none so hard +and so precarious as that of steeplechase-riding in Australia. +It is bad enough in England, where steeplechases only take place in winter, +when the ground is soft, where the horses are properly schooled +before being raced, and where most of the obstacles will yield a little +if struck and give the horse a chance to blunder over safely. + +In Australia the men have to go at racing-speed, on very hard ground, +over the most rigid and uncompromising obstacles -- ironbark rails +clamped into solid posts with bands of iron. No wonder they are always +coming to grief, and are always in and out of hospital +in splints and bandages. Sometimes one reads that a horse has fallen +and the rider has "escaped with a severe shaking." + +That "shaking", gentle reader, would lay you or me up for weeks, +with a doctor to look after us and a crowd of sympathetic friends +calling to know how our poor back was. But the steeplechase-rider +has to be out and about again, "riding exercise" every morning, +and "schooling" all sorts of cantankerous brutes over the fences. +These men take their lives in their hands and look at grim death +between their horses' ears every time they race or "school". + +The death-record among Australian cross-country jockeys and horses +is very great; it is a curious instance of how custom sanctifies all things +that such horse-and-man slaughter is accepted in such a callous way. +If any theatre gave a show at which men and horses were habitually +crippled or killed in full sight of the audience, the manager would be +put on his trial for manslaughter. + +Our race-tracks use up their yearly average of horses and men +without attracting remark. One would suppose that the risk being so great +the profits were enormous; but they are not. In "the game" as played +on our racecourses there is just a bare living for a good capable horseman +while he lasts, with the certainty of an ugly smash if he keeps at it +long enough. + +And they don't need to keep at it very long. After a few good "shakings" +they begin to take a nip or two to put heart into them before they go out, +and after a while they have to increase the dose. At last they cannot +ride at all without a regular cargo of alcohol on board, and are either +"half-muzzy" or shaky according as they have taken too much or too little. + +Then the game becomes suicidal; it is an axiom that as soon as a man +begins to funk he begins to fall. The reason is that a rider who has +lost his nerve is afraid of his horse making a mistake, and takes a pull, +or urges him onward, just at the crucial moment when the horse is rattling +up to his fence and judging his distance. That little, nervous pull +at his head or that little touch of the spur, takes his attention +from the fence, with the result that he makes his spring a foot too far off +or a foot too close in, and -- smash! + +The loafers who hang about the big fences rush up to see if the jockey +is killed or stunned; if he is, they dispose of any jewellery he may have +about him; they have been known almost to tear a finger off in their +endeavours to secure a ring. The ambulance clatters up at a canter, +the poor rider is pushed in out of sight, and the ladies in the stand +say how unlucky they are -- that brute of a horse falling +after they backed him. A wolfish-eyed man in the Leger-stand shouts +to a wolfish-eyed pal, "Bill, I believe that jock was killed +when the chestnut fell," and Bill replies, "Yes, damn him, +I had five bob on him." And the rider, gasping like a crushed chicken, +is carried into the casualty-room and laid on a little stretcher, +while outside the window the bookmakers are roaring "Four to one bar one," +and the racing is going on merrily as ever. + +These remarks serve to introduce one of the fraternity +who may be considered as typical of all. He was a small, wiry, +hard-featured fellow, the son of a stockman on a big cattle-station, +and began life as a horse-breaker; he was naturally a horseman, +able and willing to ride anything that could carry him. +He left the station to go with cattle on the road, and having picked up +a horse that showed pace, amused himself by jumping over fences. +Then he went to Wagga, entered the horse in a steeplechase, +rode him himself, won handsomely, sold the horse at a good price +to a Sydney buyer, and went down to ride it in his Sydney races. + +In Sydney he did very well; he got a name as a fearless and clever rider, +and was offered several mounts on fine animals. So he pitched his camp +in Sydney, and became a fully-enrolled member of the worst profession +in the world. I had known him in the old days on the road, and when +I met him on the course one day I enquired how he liked the new life. + +"Well, it's a livin'," he said, "but it's no great shakes. They don't give +steeplechase-riders a chance in Sydney. There's very few races, +and the big sweepstakes keep horses out of the game." + +"Do you get a fair share of the riding?" I asked. + +"Oh, yes; I get as much as anybody. But there's a lot of 'em got a notion +I won't take hold of a horse when I'm told (i.e., pull him +to prevent him winning). Some of these days I'll take hold of a horse +when they don't expect it." + +I smiled as I thought there was probably a sorry day in store +for some backer when the jockey "took hold" unexpectedly. + +"Do you have to pull horses, then, to get employment?" + +"Oh, well, it's this way," he said, rather apologetically, "if an owner +is badly treated by the handicapper, and is just giving his horse a run +to get weight off, then it's right enough to catch hold a bit. +But when a horse is favourite and the public are backing him +it isn't right to take hold of him then. _I_ would not do it." +This was his whole code of morals -- not to pull a favourite; +and he felt himself very superior to the scoundrel who would pull +favourites or outsiders indiscriminately. + +"What do you get for riding?" I asked him. + +"Well," he said, looking about uneasily, "we're supposed to get +a fiver for a losing mount and ten pounds if we win, but a lot +of the steeplechase-owners are what I call `battlers' -- +men who have no money and get along by owing everybody. They promise us +all sorts of money if we win, but they don't pay if we lose. +I only got two pounds for that last steeplechase." + +"Two pounds!" I made a rapid calculation. He had ridden over +eighteen fences for two pounds -- had chanced his life eighteen times +at less than half-a-crown a time. + +"Good Heavens!" I said, "that's a poor game. Wouldn't you be better +back on the station?" + +"Oh, I don't know -- sometimes we get laid a bit to nothing, +and do well out of a race. And then, you know, a steeplechase rider +is somebody -- not like an ordinary fellow that is just working." + +I realised that I was an "ordinary fellow who was just working", +and felt small accordingly. + +"I'm just off to weigh now," he said -- "I'm riding Contractor, +and he'll run well, but he always seems to fall at those logs. Still, +I ought to have luck to-day. I met a hearse as I was coming out. +I'll get him over the fences, somehow." + +"Do you think it lucky, then, to meet a hearse?" + +"Oh, yes," he said, "if you MEET it. You mustn't overtake it -- +that's unlucky. So is a cross-eyed man unlucky. Cross-eyed men +ought to be kept off racecourses." + +He reappeared clad in his racing rig, and we set off to see +the horse saddled. We found the owner in a great state of excitement. +It seemed he had no money -- absolutely none whatever -- but had borrowed +enough to pay the sweepstakes, and stood to make something if the horse won +and lose nothing if he lost, as he had nothing to lose. My friend insisted +on being paid two pounds before he would mount, and the owner +nearly had a fit in his efforts to persuade him to ride on credit. +At last a backer of the horse agreed to pay 2 pounds 10s., win or lose, +and the rider was to get 25 pounds out of the prize if he won. +So up he got; and as he and the others walked the big muscular horses +round the ring, nodding gaily to friends in the crowd, I thought of +the gladiators going out to fight in the arena with the cry of +"Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute thee!" + +The story of the race is soon told. My friend went to the front +at the start and led nearly all the way, and "Contractor!" was on +every one's lips as the big horse sailed along in front of his field. +He came at the log-fence full of running, and it looked certain +that he would get over. But at the last stride he seemed to falter, +then plunged right into the fence, striking it with his chest, and, +turning right over, landed on his unfortunate rider. + +A crowd clustered round and hid horse and rider from view, +and I ran down to the casualty-room to meet him when the ambulance came in. +The limp form was carefully taken out and laid on a stretcher +while a doctor examined the crushed ribs, the broken arm, and all the havoc +that the horse's huge weight had wrought. + +There was no hope from the first. My poor friend, who had so often +faced Death for two pounds, lay very still awhile. Then he began to talk, +wandering in his mind, "Where are the cattle?" -- his mind evidently +going back to the old days on the road. Then, quickly, "Look out there -- +give me room!" and again "Five-and-twenty pounds, Mary, and a sure thing +if he don't fall at the logs." + +Mary was sobbing beside the bed, cursing the fence and the money +that had brought him to grief. At last, in a tone of satisfaction, +he said, quite clear and loud: "I know how it was -- +THERE COULDN'T HAVE BEEN ANY DEAD MAN IN THAT HEARSE!" + +And so, having solved the mystery to his own satisfaction, he drifted away +into unconsciousness -- and woke somewhere on the other side +of the big fence that we can neither see through nor over, +but all have to face sooner or later. + + + + +Victor Second + + + +We were training two horses for the Buckatowndown races -- +an old grey warrior called Tricolor -- better known to the station boys +as The Trickler -- and a mare for the hack race. Station horses +don't get trained quite like Carbine; some days we had no time +to give them gallops at all, so they had to gallop twice as far +the next day to make up. + +One day the boy we had looking after The Trickler fell in with +a mob of sharps who told him we didn't know anything about training horses, +and that what the horse really wanted was "a twicer" -- that is to say, +a gallop twice round the course. So the boy gave him "a twicer" +on his own responsibility. When we found out about it we gave the boy +a twicer with the strap, and he left and took out a summons against us. +But somehow or other we managed to get the old horse pretty fit, +tried him against hacks of different descriptions, and persuaded ourselves +that we had the biggest certainty ever known on a racecourse. + +When the horses were galloping in the morning the kangaroo-dog, Victor, +nearly always went down to the course to run round with them. +It amused him, apparently, and didn't hurt anyone, so we used +to let him race; in fact, we rather encouraged him, because it kept him +in good trim to hunt kangaroo. When we were starting for the meeting, +someone said we had better tie up Victor or he would be getting stolen +at the races. We called and whistled, but he had made himself scarce, +so we started and forgot all about him. + +Buckatowndown Races. Red-hot day, everything dusty, everybody drunk +and blasphemous. All the betting at Buckatowndown was double-event -- +you had to win the money first, and fight the man for it afterwards. + +The start for our race, the Town Plate, was delayed for +a quarter of an hour because the starter flatly refused to leave a fight +of which he was an interested spectator. Every horse, +as he did his preliminary gallop, had a string of dogs after him, +and the clerk of the course came full cry after the dogs with a whip. + +By and by the horses strung across to the start at the far side +of the course. They fiddled about for a bit; then down went the flag +and they came sweeping along all bunched up together, one holding +a nice position on the inside. All of a sudden we heard a wild chorus +of imprecations -- "Look at that dog!" Victor had chipped in with +the racehorses, and was running right in front of the field. +It looked a guinea to a gooseberry that some of them would fall on him. + +The owners danced and swore. What did we mean by bringing +a something mongrel there to trip up and kill horses that were worth +a paddockful of all the horses we had ever owned, or would ever +breed or own, even if we lived to be a thousand. We were fairly in it +and no mistake. + +As the field came past the stand the first time we could hear the riders +swearing at our dog, and a wild yell of execration arose from the public. +He had got right among the ruck by this time, and was racing alongside +his friend The Trickler, thoroughly enjoying himself. After passing +the stand the pace became very merry; the dog stretched out all he knew; +when they began to make it too hot for him, he cut off corners, +and joined at odd intervals, and every time he made a fresh appearance +the people in the stand lifted up their voices and "swore cruel". + +The horses were all at the whip as they turned into the straight, +and then The Trickler and the publican's mare singled out. +We could hear the "chop, chop!" of the whips as they came along together, +but the mare could not suffer it as long as the old fellow, +and she swerved off while he struggled home a winner by a length or so. +Just as they settled down to finish Victor dashed up on the inside, +and passed the post at old Trickler's girths. The populace +immediately went for him with stones, bottles, and other missiles, +and he had to scratch gravel to save his life. But imagine the amazement +of the other owners when the judge placed Trickler first, Victor second, +and the publican's mare third! + +The publican tried to argue it out with him. He said you couldn't place +a kangaroo-dog second in a horse-race. + +The judge said it was HIS (hiccough) business what he placed, +and that those who (hiccough) interfered with him would be sorry for it. +Also he expressed a (garnished) opinion that the publican's mare +was no rotten good, and that she was the right sort of mare +for a poor man to own, because she would keep him poor. + +Then the publican called the judge a cow. The judge was willing; +a rip, tear, and chew fight ensued, which lasted some time. The judge won. + +Fifteen protests were lodged against our win, but we didn't +worry about that -- we had laid the stewards a bit to nothing. +Every second man we met wanted to run us a mile for 100 pounds a side; +and a drunken shearer, spoiling for a fight, said he had heard we were +"brimming over with bally science", and had ridden forty miles to find out. + +We didn't wait for the hack race. We folded our tents like the Arab +and stole away. But it remains on the annals of Buckatowndown +how a kangaroo-dog ran second for the Town Plate. + + + + +Concerning a Dog-fight + + + +Dog-fighting as a sport is not much in vogue now-a-days. To begin with +it is illegal. Not that THAT matters much, for Sunday drinking +is also illegal. But dog-fighting is one of the cruel sports which +the community has decided to put down with all the force of public opinion. +Nevertheless, a certain amount of it is still carried on near Sydney, +and very neatly and scientifically carried on, too -- principally by +gentlemen who live out Botany way and do not care for public opinion. + +The grey dawn was just breaking over Botany when we got to +the meeting-place. Away to the East the stars were paling +in the faint flush of coming dawn, and over the sandhills came +the boom of breakers. It was Sunday morning, and all the respectable, +non-dog-fighting population of that odoriferous suburb were sleeping +their heavy, Sunday-morning sleep. Some few people, however, were astir. +In the dim light hurried pedestrians plodded along the heavy road +towards the sandhills. Now and then a van, laden with ten or eleven of +"the talent", and drawn by a horse that cost fifteen shillings at auction, +rolled softly along in the same direction. These were dog-fighters who +had got "the office", and knew exactly where the match was to take place. + +The "meet" was on a main road, about half-a-mile from town; +here some two hundred people had assembled, and hung up +their horses and vehicles to the fence without the slightest concealment. +They said the police would not interfere with them -- and they did not seem +a nice crowd to interfere with. + +One dog was on the ground when we arrived, having come out +in a hansom cab with his trainer. He was a white bull-terrier, +weighing about forty pounds, "trained to the hour", +with the muscles standing out all over him. He waited in the cab, +licking his trainer's face at intervals to reassure that individual of +his protection and support; the rest of the time he glowered out of the cab +and eyed the public scornfully. He knew as well as any human being +that there was sport afoot, and looked about eagerly and wickedly +to see what he could get his teeth into. + +Soon a messenger came running up to know whether they meant +to sit in the cab till the police came; the other dog, he said, +had arrived and all was ready. The trainer and dog got out of the cab; +we followed them through a fence and over a rise -- and there, +about twenty yards from the main road, was a neatly-pitched enclosure +like a prize-ring, a thirty-foot-square enclosure formed with +stakes and ropes. About a hundred people were at the ringside, +and in the far corner, in the arms of his trainer, was the other dog -- +a brindle. + +It was wonderful to see the two dogs when they caught sight of each other. +The white dog came up to the ring straining at his leash, nearly dragging +his trainer off his feet in his efforts to get at the enemy. +At intervals he emitted a hoarse roar of challenge and defiance. + +The brindled dog never uttered a sound. He fixed his eyes on his adversary +with a look of intense hunger, of absolute yearning for combat. +He never for an instant shifted his unwinking gaze. +He seemed like an animal who saw the hopes of years about to be realised. +With painful earnestness he watched every detail of the other dog's toilet; +and while the white dog was making fierce efforts to get at him, +he stood Napoleonic, grand in his courage, waiting for the fray. + +All details were carefully attended to, and all rules strictly observed. +People may think a dog-fight is a go-as-you-please outbreak of lawlessness, +but there are rules and regulations -- simple, but effective. There were +two umpires, a referee, a timekeeper, and two seconds for each dog. +The stakes were said to be ten pounds a-side. After some talk, +the dogs were carried to the centre of the ring by their seconds and put +on the ground. Like a flash of lightning they dashed at each other, +and the fight began. + +Nearly everyone has seen dogs fight -- "it is their nature to", +as Dr. Watts put it. But an ordinary worry between (say) a retriever +and a collie, terminating as soon as one or other gets his ear bitten, +gives a very faint idea of a real dog-fight. But bull-terriers +are the gladiators of the canine race. Bred and trained to fight, +carefully exercised and dieted for weeks beforehand, they come to the fray +exulting in their strength and determined to win. Each is trained to fight +for certain holds, a grip of the ear or the back of the neck +being of very slight importance. The foot is a favourite hold, +the throat is, of course, fashionable -- if they can get it. + +The white and the brindle sparred and wrestled and gripped and threw +each other, fighting grimly, and disdaining to utter a sound. +Their seconds dodged round them unceasingly, giving them encouragement +and advice -- "That's the style, Boxer -- fight for his foot" -- +"Draw your foot back, old man," and so on. Now and again one dog +got a grip of the other's foot and chewed savagely, and the spectators +danced with excitement. The moment the dogs let each other go +they were snatched up by their seconds and carried to their corners, +and a minute's time was allowed, in which their mouths were washed out +and a cloth rubbed over their bodies. + +Then came the ceremony of "coming to scratch". When time was called +for the second round the brindled dog was let loose in his own corner, +and was required by the rules to go across the ring of his own free will +and attack the other dog. If he failed to do this he would lose the fight. +The white dog, meanwhile, was held in his corner waiting the attack. +After the next round it was the white dog's turn to make the attack, +and so on alternately. The animals need not fight a moment longer +than they chose, as either dog could abandon the fight by failing to attack +his enemy. + +While their condition lasted they used to dash across the ring at full run; +but, after a while, when the punishment got severe and their "fitness" +began to fail, it became a very exciting question whether or not a dog +would "come to scratch". The brindled dog's condition was not so good +as the other's. He used to lie on his stomach between the rounds to +rest himself, and several times it looked as if he would not cross the ring +when his turn came. But as soon as time was called he would +start to his feet and limp slowly across glaring steadily at his adversary; +then, as he got nearer, he would quicken his pace, make a savage rush, +and in a moment they would be locked in combat. So they battled on +for fifty-six minutes, till the white dog (who was apparently having +all the best of it), on being called to cross the ring, +only went half-way across and stood there for a minute growling savagely. +So he lost the fight. + +No doubt it was a brutal exhibition. But it was not cruel to the animals +in the same sense that pigeon-shooting or hare-hunting is cruel. +The dogs are born fighters, anxious and eager to fight, +desiring nothing better. Whatever limited intelligence they have +is all directed to this one consuming passion. They could stop +when they liked, but anyone looking on could see that they gloried +in the combat. Fighting is like breath to them -- they must have it. +Nature has implanted in all animals a fighting instinct +for the weeding out of the physically unfit, and these dogs have +an extra share of that fighting instinct. + +Of course, now that militarism is going to be abolished, and the world +is going to be so good and teetotal, and only fight in debating societies, +these nasty savage animals will be out of date. We will not be allowed +to keep anything more quarrelsome than a poodle -- and a man of the future, +the New Man, whose fighting instincts have not been quite bred out of him, +will, perhaps, be found at grey dawn of a Sunday morning +with a crowd of other unregenerates in some backyard +frantically cheering two of them to mortal combat. + + + + +His Masterpiece + + + +Greenhide Billy was a stockman on a Clarence River cattle-station, +and admittedly the biggest liar in the district. He had been +for many years pioneering in the Northern Territory, the other side +of the sun-down -- a regular "furthest-out man" -- and this assured +his reputation among station-hands who award rank according to +amount of experience. + +Young men who have always hung around the home districts, doing a job +of shearing here or a turn at horse-breaking there, look with reverence +on Riverine or Macquarie-River shearers who come in with tales of runs +where they have 300,000 acres of freehold land and shear 250,000 sheep; +these again pale their ineffectual fires before the glory of +the Northern Territory man who has all-comers on toast, because no one +can contradict him or check his figures. When two of them meet, however, +they are not fools enough to cut down quotations and spoil the market; +they lie in support of each other, and make all other bushmen feel +mean and pitiful and inexperienced. + +Sometimes a youngster would timidly ask Greenhide Billy about +the `terra incognita': "What sort of a place is it, Billy -- how big +are the properties? How many acres had you in the place you were on?" + +"Acres be d----d!" Billy would scornfully reply; "hear him +talking about acres! D'ye think we were blanked cockatoo selectors! +Out there we reckon country by the hundred miles. You orter say, +`How many thousand miles of country?' and then I'd understand you." + +Furthermore, according to Billy, they reckoned the rainfall +in the Territory by yards, not inches. He had seen blackfellows +who could jump at least three inches higher than anyone else had ever seen +a blackfellow jump, and every bushman has seen or personally known +a blackfellow who could jump over six feet. Billy had seen +bigger droughts, better country, fatter cattle, faster horses, +and cleverer dogs, than any other man on the Clarence River. +But one night when the rain was on the roof, and the river was rising +with a moaning sound, and the men were gathered round the fire in the hut +smoking and staring at the coals, Billy turned himself loose and gave us +his masterpiece. + +"I was drovin' with cattle from Mungrybanbone to old Corlett's station +on the Buckadowntown River" (Billy always started his stories +with some paralysing bush names). "We had a thousand head of store-cattle, +wild, mountain-bred wretches that'd charge you on sight; +they were that handy with their horns they could skewer a mosquito. +There was one or two one-eyed cattle among 'em -- and you know how +a one-eyed beast always keeps movin' away from the mob, +pokin' away out to the edge of them so as they won't git on his blind side, +so that by stirrin' about he keeps the others restless. + +"They had been scared once or twice, and stampeded and gave us +all we could do to keep them together; and it was wet and dark +and thundering, and it looked like a real bad night for us. +It was my watch. I was on one side of the cattle, like it might be here, +with a small bit of a fire; and my mate, Barcoo Jim, he was right opposite +on the other side of the cattle, and had gone to sleep under a log. +The rest of the men were in the camp fast asleep. Every now and again +I'd get on my horse and prowl round the cattle quiet like, +and they seemed to be settled down all right, and I was sitting by my fire +holding my horse and drowsing, when all of a sudden a blessed 'possum +ran out from some saplings and scratched up a tree right alongside me. +I was half-asleep, I suppose, and was startled; anyhow, never thinking +what I was doing, I picked up a firestick out of the fire and flung it +at the 'possum. + +"Whoop! Before you could say Jack Robertson, that thousand head of cattle +were on their feet, and made one wild, headlong, mad rush right over +the place where poor old Barcoo Jim was sleeping. There was no time +to hunt up materials for the inquest; I had to keep those cattle together, +so I sprang into the saddle, dashed the spurs into the old horse, +dropped my head on his mane, and sent him as hard as he could leg it +through the scrub to get to the lead of the cattle and steady them. +It was brigalow, and you know what that is. + +"You know how the brigalow grows," continued Bill; "saplings about as thick +as a man's arm, and that close together a dog can't open his mouth +to bark in 'em. Well, those cattle swept through that scrub, levelling it +like as if it had been cleared for a railway line. They cleared a track +a quarter of a mile wide, and smashed every stick, stump and sapling on it. +You could hear them roaring and their hoofs thundering +and the scrub smashing three or four miles off. + +"And where was I? I was racing parallel with the cattle, with my head down +on the horse's neck, letting him pick his way through the scrub +in the pitchy darkness. This went on for about four miles. +Then the cattle began to get winded, and I dug into the old stock-horse +with the spurs, and got in front, and began to crack the whip and sing out, +so as to steady them a little; after awhile they dropped slower and slower, +and I kept the whip going. I got them all together in a patch of +open country, and there I rode round and round 'em all night till daylight. + +"And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; +for a man couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark. +The cattle were all knocked about -- horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; +but they were all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as +the daylight broke I took 'em back to the camp -- that is, +all that could travel, because I had to leave a few broken-legged ones." + +Billy paused in his narrative. He knew that some suggestions would +be made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, +and he prepared himself accordingly. His motto was "No surrender"; +he never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark +on them, he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out +the intruder. + +"That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy," +said one of the men at last, admiringly. "It's a wonder you wasn't killed. +I suppose your clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?" + +"Never touched a twig," said Billy. + +"Ah!" faltered the inquirer, "then no doubt you had a real +ringin' good stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that +full-split in the dark, and not hit you against anything." + +"No, he wasn't a good un," said Billy decisively, "he was the worst horse +in the camp. Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' down +on his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on him +and pull his ears." + +Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best. After a pause +another took up the running. + +"How did your mate get on, Billy? I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!" + +"No," said Billy, "he wasn't hurt a bit. I told you he was sleeping +under the shelter of a log. Well, when those cattle rushed +they swept over that log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd +took the log in his stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy +by about four inches." + +The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well +into their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try. + +"It's a wonder then, Billy," he said, "that your mate didn't come after you +and give you a hand to steady the cattle." + +"Well, perhaps it was," said Billy, "only that there was a bigger wonder +than that at the back of it." + +"What was that?" + +"My mate never woke up all through it." + +Then the men knocked the ashes out of their pipes and went to bed. + + + + +Done for the Double + +by Knott Gold +Author of "Flogged for a Furlong", "Won by a Winker", etc., etc. + + + +Chapter I. -- Wanted, a Pony + + +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy beyond +the dreams of avarice. Other merchants might dress more lavishly, +and wear larger watch chains; but the bank balance is the true test +of mercantile superiority, and in a trial of bank balances +Algernon de Montgomery Smythers represented Tyson at seven stone. +He was unbeatable. + +He lived in comfort, not to say luxury. He had champagne +for breakfast every morning, and his wife always slept with a pair +of diamond earrings worth a small fortune in her ears. +It is things like these that show true gentility. + +Though they had been married many years, the A. de M. Smythers +had but one child -- a son and heir. No Christmas Day was allowed to pass +by his doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle +worth about 150 pounds, less the discount for cash. He had six play-rooms, +all filled with the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices. +He had a phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, +and a mechanical parrot that sang "The Wearing of the Green". +And still he was not happy. + +Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses +and six under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about +with the little boys he met there. One day he gave one of them a sovereign +for a locust. Certainly the locust was a "double-drummer", +and could deafen the German Band when shaken up judiciously; +still, it was dear at a sovereign. + +It is ever thus. + +What we have we do not value, and what other people have +we are not strong enough to take from them. + +Such is life. + +Christmas was approaching, and the question of Algy's Christmas present +agitated the bosom of his parents. He already had nearly everything +a child could want; but one morning a bright inspiration +struck Algy's father. Algy should have a pony. + +With Mr. Smythers to think was to act. He was not a man +who believed in allowing grass to grow under his feet. His motto was, +"Up and be doing -- somebody." So he put an advertisement in the paper +that same day. + +"Wanted, a boy's pony. Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, +intelligent. Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, +and motor 'buses. Any failure in above respects will disqualify. +Certificate of birth required as well as references from last place. +Price no object." + + +Chapter II. -- Blinky Bill's Sacrifice + + +Down in a poverty-stricken part of the city lived Blinky Bill, +the horse-dealer. + +His yard was surrounded by loose-boxes made of any old timber, +galvanized iron, sheets of roofing-felt, and bark he could gather together. + +He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts. There were harness horses, +that wouldn't pull, and saddle horses that wouldn't go -- or, if they went, +used to fall down. Nearly every animal about the place had something +the matter with it. + +When the bailiff dropped in, as he did every two or three weeks, +Bill and he would go out together, and "have a punt" on some of +Bill's ponies, or on somebody else's ponies -- the latter for choice. +But periodical punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf +from the door. Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not +and Blinky Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation +when he saw the advertisement mentioned at the end of last chapter. + +It was like a ray of hope to him. At once there flashed upon him +what he must do. + +He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II. + +Sausage II. was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day. +Time and again he had gone out to race when, to use William's own words, +it was a blue duck for Bill's chance of keeping afloat; and every time +did the gallant race pony pull his owner through. + +Bill owed more to Sausage II. than he owed to his creditors. + +Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy. +He would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, +it was quite a common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky +to a country meeting and look about him for a likely "mark". +If he could find a fleet youth with a reputedly fast pony, +Bill would offer to "pull the little cuddy out of the sulky +and run yer for a fiver." Sometimes he got beaten; but as he never paid, +that didn't matter. He did not believe in fighting; but he would always +sooner fight than pay. + +But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end. +He had no feed for his ponies, and no money to buy it; the corn merchant +had written his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse. +Under the circumstances, what was he to do? Sausage II. must be sold. + +With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected. +He saw Mr. Algernon de Montgomery Smythers, and measured him with his eye. +He saw it would be no use to talk about racing to him, +so he went on the other track. + +He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, +who used to drive him in a "shay". There are no shays in this country; +but Bill had read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable. +"Yus, sir," he said, "'e goes lovely in a shay," and he was +just starting off at twenty words a second, when he was stopped. + +Mr. A. de M. Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this +he made a mistake. Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, +and disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk. + +"If you want to sell this pony, dry up," he said. "I don't believe +a word you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying." + +Fatal mistake! You should never stop a horse-dealer's talk. +And call him anything you like, but never say you doubt his word. + +Both these things Mr. Smythers did; and, though he bought the pony +at a high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill. + +As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered +to himself, "Ha! ha! Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II., +the greatest 13.2 pony of the century. Let him beware how he gets +alongside anything. That's all! Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!" + + +Chapter III. -- Exit Algy + + +Christmas Day came. Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled, +and led round to the front door. Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers, +spent the morning superintending the dinner. Dinner was the +principal event in the day with her. Alas, poor lady! Everything she ate +agreed with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter. + +The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those +who are fat -- the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, +the long, miserable walks. Well has one of our greatest poets written, +"Take up the fat man's burden." But we digress. + +When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute +was riding him up and down the front drive. Then he asked for leave +to go out in the street -- and that was where the trouble began. + +Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, +till suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses. +With a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past. In half a second +there was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air. +Sausage II. was off after them with his precious burden. + +The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead +for about three strides. Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, +he was left yelping far behind. Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept +the flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, +while the ground seemed to race beneath him. The events of the way +were just one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow +into the yard of Blinky Bill. + + +Chapter IV. -- Running the Rule + + +As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted. + +"You here," he said, "Ha, ha, revenge is mine! I'll get a tidy reward +for taking you back, my young shaver." + +Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three sovereigns. +These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he was +going home again. He expected to get at least a tenner ready money for +bringing Algy back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the watch +into the bargain. + +With a light heart he went down town with Algy's watch and sovereigns +in his pocket. He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife +with bad news. + +"Can't give the boy up," he said. "I moskenoed his block and tackle, +and blued it in the school." In other words, he had pawned the boy's +watch and chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss. + +"Nothing for it but to move," he said, "and take the kid with us." + +So move they did. + +The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother +of little Algy sought for their lost one. They put the matter into +the hands of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses +of the force to get in their fine work. There was nothing doing. + +Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy +was yet unsolved. The horse-dealer's revenge was complete. + +The boy's mother consulted a clairvoyant, who murmured mystically +"What went by the ponies, will come by the ponies;" and with that +they had to remain satisfied. + + +Chapter V. -- The Tricks of the Turf + + +It was race day at Pulling'em Park, and the ponies were doing +their usual performances. + +Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond earrings. +Does the reader recognize her? It is little Algy's mother. +Her husband is dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, +and, having developed a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in +"doing it in on the ponies". She is one of the biggest bettors +in the game. + +When women take to betting they are worse than men. + +But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings. +She remembers the clairvoyant's "What went by the ponies will come +by the ponies." And always she searches in the ranks of the talent +for her lost Algy. + +Here enters another of our dramatis personae -- Blinky Bill, +prosperous once more. He has got a string of ponies and punters together. +The first are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of +all temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters +the mother of the child he stole. But the poor lady regularly punts +on his ponies, and just as regularly is "sent up" -- in other words, +loses her money. + +To-day she has backed Blinky's pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the double. +Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, +can win the second half of the double. Is he on the job? +The prices are lengthening against him, and the poor lady recognises +that once more she is "in the cart". + +Just then she meets Tin Can's jockey, Dodger Smith, face to face. +A piercing scream rends the atmosphere, as if a thousand school children +drew a thousand slate pencils down a thousand slates simultaneously. +"Me cheild! Me cheild! Me long-lost Algy!" + +It did not take long to convince Algy that he would be better off as a son +to a wealthy lady than as a jockey, subject to the fiendish caprices +of Blinky Bill. + +"All right, mother," he said. "Put all you can raise on Tin Can. +I'm going to send Blinky up. It's time I had a cut on me own, anyway." + +The horses went to the post. Tons of money were at the last moment +hurled on to Tin Can. The books, knowing he was "dead", +responded gamely, and wrote his name till their wrists gave out. +Blinky Bill had a half-share in all the bookies' winnings, +so he chuckled grimly as he went to the rails to watch the race. + +They're off. And what is this that flashes to the front, +while the howls of the bookies rise like the yelping of fiends in torment? +It is Dodger Smith on Tin Can, and from the grandstand there is +a shrill feminine yell of triumph as the gallant pony sails past the post. + +The bookies thought that Blinky Bill had sold them, +and they discarded him for ever. + +Algy and his mother were united, and backed horses together +happily ever after, and sometimes out in the back yard of +their palatial mansion they hand the empty bottles, free of charge, +to a poor old broken-down bottle-O, called Blinky Bill. + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Three Elephant Power and Other Stories + + + + diff --git a/old/3elph10.zip b/old/3elph10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..09fe673 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/3elph10.zip |