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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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