The Book Of The Bush, George Dunderdale [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

Skins Away

All At Once In The Boat To Port Albert; We Had To Come Back Again.  I

Thowt To Myself I'd Be Richer Than Ever I Was In My Life; Th' Skins

Were Worth Hundreds Of Pounds.  I Had Agreed To Go Halves With Th'

Port Albert Man,  But,  You See,  He'd Ha' Never Gotten A Penny But For

Me,  Because He Knew Nothing Whatever About Sealing.  It Didn't Look

Quite Fair To Give Him Half; And Then I Thowt What A Lucky Thing It

Would Be For Me If He Were Drowned; And He Was Drowned,  But Mind You,

I Didn't Do It.  It Was This Way.  When We Got Back To Th' Blow-Hole

Th' Weather Was Bad. One O' Them Sou'east Gales Set In,  And Th' Big

Waves Dashed Agen The Rocks,  Roaring And Sending Spray Right Across

Th' Island.  We Had Packed Away All Th' Seal-Skins Snug In Th' Boat

And Pulled Th' Door Up From Th' Bottom Of Th' Chimney Before Th' Gale

Started.  When We Were Taking Down The Rope And Tackle And Th'

Shears,  Th' Water Began To Come Boiling Up Th' Blow Hole And Sinking

Down Again.  There Was A Big Rush Of Wind,  First Up And Then Down

Sucking You In Like.  It Was A Ticklish Time,  And Just As We Were

Going To Lower Th' Shears,  Th' Port Albert Man Made A Kind Of Slip,

And Was Sucked In With The Wind,  And Went Head First Into The Boiling

Water And Out Of Sight.  I Took Hold Of The Slack Of A Rope,  Thinking

I'd Throw It To Him; He Might Get Hold Of It,  And Then I Could Pull

Him Out.  In About Half A Minute He Was Thrown Up Again By Th' Next

Wave Right To The Top Of Th' Chimney.  I Could See His Face Within

Four Feet Of Me.  He Threw Up His Hands For Something To Catch At And

Looked At Me,  And Then Gave A Fearful Scream.  I Didn't Throw Him The

Rope; Something Stopped Me.  He Might Not Have Got Hold Of It,  You

Know,  Anyhow.  He Went Down Again Among Th' White Water,  And I Never

Saw Him No More--Only When I Am Dreaming.  I Always Dream About

Him.  I Can See His Face Come Up Above The Boiling Water,  And When He

Screams I Wake Up.  I Can Never Get Clear Of Him Out Of My Head; And

Yet,  Mind You,  I Didn't Drown Him; He Fell In Of His Self,  And I Just

Missed Throwing Him Th' Rope,  That's All; And I Wasn't Bound To Do

It,  Was I?

 

"As For The Money I Got For The Seal Skins,  I Could Have Lived

Comfortably On It All My Life,  But It Never Did Me No Good.  I

Story 16 "And There Was Gathering In Hot Haste.".) Pg 231

Started Drinking,  Trying To Forget That Port Albert Man,  But It Was

No Use.  Every Shilling Was Soon Gone,  And Eversince I've Been Doing

Odd Jobs And Loafing About The Publics.  I've Never Done No Good And

Never Shall.  Let's Have Just Another Nobbler Afore We Turn In."

 

 

 

 

 

A Happy Convict.

 

"Thrice Did I Receive Forty Stripes,  Save One."

 

It Was Court Day At Palmerston,  And There Was An Unusual Amount Of

Business That Morning.  A Constable Brought In A Prisoner,  And

Charged Him With Being A Vagrant--Having No Lawful Visible Means Of

Support.  I Entered The Charge In The Cause List,  "Police V. John

Smithers,  Vagrancy," And Then Looked At The Vagrant.  He Was Growing

Aged,  Was Dressed In Old Clothes,  Faded,  Dirty,  And Ill-Fitting; He

Had Not Been Measured For Them.  His Face Was Very Dark,  And His Hair

And Beard Were Long And Rough,  Showing That He Had Not Been In Gaol

Lately.  His Eyes Wandered About The Court In A Helpless And Vacant

Manner.  Two Boys About Eight Or Nine Years Old Entered The Court,

And,  With Colonial Presumption,  Sat In The Jury Box.  There Were No

Other Spectators,  So I Left Them There To Represent The Public.  They

Stared At The Prisoner,  Whispered To Each Other,  And Smiled.  The

Prisoner Could Not See Anything To Laugh At,  And Frowned At Them.

Then The Magistrate Came In,  Rubbing One Of His Hands Over The Other,

Glanced At The Prisoner As He Passed,  And Withered Him With A Look Of

Virtuous Severity.  He Was Our Black Wednesday Magistrate,  And Was

Death On Criminals.  When He Had Taken His Seat On The Bench,  I

Opened The Court,  And Called The First And Only Case.  It Was Not

Often We Had A Man To Sit On,  And We Sat Heavily On This One.  I Put

On My Sternest Look,  And Said "John Smithers"--Here The Prisoner

Instantly Put One Hand To His Forehead And Stood At "Attention"--

"You Are Charged By The Police With Vagrancy,  Having No Lawful

Visible Means Of Support.  What Have You To Say To That Charge?"

 

"I Am A Blacksmith Looking For Work," Said The Prisoner; "I Ain't

Done Nothing,  Your Worship,  And I Don't Want Nothing."

 

"But You Should Do Something," Replied The Magistrate; "We Don't Want

Idle Vagabonds Like You Wandering About The Country.  You Will Be

Sent To Gaol For Three Months."

 

I Stood Up And Reminded The Justice Respectfully That There Was As

Yet No Evidence Against The Prisoner,  So,  As A Matter Of Form,  He

Condescended To Hear The Constable,  Who Went Into The Witness-Box And

Proved His Case To The Hilt.  He Had Found The Man At Nightfall

Sitting Under The Shelter Of Some Tea-Tree Sticks Before A Fire;

Asked Him What He Was Doing There; Said He Was Camping Out; Had Come

From Melbourne Looking For Work; Was A Blacksmith; Took Him In Charge

As A Vagrant,  And Locked Him Up; All His Property Was The Clothes He

Wore,  An Old Blanket,  A Tin Billy,  A Clasp Knife,  A Few Crusts Of

Story 16 "And There Was Gathering In Hot Haste.".) Pg 232

Bread,  And Old Pipe,  And Half A Fig Of Tobacco; Could Find No Money

About Him.

 

That Last Fact Settled The Matter.  A Man Travelling About The Bush

Without Money Is A Deep-Dyed Criminal.  I Had Done It Myself,  And So

Was Able To Measure The Extent Of Such Wickedness.  I Never Felt

Really Virtuous Unless I Had Some Money In My Pocket.

 

"You Are Sentenced To Imprisonment For Three Months In Melbourne

Gaol," Said The Magistrate; "And Mind You Don't Come Here Again."

 

"I Ain't Done Nothing,  Your Worship," Replied The Prisoner; "And I

Don't Want Nothing."

 

"Take Him Away,  Constable."

 

Seven Years Afterwards,  As I Was Riding Home About Sundown Through

Tarraville,  I Observed A Solitary Swagman Sitting Before A Fire,

Among The Ruins Of An Old Public House,  Like Marius Meditating Among

The Ruins Of Carthage.  There Was A Crumbling Chimney Built Of Bricks

Not Worth Carting Away--The Early Bricks In South Gippsland Were

Very Bad,  And The Mortar Had No Visible Lime In It--The Ground Was

Strewn With Brick-Bats,  Bottles,  Sardine Tins,  Hoop Iron,  And Other

Articles,  The Usual Refuse Of A Bush Shanty.  It Had Been,  In The

Early Times,  A Place Reeking With Crime And Debauchery.  Men Had Gone

Out Of It Mad With Drinking The Poisonous Liquor,  Had Stumbled Down

The Steep Bank,  And Had Ended Their Lives And Crimes In The Black

Tarra River Below.  Here The Rising Generation Had Taken Their First

Lessons In Vice From The Old Hands Who Made The House Their Favourite

Resort.  Here Was Planned The Murder Of Jimmy The Snob By Prettyboy

And His Mates,  Whose Hut Was Near The End Of The Bridge Across The

River,  And For Which Murder Prettyboy Was Hanged In Melbourne.

 

In The Dusk I Mistook The Swagman For A Stray Aboriginal Who Had

Survived The Destruction Of His Tribe,  But On Approaching Nearer,  I

Found That He Was,  Or At Least Once Had Been,  A White Man.  He Had

Gathered A Few Sticks,  Which He Was Breaking And Putting On The Fire.

I Did Not Recognise Him,  Did Not Think I Had Ever Seen Him Before,

And I Rode Away.

 

During The Next Twenty-Four Hours He Had Advanced About Half-A-Mile

On His Journey,  And In The Evening Was Making His Fire In The Church

Paddock,  Near A Small Water-Hole Opposite My House.  I Could See Him

From The Verandah,  And I Sent Jim To Offer Him Shelter In An

Outbuilding.  Jim Was One Of The Two Boys Who Had Represented The

Public In The Jury Box At The Palmerston Court Seven Years Before.

He Came Back,  And Said The Man Declined The Offer Of Shelter; Never

Slept Under A Roof Winter Or Summer,  If He Could Help It; Had Lived

In The Open Air For Twelve Years,  And Never Stayed A Night In Any

Building,  Except For Three Months,  When He Was In Melbourne Gaol.  He

Had Been Arrested By A Constable Near Palmerston Seven Years Before,

Although He Had Done Nothing,  And A Fool Of A Beak,  With A Long Grey

Beard,  Had Given Him Three Months,  While Two Puppies Of Boys Were

Sitting In The Jury Box Laughing At Him.

Story 16 "And There Was Gathering In Hot Haste.".) Pg 233

 

He Also Gave Some Paternal Advice To The Youth,  Which,  Like A Great

Deal Of Other Paternal Advice,  Was Rejected As Of No Value.

 

"Never You Go To Melbourne,  Young Man," He Said,  "And If You Do,

Never Stop In Any Boarding-House,  Or Public.  They Are Full Of

Vermin,  Brought In By Bad Characters,  Mostly Government Officers And

Bank Clerks,  Who Have Been In Pentridge.  Don't You Never Go Near

'Em."

 

This Advice Did Not Sound Very Respectful; However,  I Overlooked It

For The Present,  As It Was Not Unlikely I Might Have The Advantage Of

Seeing Him Again In Custody,  And I Sent To Him Across The Road Some

Hot Tea,  Bread,  Butter,  And Beef.  This Softened The Heart And Loosed

The Tongue Of The Old Swagman.  It Appeared From His Account Of

Himself That He Was Not Much Of A Blacksmith.  He Was Ostensibly

Going About The Colony Looking For Work,  But As Long As He Could Get

Food For Nothing He Did Not Want Any Work,  And He Always Avoided A

Blacksmith's Shop; As Soon As He Found Himself Near One He Ceased To

Be A Blacksmith.

 

When Asked About His Former Life,  He Said A Gentleman Had Once

Advised Him To Write The Particulars Of It,  And Had Promised Him

Half-A-Crown If He Would Do So.  He Had Written Some Of Them,  But Had

Never