Books: On Our Selection

S >> Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) >> On Our Selection

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Dad ardently admired Dan.

Dan was only going to stay a short while at home, he said, then was off
West again. Dad tried to persuade him to change his mind; he would have
him remain and help to work the selection. But Dan only shook his head
and laughed.

Dan accompanied Dad to the plough every morning, and walked cheerfully up
and down the furrows all day, talking to him. Sometimes he took a turn at
the plough, and Dad did the talking. Dad just loved Dan's company.

A few days went by. Dan still accompanied Dad to the plough; but did n't
walk up and down with him. He selected a shade close by, and talked to
Dad from there as he passed on his rounds. Sometimes Dan used to forget
to talk at all--he would be asleep--and Dad would wonder if he was unwell.
Once he advised him to go up to the house and have a good camp. Dan went.
He stretched himself on the sofa, and smoked and spat on the floor and
played the concertina--an old one he won in a raffle.

Dan did n't go near the plough any more. He stayed inside every day, and
drank the yeast, and provided music for the women. Sometimes he would
leave the sofa, and go to the back-door and look out, and watch Dad
tearing up and down the paddock after the plough; then he'd yawn, and
wonder aloud what the diggins it was the old man saw in a game like that
on a hot day; and return to the sofa, tired. But every evening when Dad
knocked off and brought the horses to the barn Dan went out and watched
him unharnessing them.

A month passed. Dad was n't so fond of Dan now, and Dan never talked of
going away. One day Anderson's cows wandered into our yard and surrounded
the hay-stack. Dad saw them from the paddock and cooeed, and shouted for
those at the house to drive them away. They did n't hear him. Dad left
the plough and ran up and pelted Anderson's cows with stones and
glass-bottles, and pursued them with a pitch-fork till, in a mad rush to
get out, half the brutes fell over the fence and made havoc with the wire.
Dad spent an hour mending it; then went to the verandah and savagely asked
Mother if she had lost her ears. Mother said she had n't. "Then why the
devil could n't y' hear me singin' out?" Mother thought it must have been
because Dan was playing the concertina. "Oh, DAMN his concertina!" Dad
squealed, and kicked Joe's little kitten, that was rubbing itself fondly
against his leg, clean through the house.

Dan found the selection pretty slow--so he told Mother--and thought he
would knock about a bit. He went to the store and bought a supply of
ammunition, which he booked to Dad, and started shooting. He stood at the
door and put twenty bullets into the barn; then he shot two bears near the
stock-yard with twenty more bullets, and dragged both bears down to the
house and left them at the back-door. They stayed at the back-door until
they went very bad; then Dad hooked himself to them and dragged them down
the gully.

Somehow, Dad began to hate Dan! He scarcely ever spoke to him now, and at
meal-times never spoke to any of us. Dad was a hard man to understand.
We could n't understand him. "And with DAN at home, too!" Sal used to
whine. Sal verily idolised Dan. Hero-worship was strong in Sal.

One night Dad came in for supper rather later than usual. He'd had a hard
day, and was done up. To make matters worse, when he was taking the
collar off Captain the brute tramped heavily on his toe, and took the nail
off. Supper was n't ready. The dining-room was engaged. Dan was showing
Sal how the Prince of Wales schottische was danced in the huts Out Back.
For music, Sal was humming, and the two were flying about the room. Dad
stood at the door and looked on, with blood in his eye.

"Look here!" he thundered suddenly, interrupting Dan--"I've had enough of
you!" The couple stopped, astonished, and Sal cried, "DAD!" But Dad was
hot. "Out of this!" (placing his hand on Dan, and shoving him). "You've
loafed long enough on me! Off y' go t' th' devil!"

Dan went over to Anderson's and Anderson took him in and kept him a week.
Then Dan took Anderson down at a new game of cards, and went away
West again.

Chapter XV.

Our Circus.

Dave had been to town and came home full of circus. He sat on the ground
beside the tubs while Mother and Sal were washing, and raved about the
riding and the tumbling he had seen. He talked enthusiastically to Joe
about it every day for three weeks. Dave rose very high in Joe's
estimation.

Raining. All of us inside. Sal on the sofa playing the concertina; Dad
squatting on the edge of a flat stone at the corner of the fireplace; Dave
on another opposite; both gazing into the fire, which was almost out,
and listening intently to the music; the dog, dripping wet, coiled at
their feet, shivering; Mother sitting dreamily at the table, her palm
pressed against her cheek, also enjoying the music.

Sal played on until the concertina broke. Then there was a silence.

For a while Dave played with a piece of charcoal. At last he spoke.

"Well," he said, looking at Dad, "what about this circus?"

Dad chuckled.

"But what d' y' THINK?"

"Well" (Dad paused), "yes" (chuckled again)--"very well."

"A CIRCUS!" Sal put in--"a PRETTY circus YOUS'D have!"

Dave fired up.

"YOU go and ride the red heifer, strad-legs, same as y' did yesterday,"
he snarled, "an' let all the country see y'."

Sal blushed.

Then to Dad:

"I'm certain, with Paddy Maloney in it, we could do it right enough, and
make it pay, too."

"Very well, then," said Dad, "very well. There's th' tarpaulin there,
and plenty bales and old bags whenever you're ready."

Dave was delighted, and he and Dad and Joe ran out to see where the tent
could be pitched, and ran in again wetter than the dog.

One day a circus-tent went up in our yard. It attracted a lot of notice.
Two of the Johnsons and old Anderson and others rode in on draught-horses
and inspected it. And Smith's spring-cart horse, that used to be driven
by every day, stopped in the middle of the lane and stared at it; and,
when Smith stood up and belted him with the double of the reins, he bolted
and upset the cart over a stump. It was n't a very white tent. It was
made of bags and green bushes, and Dad and Dave and Paddy Maloney were two
days putting it up.

We all assisted in the preparations for the circus. Dad built seats out
of forked sticks and slabs, and Joe gathered jam-tins which Mother filled
with fat and moleskin wicks to light up with.

Everyone in the district knew about our circus, and longed for the opening
night. It came. A large fire near the slip-rails, shining across the
lane and lighting up a corner of the wheat-paddock, showed the way in.

Dad stood at the door to take the money. The Andersons--eleven of
them--arrived first. They did n't walk straight in. They hung about for
a while. Then Anderson sidled up to Dad and talked into his ear. "Oh!
that's all right," Dad said, and passed them all in without taking any
money.

Next came the Maloneys, and, as Paddy belonged to the circus, they also
walked in without paying, and secured front seats.

Then Jim Brown and Sam Holmes, and Walter Nutt, and Steve Burton, and
eight others strolled along. Dad owed all of them money for binding,
which they happened to remember. "In yous go," Dad said, and in the lot
went. The tent filled quickly, and the crowd awaited the opening act.

Paddy Maloney came forward with his hair oiled and combed, and rang the
cow-bell.

Dave, bare-footed and bare-headed, in snow-white moles and red shirt,
entered standing majestically upon old Ned's back. He got a great
reception. But Ned was tired and refused to canter. He jogged lazily
round the ring. Dave shouted at him and rocked about. He was very
unsteady. Paddy Maloney flogged Ned with the leg-rope. But Ned had been
flogged often before. He got slower and slower. Suddenly, he stood and
cocked his tail, and to prevent himself falling, Dave jumped off. Then
the audience yelled while Dave dragged Ned into the dressing-room and
punched him on the nose.

Paddy Maloney made a speech. He said: "Well, the next item on the
programme'll knock y' bandy. Keep quiet, you fellows, now, an' y'll see
somethin'."

They saw Joe. He stepped backwards into the ring, pulling at a string.
There was something on the string. "Come on!" Joe said, tugging. The
"something" would n't come. "Chuck 'im in!" Joe called out. Then the
pet kangaroo was heaved in through the doorway, and fell on its head and
raised the dust. A great many ugly dogs rushed for it savagely. The
kangaroo jumped up and bounded round the ring. The dogs pursued him
noisily. "GERROUT!" Joe shouted, and the crowd stood up and became very
enthusiastic. The dogs caught the kangaroo, and were dragging him to
earth when Dad rushed in and kicked them in twos to the top of the tent.
Then, while Johnson expostulated with Dad for laming his brindle slut,
the kangaroo dived through a hole in the tent and rushed into the house
and into the bedroom, and sprang on the bed among a lot of babies and
women's hats.

When the commotion subsided Paddy Maloney rang the cow-bell again, and
Dave and "Podgy," the pet sheep, rode out on Nugget. Podgy sat with
hind-legs astride the horse and his head leaning back against Dave's
chest. Dave (standing up) bent over him with a pair of shears in his
hand. He was to shear Podgy as the horse cantered round.

Paddy Maloney touched Nugget with the whip, and off he went--"rump-ti-dee,
dump-ti-dee." Dave rolled about a lot the first time round, but soon got
his equilibrium. He brandished the shears and plunged the points of them
into Podgy's belly-wool--also into Podgy's skin. "Bur-UR-R!" Podgy
blurted and struggled violently. Dave began to topple about. He dropped
the shears. The audience guffawed. Then Dave jumped; but Podgy's horns
got caught in his clothes and made trouble. Dave hung on one side of the
horse and the sheep dangled on the other. Dave sang out, so did Podgy.
And the horse stopped and snorted, then swung furiously round and round
until five or six pairs of hands seized his head and held him.

Dave did n't repeat the act. He ran away holding his clothes together.

It was a very successful circus. Everyone enjoyed it and wished to see it
again--everyone but the Maloneys. They said it was a swindle, and ran Dad
down because he did n't divide with Paddy the 3s. 6d. he took at the door.

Chapter XVI.

When Joe Was In Charge.

Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time--time that Dad considered
should have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes--in ear-marking
bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting them go without
their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide. The paddock
was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEY belonged to Joe.

Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs and
brush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a good one
he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, or Dad
threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish.

One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with a
four-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek and lithe
and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging close to his
bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joe understood
the ways of a reptile.

There was no cage--Dad had burnt the last one--so Joe walked round the
room wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroom
and mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. She
did n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. She
spat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joe
giggled and wondered how long the cat would live.

The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called in for
a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health.

"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson the reptile,
which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-get y' one."
But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped back and fell
over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Bluey grabbed him
by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made for his
horse--followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"--then turned inside.

Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cup of
tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playing with
the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again, but the
snake caught HIM--by the finger.

"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Sal bolted
off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard.

Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in. He
examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the arm when
Dad rushed in.

"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d--d whelp! You wretch of a boy!
MY God!"

"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber.

But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lost barneying;
and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once for Sweeney.
Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputation for curing
snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her head for Sweeney's.
But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n't go further. Dad
hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down and ran back.

"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again.

"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger."

Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed
the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a
blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.

"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo.
Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held his finger
on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the
hammer down. It did n't sever the finger--it only scraped the nail
off--but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and got away.

Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a
greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe
had disappeared in the corn.

"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted
through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night came.
The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing answered save
the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, sonorous notes of a
distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the grass-paddock.

At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened,
and looked distracted.

While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped
in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if he
could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's bed; Dave
slept on the sofa.

"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said, "there
won't be room for us all."

And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by the
back-door, and crawled quietly into bed.

At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said:

"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again.

"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply.

Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up--he was at the
back--and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate and
chuckled and said:

"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?"

He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on his trousers,
which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg into them when
his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the foot of the bed.
He stared at them and the black face again--then plunged for the door and
fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side of the bed at him.

"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more.

Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore,
and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying:

"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK)
run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK).

But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that Shingle Hut
would not have been the same place at all without Joe.

It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe was most
appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a man in the
house--even if it was only Joe.

Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection,
minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old Mother
Murphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front door the
same as Dad used to do--for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place, and
postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas.

It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place.
A starved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye, talkative,
ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not a hump), and
carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like him before. He
spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Not exactly a
"traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pair of boots much
too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"--he took off his hat
at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who were sitting inside,
sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lying at Mother's feet,
rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways of people well brought up.

The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother's
heart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have some
dinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And he went
to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe; but it
did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stare about, and
did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal called him to dinner he
could n't hear--he was too busy. Joe had to go and bring him away.

Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, through
which the sun was shining.

"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked.

Mother said it was.

"Quite a bush house."

"Oh, yes," Mother said--"we're right in the bush here."

He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections and crops
and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle. Casey was a
versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to the sofa and asked
Mother how many children she had. Mother considered and said, "Twelve."
He thought a dozen enough for anyone, and, said that HIS mother, when he
left home, had twenty-one--all girls but him. That was forty years ago,
and he did n't know how many she had since. Mother and Sal smiled. They
began to like old Casey.

Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or
"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about the
yard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for five
years. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. He was
mending it all the evening.

Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence, hurried
to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if she wanted
more. Then he returned to the fence.

"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' to eat
the corn."

Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wire on
his way back.

At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper he
brought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly.

Mother and Sal talked about him.

"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invite him
in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. He stayed
to throw some pumpkin to the pigs.

Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night, too.
He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayed with us
altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. The house, he
said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where it ought to have
been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting a hedge and ornamental
trees in front and fruit trees at the back, and making a nice place of it.
Little things like that pleased Mother. "Anyway," she would sometimes say
to Sal, "he's a useful old man, and knows how to look after things about
the place." Casey did. Whenever any watermelons were ripe, he looked
after THEM and hid the skins in the ground. And if a goanna or a crow
came and frightened a hen from her nest Casey always got the egg, and when
he had gobbled it up he would chase that crow or goanna for its life and
shout lustily.

Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man,
and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Casey
would give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. If
Maloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or a dray,
or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it with pleasure,
and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it.

Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the same as
Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection.

Casey knew a thing or two--so he said. One fine morning, when all the sky
was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cows smashed down
a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey, assisted by Joe,
put them all in the yard, and hammered them with sticks. Dwyer came along.

"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily.

"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then he put
his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer's face.
Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything--he was n't a
man of words--but started throwing the rails down to let the cows out.
Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with his long, brown
arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joe mounted the stockyard.
Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then there was a struggle--on Casey's
part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried him away and set him down on his
back, then hastened to the rails. But before he could throw them down
Casey was upon him again. Casey never knew when he was beaten. Dwyer was
getting annoyed. He took Casey by the back of the neck and squeezed him.
Casey humped his shoulders and gasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein
hung on the yard. Dwyer reached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer
fastened one end of the rope round Casey's body--under the arms--and
stared about again. And again "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the
yard to get further away. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near.
Dad once used it as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein
into a coil and heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he
tied the end of the rope to the yard and drove out the cows.

"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away,
"cut the rope."

Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spin
round--to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyed
the twirling form with joy.

Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe.

"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w--WOP."

Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it under Casey,
and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily as he could.
Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingers and he let go,
and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Casey was an invalid at
our place. He would have been invalided there for the rest of his days
only old Dad came home and induced him to leave. Casey did n't want to
go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him that generally proved effectual.

Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarce where
he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe started a mob
nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and he pondered.
Suddenly he had an original inspiration--originality was Joe's strong
point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buried himself there for
two days. For two whole days he was never "at home,", except when he
stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog for yelping for a drink. The
greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'd had a billyful--Joe told him.
On the morning of the third day the barn-door swung open, and forth came a
kangaroo, with the sharpened carving knife in its paws. It hopped across
the yard and sat up, bold and erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly
broke his neck trying to get at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you
useless hound!" and started across the cultivation!, heading for the
grass-paddock in long, erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it
spotted a mob of other kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver.

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