Such Is Life (51 page)

“No, I'm dashed if I do! I'm no hand at directing; but, by gosh, you're all there at understanding.”

“Jack,” said I, turning to the primeval t'other-sider—“can you direct me to Nosey Alf's?”

“I'll try,” replied the veteran; and he slowly drew a diagram, true to the points of the compass. “'Ere's the Red Gate—mind you shet it—then along 'ere, arf a mile. Through this gate—an' mind 'ow you leave 'er, f'r the wire hinclines to slip hover. Then straight along 'ere, through the pine-ridge, f'm hend to hend. You're hon the Nalrookar track, mind, t' wot time you see a gate hin the fence as you're a-kerryin' hon yer right shoulder. Gate's sebm mile f'm ‘ere. Nalrookar track goes through that gate; b't neb' you mind; you keep straight ahead pas' the gate, hon a pad you'll 'ar'ly see; han jist hat the fur hend o' the pine-ridge you'll strike hanuther gate; an' you mus' be very p'tic'lar shettin' 'er. Then take a hangle o' fo'ty-five, with the pine-ridge hon yer back; an' hin fo' mile you'll strike yer las' gate—'ere, hin the co'ner. Take this fence hon yer right shoulder, an' run 'er down. B't you'll spot Half's place, fur ahead, w'en you git to the gate, ef it ain't night.”

“Thank you, Jack,” I replied, and then imprudently continued—“It would suit some of these young pups to take a lesson from you.”

“You hain't fur wrong,” replied the good old chronicle, that had so long walked hand in hand with Time, “Las' year, hit war hall the cry, ‘Ole hon t' we gits a holt o' Cunnigam's mongreals!'—‘Ole hon t' we gits a holt o' Thompson's mongreals!'—‘We'll make hit 'ot f'r 'em!' Han wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy!' ses Hi—‘w'e's y' proofs?' ‘Proof be dam!' ses they—‘don't we know?' They know a 'ell of a lot! Has the sayin' his:—‘Onct boys was boys, an' men was men; but now boys his men, an' men ‘s”— (I didn't catch the rest of the sentence). “Han what were the hupshot? W'y, fact was Cunnigam an' Thompson 'ad bin workin' hon hour ram-paddick wun night; an' six Wogger steers got away, an' a stag amongst 'em; makin' f'r home; an' they left a whaler mindin' the wagons; an' the two o' them hover'auled the steers way down hin hour Sedan Paddick. Well, heverybody—Muster Magomery his self, no less—heverybody ses, ‘Ole hon t' we gits a holt of 'em fellers' mongreals!—bin leavin' three o' hour gates hopen; an' the yowes an' weaners is boxed; an' puttin a file through Nosey Half's 'oss-paddick, an' workin' hon it with 'er steers!' ‘Stiddy!' ses Hi—'w'e's y'r proofs?' Way it war, Collings; 'ere come a dose o' raro
jis' harter, an' yer couldn't track. Well, wot war the hupshot? W'y, Warrigal Half war hunloadin' hat Boottara; an' a yaller bullick 'e 'd got, Pilot by name”—

“Yes,” I gently interposed. “Well, I'll have to be”—

“'Is Pilot starts by night f'm Boottara ration-paddick, an' does 'is thirty mile to hour 'oss-paddick; an' the hull menagerie tailin'harter. ‘Shove 'em in 'e yaad, Toby,' ses Muster Magomery. Presinkly, up comes Half, an' 'is 'oss hall of a lather. ‘Take yer demmongreals,' ses Muster Magomery; ‘an' don' hoversleep y'self agin.' Think Half war goin' ter flog 'is hanimals thirty mile back? Not 'im”—

“It would hardly be right,” I agreed. “Well, I must be jogging”—

“Not 'im,” pursued Jack. “'E turns horf o' the main track t' other side the ram-paddick; through the Patagoniar; leaves hall gates hopen; fetches Nosey's place harter dark; houts file, an' hin with 'is mob, an' gives 'm a g—tful. Course, 'e clears befo' mo'nin'; an' through hour Sedan Paddick, an' back to Boottara that road. 'Ow do Hi know hall this?—ses you?”

“Ah!” said I wisely. “Well, I must be”—

“No; you're in for it,” chuckled Moriarty.

“Tole me 'is hown self, not three weeks agone. Camped hat hour ram-paddick, shiftin' Stewart's things to Queensland. An' wot war the hupshot? ‘Stiddy, now,' ses Hi—'w'e's y' proofs?' ‘Some o' these young pups horter take a lessing horf o' you, Jack,' ses you, jist now. You're right, Collings. Did n' Hi say, las' lamb in'—did n' Hi say we war a-gwain ter hev sich anuther year as sixty-hate? Mostly kettle wot we hed then, afore the wool rose; an' wild dogs bein' plentiful them times; an' we 'd a sort o' 'ead stock-keeper, name o' Bob Selkirk; an' this feller 'e started f'm 'ere withhate 'underd an' fo'ty sebm 'ead”—

“And he would have his work cut out for him,” I remarked, in cordial assent. “You've seen some changes on this station, Jack. Well, I must be going.”

Leaving the old fellow talking, I threw the reins over Cleopatra's head, and drew the near one a little the tightest. He stood motionless as a statue, and beautiful as a poet's dream.

“Wouldn't think that horse had a devil in him as big as a bulldog,” observed the horse-driver. “Shake the soul-bolt out of a man, s'posen you
do
stick to him.”

“And yet Collins can't ride worth a cuss,” contributed Moriarty confidentially, “He's just dropped to this fellow's style. Boss
wanted to see him on our Satan, but Collins knew a thundering sight better.”

A slight, loose-built lad, with a spur trailing at his right heel, advanced from the group.

“Would you mind lettin' me take the feather-edge off o' this feller?” he asked modestly. “If he slings me, you can git on-to him while he's warm, an' no harm done. I'd like to try that saddle,” he added, by way of excuse. “Minds me o' one I got shook, five months ago, with a red-headed galoot I'd bin treatin' like a brother, on account of him bein' fly-blowed, an' the both of us travellin' the same road. Best shape saddle I ever had a leg over, that was. Will I have a try?”

“Not worth while, Jack,” I replied. “He might prop a little, certainly; but it's only playfulness.” So I swung into the deep seat of the stolen saddle, and lightly touched the lotus-loving Memphian with both spurs.

First, a reeling, dancing, uncertain panorama of buildings, fences, and spectators; then a mechanical response to the surging, jerking, concussive saddle, and a guarded strain on the dragging reins. Also a tranquil cognisance of favourable comment, exchanged by competent judges—no excitement, no admiration, remember; not a trace of new-chum interest, but a certain dignified and judicious approbation, honourable alike to critic and artist. Fools admire, but men of wit approve.

“You see, it's—only playfulness—” I remarked indifferently; the words being punctuated by necessity, rather than by choice. “Magnificent, but—not war. There's not a—shadow of vice in his com—position. As the poet says:—

This is mere—madness,

And thus awhile the—fit will work—on him.

Anon as patient as the female—dove,

When that her—golden couplets have dis—closed,

His silence will—sit drooping.

There you are!” And Cleopatra stood still; slightly panting, it is true, but with lamb-like guilelessness in his madonna face.

Then, as the toilers of the station slowly dispersed to see about getting up an appetite for supper, Moriarty advanced, and laid both hands on Cleopatra's mane.

“Collins!” he exclaimed; “I'm better pleased than if I had won ten bob. What do you think?—that verse you quoted from Shakespear brought the question to my mind like a shot of a gun; the very question I wanted to ask you a couple of hours ago. I know it's been asked before; in fact, I met with it in an English magazine, where the writer uses the very words you quoted just now. I thought perhaps you had never met with the question, and it might interest you—Was Hamlet mad?”

Of some few amiable qualities with which it has pleased heaven to endow me beyond the majority of my fellows, a Marlborough-temper is by no means the least in importance. I looked down in the ingenuous face of the searcher after wisdom, quenching, like Malvolio, my familiar smile with an austere regard to control.

“
Semper felix
,” I observed hopelessly. “You're right in saying that the question has been asked before. It has been asked. But daylight in the morning is the right time to enter on that inquiry. For the present, we must leave the world-wearied prince to rest in his ancestral vault, where he was laid by the pious hands of Horatio and Fortinbras—where, each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of The Hamlet sleep.”

“Quotation—ain't it?” suggested Moriarty critically.

“No,” I sighed.

“Well then, I'm beggared if I can see anything in that sort of an answer,” remarked the young fellow resentfully.

“Dear boy,” I replied; “I never imagined that you could. I would you had but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. By-the-way—what is Jack's other name?”

“Which Jack? Old Jack, or Young Jack, or Jack the Shellback, or Fog-a-bolla Jack?”

“Young Jack; the chap that offered to ride Cleopatra.”

“Jack Frost.”

“Right. Good-bye. And remember our arrangement.”

“Good-bye, ole man. Depend your life on my straightness.”

Then I whistled to Pup, noticed that Bunyip hadn't got on the wrong side of the fence, and turned Cleopatra's head toward the Bogan.

G. P. R. James rightly remarks that nothing is more promotive of thought than the walking pace of a horse. We may add that nothing on earth can soothe and purify like the canter; nothing strengthen and exhilarate like the gallop. The trot is passed over with such contempt as it deserves. So, for the first mile I was soothed and purified; for the next half-mile I busied myself on a metaphysical problem; and so on for about five miles.

The metaphysical difficulty (if you care about knowing) arose in connection with the singular issue of that preposterous wager. Whence came such an elaborate dispensation? If from above, it
was plainly addressed to Moriarty, as a salutary check on his growing propensity; if from beneath, it must have been a last desperate attempt to decoy into evil ways one who was, perhaps, better worth enlisting than the average fat-head. To which of these sources would you trace the movement? Mind you, our grandfathers—to come no closer—would have piously taken the event on its face value of £50, as a blessing to the Prodistan, and a chastisement to the Papish. But we move. And, by my faith, we have need.

Presently I entered on the narrow pine-ridge; and now, carrying a line of fence on my right shoulder, I followed the pleasant track, winding through pine, wilga, needle-bush, quondong, and so forth. Two miles of this; then on my right appeared the white gate, through which ran the Nalrooka track. Up to this time, I had been following the route which a harsh usage of the country had interdicted to Priestley.

Montgomery and Folkestone, returning from their drive, had just come through this gate; the buggy, turned toward home, was on the track in front of me, and Montgomery was resuming his seat, after shutting the gate. The station mail-bag, loosely tied, was lying on the foot-board.

I had just done explaining where I was bound for, and on what business, and where I intended staying that night, when I nearly tumbled off my horse with a sort of white horror.

For straight behind the buggy, and less than eighty yards away, Priestley's fourteen-bullock team came crawling along the fence, with the evident purpose of catching the Nalrooka track at the gate. Priestley had chanced it. Knowing every gate on the run, he had merely gone round the ration-paddock, and had already made a seven-mile stage in ten miles' travelling—that is, losing three miles in the detour. Once through this gate, the track would be lovely; the wagon would chase the bullocks; evening would soon be on; he would fetch feed and water at the Faugh-a-ballagh Tank, in the quiet moonlight; moreover, if he met a boundary man, he could easily say he had permission from the boss; in any case, it would soon be not worth while to order him back; and he would be off the run some time to-morrow forenoon. I could read his thoughts as I looked at him across Montgomery's shoulder. Concealed from distant observation by the timber of the pine-ridge, he had dismissed all apprehension, and allowed his mind to drift to a bend of the Murrumbidgee, a couple of miles above Hay. There were his young barbarians all at play; there was their dacent mother; he,
their sire, looking blissfully forward to superhuman work, and plenty of it.

Straight into the lion's mouth! Heaven help—but does heaven help the Scotch-navigator. I question it. Half an hour's loafing, at any time during the day, would have timed his arrival so as not only to obviate the present danger, but to spare him the disquieting consciousness of narrow escape. And heaven helps those who help themselves.

He knew the gate was near; and, with the automatic restlessness of an impatient dog tied under a travelling dray, he walked back and forward, backward and forward beside his weary team; often looking back to see the wagon clear the trees, but never, by any chance, looking forward against the blaze of the declining sun intently enough to notice the back of the buggy, partly concealed, as it was, by an umbrageous wilga. As I watched him, I wished, with Balaam, that there were a sword in mine hand, that I might slay the ass.

I daren't ride past the buggy, for fear of Montgomery looking round to say something. I half-heard him tell me that the Sydney crew had won the regatta, and that Jupiter was starting a hot favourite for the Flemington. And all this time, the unconscious son of perdition was crawling nearer; not a jolt nor a click-clock came from his wagon as it pressed the yielding soil; and the faint creaking of the tackle was drowned in the rustle of a hot wind through the foliage.

“I'm sorry to see you starting so late in the day, and Saturday too,” continued the squatter courteously. “The barracks will be lively to-night over these sporting events.”