Books: On Our Selection
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Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) >> On Our Selection
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"Phwat's the thrubble?" cried Maloney. "Bit be a dif--adher? O, be the
tares of war!" Then he asked Dave numerous questions as to how it
happened, which Joe answered with promptitude and pride. Dave simply
shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. Nothing was to be
got out of him.
Maloney held a short consultation with himself. Then--"Hould up yer hand!"
he said, bending over Dave with a knife. Dave thrust out his arm
violently, knocked the instrument to the other side of the room, and
kicked wickedly.
"The pison's wurrkin'," whispered Maloney quite loud.
"Oh, my gracious!" groaned Mother.
"The poor crathur," said Mrs. Maloney.
There was a pause.
"Phwhat finger's bit?" asked Maloney. Joe thought it was the littlest one
of the lot.
He approached the sofa again, knife in hand.
"Show me yer finger," he said to Dave.
For the first time Dave spoke. He said:
"Damn y'--what the devil do y' want? Clear out and lea' me 'lone."
Maloney hesitated. There was a long silence. Dave commenced breathing
heavily.
"It's maikin' 'm slape," whispered Maloney, glancing over his shoulder at
the women.
"Don't let him! Don't let him!" Mother wailed.
"Salvation to 's all!" muttered Mrs. Maloney, piously crossing herself.
Maloney put away the knife and beckoned to his man, who was looking on
from the door. They both took a firm hold of Dave and stood him upon his
feet. He looked hard and contemptuously at Maloney for some seconds.
Then with gravity and deliberation Dave said: "Now wot 'n th' devil are
y' up t'? Are y' mad?"
"Walk 'm along, Jaimes--walk 'm--along," was all Maloney had to say. And
out into the yard they marched him. How Dave did struggle to get
away!--swearing and cursing Maloney for a cranky Irishman till he foamed
at the mouth, all of which the other put down to snake-poison. Round and
round the yard and up and down it they trotted him till long after dark,
until there was n't a struggle left in him.
They placed him on the sofa again, Maloney keeping him awake with a strap.
How Dave ground his teeth and kicked and swore whenever he felt that
strap! And they sat and watched him.
It was late in the night when Dad came from town. He staggered in with
the neck of a bottle showing out of his pocket. In his hand was a piece
of paper wrapped round the end of some yards of sausage. The dog outside
carried the other end.
"An' 'e ishn't dead?" Dad said, after hearing what had befallen Dave.
"Don' b'leevsh id--wuzhn't bit. Die 'fore shun'own ifsh desh ad'er
bish 'm."
"Bit!" Dave said bitterly, turning round to the surprise of everyone.
"I never said I was BIT. No one said I was--only those snivelling idiots
and that pumpkin-headed Irish pig there."
Maloney lowered his jaw and opened his eyes.
"Zhackly. Did'n' I (HIC) shayzo, 'Loney? Did'n' I, eh, ol' wom'n!" Dad
mumbled, and dropped his chin on his chest.
Maloney began to take another view of the matter. He put a leading
question to Joe.
"He MUSTER been bit," Joe answered, "'cuz he had the d-death adder in his
hand."
More silence.
"Mush die 'fore shun'own," Dad murmured.
Maloney was thinking hard. At last he spoke. "Bridgy!" he cried, "where's
th' childer?" Mrs. Maloney gathered them up.
Just then Dad seemed to be dreaming. He swayed about. His head hung
lower, and he muttered, "Shen'l'm'n, yoush disharged wish shanksh y'cun'ry."
The Maloneys left.
Dave is still alive and well, and silent as ever; and if any one question
is more intolerable and irritating to him than another, it is to be asked
if he remembers the time he was bitten by deaf-adder.
Chapter X.
Dad And The Donovans.
A sweltering summer's afternoon. A heat that curled and withered the very
weeds. The corn-blades drooping, sulking still. Mother and Sal ironing,
mopping their faces with a towel and telling each other how hot it was.
The dog stretched across the doorway. A child's bonnet on the floor--the
child out in the sun. Two horsemen approaching the slip-rails.
Dad had gone down the gully to Farmer, who had been sick for four days.
The ploughing was at a standstill in consequence, for we had only two
draught-horses. Dad erected a shelter over him, made of boughs, to keep
the sun off. Two or three times a day he cut greenstuff for him--which
the cows ate. He humped water to him which he sullenly refused to drink;
and did all in his power to persuade Farmer to get up and go on with the
ploughing. I don't know if Dad knew anything of mesmerism, but he used to
stand for long intervals dumbly staring the old horse full in the eyes
till in a commanding voice he would bid him, "Get up!" But Farmer lacked
the patriotism of the back-block poets. He was obdurate, and not once did
he "awake," not to mention "arise".
This afternoon, as Dad approached his dumb patient, he suddenly put down
the bucket of water which he was carrying and ran, shouting angrily. A
flock of crows flew away from Farmer and "cawed" from a tree close by.
Dad was excited, and when he saw that one of the animal's eyes was gone
and a stream of blood trickled over its nose he sat down and hid his face
in his big rough hands.
"CAW, CAW!" came from the tree.
Dad rose and looked up.
" CURSE you!" he hissed--"you black wretches of hell!"
"CAW, CAW, CAW"
He ran towards the tree as though he would hurl it to the ground, and away
flew the crows.
Joe arrived.
"W-w-wuz they at him, Dad?"
Dad turned on him, trembling with rage.
"Oh, YOU son of the Devil!" he commenced. "YOU worthless pup, you! Look
there! Do you see that?" (He pointed to the horse.) "Did n't I tell you
to mind him? Did n'--"
"Yes," snivelled Joe; "but Anderson's dog had a k-k-k-angaroo bailed up."
"DAMN you, be off out of this!" And Dad aimed a block of wood at Joe which
struck him on the back as he made away. But nothing short of two broken
legs would stop Joe, who the next instant had dashed among the corn like
an emu into a scrub.
Dad returned to the house, foaming and vowing to take the gun and shoot
Joe down like a wallaby. But when he saw two horses hanging up he
hesitated and would have gone away again had Mother not called out that he
was wanted. He went in reluctantly.
Red Donovan and his son, Mick, were there. Donovan was the publican,
butcher, and horse-dealer at the Overhaul. He was reputed to be well-in,
though some said that if everybody had their own he would n't be worth
much. He was a glib-tongued Irishman who knew everything--or fondly
imagined he did--from the law to horse-surgery. There was money to be
made out of selections, he reckoned, if selectors only knew how to make
it--the majority, he proclaimed, did n't know enough to get under a tree
when it rained. As a dealer, he was a hard nut, never giving more than a
"tenner" for a twenty pound beast, or selling a ten pound one for less
than twenty pounds. And few knew Donovan better than did Dad, or had been
taken in by him oftener; but on this occasion Dad was in no easy or
benevolent frame of mind.
He sat down, and they talked of crops and the weather, and beat about the
bush until Donovan said:
"Have you any fat steers to sell?"
Dad had n't. "But," he added, "I can sell you a horse."
"Which one?" asked Donovan, for he knew the horses as well as Dad
did--perhaps better.
"The bay--Farmer."
"How much?"
"Seven pounds." Now, Farmer was worth fourteen pounds, if worth a
shilling--that is, before he took sick--and Donovan knew it well.
"Seven," he repeated ponderingly. "Give you six."
Never before did Dad show himself such an expert in dissimulation. He
shook his head knowingly, and enquired of Donovan if he would take the
horse for nothing.
"Split the difference, then--make it six-ten?"
Dad rose and looked out the window.
"There he is now," he remarked sadly, "in the gully there."
"Well, what's it to be--six-ten or nothing?" renewed Donovan.
"All right, then," Dad replied, demurely, "take him!"
The money was paid there and then and receipts drawn up. Then, saying
that Mick would come for the horse on the day following, and after
offering a little gratuitous advice on seed-wheat and pig-sticking, the
Donovans left.
Mick came the next day, and Dad showed him Farmer, under the bushes. He
was n't dead, because when Joe sat on him he moved. "There he is,"
said Dad, grinning.
Mick remained seated on his horse, bewildered-looking, staring first at
Farmer, then at Dad.
"Well?" Dad remarked, still grinning. Then Mick spoke feelingly.
"YOU SWINDLING OLD CRAWLER!" he said, and galloped away. It was well for
him he got a good start.
For long after that we turned the horses and cows into the little paddock
at night, and if ever the dog barked Dad would jump up and go out in his
shirt.
We put them back into the paddock again, and the first night they were
there two cows got out and went away, taking with them the chain that
fastened the slip-rails. We never saw or heard of them again; but Dad
treasured them in his heart. Often, when he was thoughtful, he would
ponder out plans for getting even with the Donovans--we knew it was the
Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans got into
"trouble,", and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased Dad; but
the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie
himself.
Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in
the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were
helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was
illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy and
disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted on
roosting on the cross-beam.
Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have husked
two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. Dad crawled
from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was dark. He bade
the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn you--lie down!" he roared.
They shut up. Then a voice from the darkness said:
"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?"
Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor was.
He remained there talking for fully half-an-hour. Then he returned, and
said it was young Donovan.
"DONOVAN! MICK Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. Maloney
and Joe echoed "MICK Donovan?" They WERE surprised.
"He's none too welcome," said Anderson, thinking of his horses and cows.
Mother agreed with him, while Mrs. Maloney repeated over and over again
that she was always under the impression that Mick Donovan was in gaol
along with his bad old father. Dad was uncommunicative. There was
something on his mind. He waited till the company had gone, then
consulted with Dave.
They were outside, in the dark, and leant on the dray. Dad said in a low
voice: "He's come a hundred mile to-day, 'n' his horse is dead-beat, 'n'
he wants one t' take him t' Back Creek t'morrer 'n' leave this one in his
place...Wot d'y' think?" Dave seemed to think a great deal, for he said
nothing.
"Now," continued Dad, "it's me opinion the horse is n't his; it's one he's
shook--an' I've an idea." Then he proceeded to instruct Dave in the idea.
A while later he called Joe and drilled him in the idea.
That night, young Donovan stayed at Shingle Hut. In the morning Dad was
very affable. He asked Donovan to come and show him his horse, as he must
see it before thinking of exchanging. They proceeded to the paddock
together. The horse was standing under a tree, tired-looking. Dad stood
and looked at Donovan for fully half-a-minute without speaking.
"Why, damn it!" he exclaimed, at last, "that's MY OWN horse...You don't
mean...S'help me! Old Bess's foal!" Donovan told him he was making a
mistake.
"Mistake be hanged!" replied Dad, walking round the animal. "Not much of
a mistake about HIM!"
Just here Dave appeared, as was proper.
"Do you know this horse?" Dad asked him. "Yes, of course," he answered,
surprisedly, with his eyes open wide, "Bess's foal!--of course it is."
"There you are!" said Dad, grinning triumphantly.
Donovan seemed uneasy.
Joe in his turn appeared. Dad put the same question to him. Of course
Joe knew Bess's foal--"the one that got stole."
There was a silence.
"Now," said Dad, looking very grave, "what have y' got t' say? Who'd y'
get him off? Show's y'r receipt."
Donovan had nothing to say; he preferred to be silent.
"Then," Dad went on, "clear out of this as fast as you can go, an' think
y'rself lucky."
He cleared, but on foot.
Dad gazed after him, and, as he left the paddock, said:
"One too many f' y' that time, Mick Donovan!" Then to Dave, who was still
looking at the horse: "He's a stolen one right enough, but he's a beauty,
and we'll keep him; and if the owner ever comes for him, well--if he is
the owner--he can have him, that's all."
We had the horse for eighteen months and more. One day Dad rode him to
town. He was no sooner there than a man came up and claimed him. Dad
objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad
said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer
got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't grudge
them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with the
Donovans for the two cows.
Chapter XI.
A Splendid Year For Corn.
We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad
was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched at
the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. Bill
and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the fat-lamp into
burning order by poking it with a table-fork.
Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the roof.
He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or counting the
stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was n't--there was no such
sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long years of toil and worry
had been rewarded again and again by disappointment--wondering if ever
there would be a turn in his luck, and how he was going to get enough out
of the land that season to pay interest and keep Mother and us in bread
and meat.
At last he spoke, or rather muttered disjointedly, "Plen-ty--to eat--in
the safe." Then suddenly, in a strange and hollow voice, he shouted,"
THEY' RE DEAD--ALL OF THEN! I STARVED THEM!"
Mother DID get a fright. She screamed. Then Dad jumped up, rubbing his
eyes, and asked what was the matter. Nothing was the matter THEN. He had
dozed and talked in his sleep, that was all; he had n't starved anyone.
Joe did n't jump up when Mother screamed--not altogether; he raised
himself and reached for Dad's pillow, then lay down and snored serenely
till bed-time.
Dad sat gloomily by the fire and meditated. Mother spoke pleadingly to
him and asked him not to fret. He ran his fingers uneasily through his
hair and spat in the ashes. "Don't fret? When there's not a bit to eat
in the place--when there's no way of getting anything, and when--merciful
God!--every year sees things worse than they were before."
"It's only fancy," Mother went on. "And you've been brooding and brooding
till it seems far worse than it really is."
"It's no fancy, Ellen." Then, after a pause--"Was the thirty acres of
wheat that did n't come up fancy? Is it only fancy that we've lost nearly
every beast in the paddock? Was the drought itself a fancy? No--no."
And he shook his head sadly and stared again into the fire.
Dad's inclination was to leave the selection, but Mother pleaded for
another trial of it--just one more. She had wonderful faith in the
selection, had Mother. She pleaded until the fire burned low, then Dad
rose and said: "Well, we'll try it once more with corn, and if nothing
comes of it why then we MUST give it up." Then he took the spade and raked
the fire together and covered it with ashes--we always covered the fire
over before going to bed so as to keep it alight. Some mornings, though,
it would be out, when one of us would have to go across to Anderson's and
borrow a fire-stick. Any of us but Joe--he was sent only once, and on
that occasion he stayed at Anderson's to breakfast, and on his way back
successfully burnt out two grass paddocks belonging to a J.P.
So we began to prepare the soil for another crop of corn, and Dad started
over the same old ground with the same old plough. How I remember that
old, screwed and twisted plough! The land was very hard, and the horses
out of condition. We wanted a furrow-horse. Smith had one--a good one.
"Put him in the furrow," he said to Dad, "and you can't PULL him out of
it." Dad wished to have such a horse. Smith offered to exchange for our
roan saddle mare--one we found running in the lane, and advertised as
being in our paddock, and no one claimed it. Dad exchanged.
He yoked the new horse to the plough, and it took to the furrow
splendidly--but that was all; it did n't take to anything else. Dad
gripped the handles--"Git up!" he said, and tapped Smith's horse with the
rein. Smith's horse pranced and marked time well, but did n't tighten the
chains. Dad touched him again. Then he stood on his fore-legs and threw
about a hundredweight of mud that clung to his heels at Dad's head. That
aggravated Dad, and he seized the plough-scraper, and, using both hands,
calmly belted Smith's horse over the ribs for two minutes, by the sun.
He tried him again. The horse threw himself down in the furrow. Dad took
the scraper again, welted him on the rump, dug it into his back-bone,
prodded him in the side, then threw it at him disgustedly. Then Dad sat
down awhile and breathed heavily. He rose again and pulled Smith's horse
by the head. He was pulling hard when Dave and Joe came up. Joe had a
bow-and-arrow in his hand, and said!, "He's a good furrer 'orse, eh, Dad?
Smith SAID you could n't pull him out of it."
Shall I ever forget the look on Dad's face! He brandished the scraper and
sprang wildly at Joe and yelled, "Damn y', you WHELP! what do you want
here?"
Joe left. The horse lay in the furrow. Blood was dropping from its
mouth. Dave pointed it out, and Dad opened the brute's jaws and examined
them. No teeth were there. He looked on the ground round about--none
there either. He looked at the horse's mouth again, then hit him
viciously with his clenched fist and said, "The old ----, he never DID
have any!" At length he unharnessed the brute as it lay--pulled the
winkers off, hurled them at its head, kicked it once--twice--three
times--and the furrow-horse jumped up, trotted away triumphantly, and
joyously rolled in the dam where all our water came from, drinking-water
included.
Dad went straightaway to Smith's place, and told Smith he was a dirty,
mean, despicable swindler--or something like that. Smith smiled. Dad put
one leg through the slip-rails and promised Smith, if he'd only come along,
to split palings out of him. But Smith did n't. The instinct of
self-preservation must have been deep in that man Smith. Then Dad went
home and said he would shoot the ---- horse there and then, and went
looking for the gun. The horse died in the paddock of old age, but Dad
never ploughed with him again.
Dad followed the plough early and late. One day he was giving the horses
a spell after some hours' work, when Joe came to say that a policeman was
at the house wanting to see him. Dad thought of the roan mare, and Smith,
and turned very pale. Joe said: "There's "Q.P." on his saddle-cloth;
what's that for, Dad?" But he did n't answer--he was thinking hard.
"And," Joe went on, "there's somethin' sticking out of his pocket--Dave
thinks it'll be 'ancuffs." Dad shuddered. On the way to the house Joe
wished to speak about the policeman, but Dad seemed to have lock-jaw.
When he found the officer of the law only wanted to know the number of
stock he owned, he talked freely--he was delighted. He said, "Yes, sir,"
and "No, sir," and "Jusso, sir," to everything the policeman said.
Dad wished to learn some law. He said: "Now, tell me this: supposing a
horse gets into my paddock--or into your paddock--and I advertise that
horse and nobody claims him, can't I put my brand on him?" The policeman
jerked back his head and stared at the shingles long enough to recall all
the robberies he had committed, and said: "Ye can--that's so--ye can."
"I knew it," answered Dad; "but a lawyer in town told Maloney, over there,
y' could n't."
"COULD N'T?" And the policeman laughed till he nearly had the house down,
only stopping to ask, while the tears ran over his well-fed cheeks,
"Did he charge him forrit?" and laughed again. He went away laughing,
and for all I know the wooden-head may be laughing yet.
Everything was favourable to a good harvest. The rain fell just when it
was wanted, and one could almost see the corn growing. How it encouraged
Dad, and what new life it seemed to give him! In the cool of the evenings
he would walk along the headlands and admire the forming cobs, and listen
to the rustling of the rows of drooping blades as they swayed and beat
against each other in the breeze. Then he would go home filled with fresh
hopes and talk of nothing but the good prospect of that crop.
And how we worked! Joe was the only one who played. I remember him
finding something on a chain one day. He had never seen anything like it
before. Dad told him it was a steel-trap and explained the working of it.
Joe was entranced--an invaluable possession! A treasure, he felt, that
the Lord must specially have sent him to catch things with. He caught
many things with it--willie-wagtails, laughing-jackasses, fowls, and
mostly the dog. Joe was a born naturalist--a perfect McCooey in his way,
and a close observer of the habits and customs of animals and living
things. He observed that whenever Jacob Lipp came to our place he always,
when going home, ran along the fence and touched the top of every post
with his hand. The Lipps had newly arrived from Germany, and their
selection adjoined ours. Jacob was their "eldest", about fourteen, and a
fat, jabbering, jolly-faced youth he was. He often came to our place and
followed Joe about. Joe never cared much for the company of anyone
younger than himself, and therefore fiercely resented the indignity.
Jacob could speak only German--Joe understood only pure unadulterated
Australian. Still Jacob insisted on talking and telling Joe his private
affairs.
This day, Mrs. Lipp accompanied Jacob. She came to have a "yarn" with
Mother. They did n't understand each other either; but it did n't matter
much to them--it never does matter much to women whether they understand
or not; anyway, they laughed most of the time and seemed to enjoy
themselves greatly. Outside Jacob and Joe mixed up in an argument.
Jacob shoved his face close to Joe's and gesticulated and talked German at
the rate of two hundred words a minute. Joe thought he understood him and
said: "You want to fight?" Jacob seemed to have a nightmare in German.
"Orright, then," Joe said, and knocked him down.
Jacob seemed to understand Australian better when he got up, for he ran
inside, and Joe put his ear to a crack, but did n't hear him tell Mother.
Joe had an idea. He would set the steel-trap on a wire-post and catch
Jacob. He set it. Jacob started home. One, two, three posts he hit.
Then he hit the trap. It grabbed him faithfully by three fingers.
Angels of Love! did ever a boy of fourteen yell like it before! He sprang
in the air--threw himself on the ground like a roped brumby--jumped up
again and ran all he knew, frantically wringing the hand the trap clung
to. What Jacob reckoned had hold of him Heaven only can tell. His mother
thought he must have gone mad and ran after him. Our Mother fairly tore
after her. Dad and Dave left a dray-load of corn and joined in the hunt.
Between them they got Jacob down and took him out of the trap. Dad
smashed the infernal machine, and then went to look for Joe. But Joe
was n't about.
The corn shelled out 100 bags--the best crop we had ever had; but when Dad
came to sell it seemed as though every farmer in every farming district on
earth had had a heavy crop, for the market was glutted--there was too much
corn in Egypt--and he could get no price for it. At last he was offered
Ninepence ha'penny per bushel, delivered at the railway station. Ninepence
ha'penny per bushel, delivered at the railway station! Oh, my country! and
fivepence per bushel out of that to a carrier to take it there!
AUSTRALIA, MY MOTHER!
Dad sold--because he could n't afford to await a better market; and when
the letter came containing a cheque in payment, he made a calculation,
then looked pitifully at Mother, and muttered--" SEVEN POUN'S TEN!"
Chapter XII.
Kate's Wedding.
Our selection was a great place for dancing. We could all dance--from Dan
down--and there was n't a figure or a movement we did n't know. We
learned young. Mother was a firm believer in early tuition. She used to
say it was nice for young people to know how to dance, and be able to take
their part when they went out anywhere, and not be awkward and
stupid-looking when they went into society. It was awful, she thought, to
see young fellows and big lumps of girls like the Bradys stalk into a
ballroom and sit the whole night long in a corner, without attempting to
get up. She did n't know how mothers COULD bring children up so
ignorantly, and did n't wonder at some of them not being able to find
husbands for their daughters.
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