Selected Stories (54 page)

“How do you make that out?” I asked. “He’s got three girls, to my knowledge, and, as for being deaf, why, he gasses more than any man in the town, and knows more of what’s going on than old Mother Brindle the washerwoman.”

“Well, look at that now!” said the Giraffe, slowly. “Who’d have thought it? He never told me he had three girls, an’ as for hearin’ news, I always tell him anything that’s goin’ on that I think he doesn’t catch. He told me his trouble was that whenever he went out with a girl people could hear what they was sayin’—at least they could hear what she was sayin’ to him an’ draw their own conclusions, he said. He said he went out one night with a girl, and some of the chaps foxed ’em an’ heard her sayin’ ‘don’t’ to him, an’ put it all round town.”

“What did she say ‘don’t’ for?” I asked.

“He didn’t tell me that, but I s’pose he was kissin’ her or huggin’ her or something.”

“Bob,” I said presently, “didn’t you try the little girl in Bendigo a second time?”

“No,” he said. “What was the use. She was a good little girl, and I wasn’t goin’ to go botherin’ her. I ain’t the sort of cove that goes hangin’ round where he isn’t wanted. But somehow I couldn’t stay about Bendigo after she gave me the hint, so I thought I’d come over an’ have a knock round on this side for a year or two.”

“And you never wrote to her?”

“No. What was the use of goin’ pesterin’ her with letters? I know what trouble letters give me when I have to answer one. She’d have only had to tell me the straight truth in a letter an’ it wouldn’t have done me any good. But I’ve pretty well got over it by this time.”

A few days later I went to Sydney. The Giraffe was the last I shook hands with from the carriage window, and he slipped something in a piece of newspaper into my hand.

“I hope yer won’t be offended,” he drawled, “but some of the chaps thought you mightn’t be too flush of stuff—you’ve been shoutin’ a good deal; so they put a quid or two together. They thought it might help yer to have a bit of a fly round in Sydney.”

I was back in Bourke before next shearing. On the evening of my arrival I ran against the Giraffe; he seemed strangely shaken over something, but he kept his hat on his head.

“Would yer mind takin’ a stroll as fur as the billerbong?” he said. “I got something I’d like to tell yer.”

His big, brown, sun-burnt hands trembled and shook as he took a letter from his pocket and opened it.

“I’ve just got a letter,” he said. “Aletter from that little girl at Bendigo. It seems it was all a mistake. I’d like you to read it. Somehow I feel as if I want to talk to a feller, and I’d rather talk to you than any of them other chaps.”

It was a good letter, from a big-hearted little girl. She had been breaking her heart for the great ass all these months. It seemed that he had left Bendigo without saying good-bye to her. “Somehow I couldn’t bring meself to it,” he said, when I taxed him with it. She had never been able to get his address until last week; then she got it from a Bourke man who had gone South. She called him “an awful long fool”, which he was, without the slightest doubt, and she implored him to write, and come back to her.

“And will you go back, Bob?” I asked.

“My oath! I’d take the train tomorrer only I ain’t got the stuff. But I’ve got a stand in Big Billerbong Shed an’ I’ll soon knock a few quid together. I’ll go back as soon as ever shearin’s over. I’m going to write away to her to-night.”

The Giraffe was the “ringer” of Big Billabong Shed that season. His tallies averaged 120 a day. He only sent his hat round once during shearing, and it was noticed that he hesitated at first and only contributed half-a-crown. But then it was a case of a man being taken away from the shed by the police for wife desertion.

“It’s always that way,” commented Mitchell. “Those soft, good-hearted fellows always end by getting hard and selfish. The world makes ’em so. It’s the thought of the soft fools they’ve been that finds out sooner or later and makes ’em repent. Like as not the Giraffe will be the meanest man out back before he’s done.”

When Big Billabong cut out, and we got back to Bourke with our dusty swags and dirty cheques, I spoke to Tom Hall.

“Look here, Tom,” I said. “That long fool, the Giraffe, has been breaking his heart for a little girl in Bendigo ever since he’s been out back, and she’s been breaking her heart for him, and the ass didn’t know it till he got a letter from her just before Big Billabong started. He’s going to-morrow morning.”

That evening Tom stole the Giraffe’s hat. “I s’pose it’ll turn up in the mornin’,” said the Giraffe. “I don’t mind a lark,” he added, “but it does seem a bit red-hot for the chaps to collar a cove’s hat and a feller goin’ away for good, p’r’aps, in the mornin’.”

Mitchell started the thing going with a quid.

“It’s worth it,” he said, “to get rid of him. We’ll have some peace now. There won’t be so many accidents or women in trouble when the Giraffe and his blessed hat are gone. Anyway, he’s an eyesore in the town, and he’s getting on my nerves for one…Come on, you sinners! Chuck ’em in; we’re only taking quids and half-quids.”

About daylight next morning Tom Hall slipped into the Giraffe’s room at the Carriers’ Arms. The Giraffe was sleeping peacefully. Tom put the hat on a chair by his side. The collection had been a record one, and, besides the packet of money in the crown of the hat, there was a silver-mounted pipe with case—the best that could be bought in Bourke, a gold brooch, and several trifles—besides an ugly valentine of a long man in his shirt walking the room with a twin on each arm.

Tom was about to shake the Giraffe by the shoulder, when he noticed a great foot, with about half a yard of big-boned ankle and shank, sticking out at the bottom of the bed. The temptation was too great. Tom took up the hair-brush, and, with the back of
it, he gave a smart rap on the point of an in-growing toenail, and slithered.

We heard the Giraffe swearing good-naturedly for a while, and then there was a pregnant silence. He was staring at the hat we supposed.

We were all up at the station to see him off. It was rather a long wait. The Giraffe edged me up to the other end of the platform.

He seemed overcome.

“There’s—there’s some terrible good-hearted fellers in this world,” he said. “You mustn’t forgit ’em, Harry, when you make a big name writin’. I’m—well, I’m blessed if I don’t feel as if I was jist goin’ to blubber!”

I was glad he didn’t. The Giraffe blubberin’ would have been a spectacle. I steered him back to his friends.

“Ain’t you going to kiss me, Bob?” said the Great Western’s big, handsome barmaid, as the bell rang.

“Well, I don’t mind kissin’ you, Alice,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But I’m goin’ to be married, yer know.” And he kissed her fair on the mouth.

“There’s nothin’ like gettin’ into practice,” he said, grinning round.

We thought he was improving wonderfully; but at the last moment something troubled him.

“Look here, you chaps,” he said hesitatingly, with his hand in his pocket, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this stuff. There’s that there poor washerwoman that scalded her legs liftin’ the boiler of clothes off the fire—”

We shoved him into the carriage. He hung—about half of him—out the window, wildly waving his hat, till the train disappeared in the scrub.

And, as I sit here writing by lamplight at mid-day, in the midst of a great city of shallow social sham, of hopeless, squalid poverty, of ignorant selfishness, cultured or brutish, and of noble and
heroic endeavour frowned down or callously neglected, I am almost aware of a burst of sunshine in the room, and a long form leaning over my chair, and:

“Excuse me for troublin’ yer; I’m always troublin’ yer; but there’s that there poor woman…”

And I wish I could immortalise him!

Now I often sit at Watty’s, when the night is very near, With a head that’s full of jingles—and the fumes of bottled beer;

For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there When the Army prays for Watty, I’m included in the prayer.

It would take a lot of praying, lots of thumping on the drum, To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come.

But I love my fellow-sinners! and I hope, upon the whole, That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty’s soul.

—When the World was Wide

THE SALVATION ARMY does good business in some of the out-back towns of the great pastoral wastes of Australia. There’s the thoughtless, careless generosity of the Bushman, whose pockets don’t go far enough down his trousers (that’s what’s the matter with him), and who contributes to anything that comes along, without troubling to ask questions, like long Bob Brothers of Bourke, who, chancing to be “a Protestant by rights”, unwittingly subscribed towards the erection of a new Catholic church, and, being chaffed for his mistake, said:

“Ah, well, I don’t suppose it’ll matter a hang in the end, anyway it goes. I ain’t got nothink agenst the Roming Carflicks.”

There’s the shearer, fresh with his cheque from a cut-out shed, gloriously drunk and happy, in love with all the world, and ready to subscribe towards any creed and shout for all hands—including Old Nick if he happened to come along. There’s the shearer, half-drunk and inclined to be nasty, who has got the wrong end of all things with a tight grip, and who flings a shilling in the face of out-back conventionality (as he thinks) by chucking a bob into the Salvation Army ring. Then he glares
round to see if he can catch anybody winking behind his back. There’s the cynical joker, a queer mixture, who contributes generously and tempts the reformed boozer afterwards. There’s the severe-faced old station hand—in clean shirt and neckerchief and white moleskins—in for his annual or semi-annual spree, who contributes on principle, and then drinks religiously until his cheque is gone and the horrors are come. There’s the shearer, feeling mighty bad after a spree, and in danger of seeing things when he tries to go to sleep. He has dropped ten or twenty pounds over bar counters and at cards, and he now “chucks” a repentant shilling into the ring, with a very private and rather vague sort of feeling that something might come of it. There’s the stout, contented, good-natured publican, who tips the Army as if it were a barrel-organ. And there are others and other reasons—black sheep and ne’er-do-wells—and faint echoes of other times in Salvation Army tunes.

Bourke, the metropolis of the Great Scrubs, on the banks of the Darling River, about five hundred miles from Sydney, was suffering from a long drought when I was there in ninety-two; and the heat may or may not have been another cause contributing to the success, from a business point of view, of the Bourke garrison. There was much beer boozing—and, besides, it was vaguely understood (as most things are vaguely understood out there in the drought-haze) that the place the Army came to save us from was hotter than Bourke. We didn’t hanker to go to a hotter place than Bourke. But that year there was an extraordinary reason for the Army’s great financial success there.

She was a little girl, nineteen or twenty, I should judge, the prettiest girl I ever saw in the Army, and one of the prettiest I’ve ever seen out of it. She had the features of an angel, but her expression was wonderfully human, sweet and sympathetic. Her big grey eyes were sad with sympathy for sufferers and sinners, and her poke bonnet was full of bunchy, red-gold hair. Her first appearance was somewhat dramatic—perhaps the Army arranged it so.

The Army used to pray, and thump the drum, and sing, and take up collections every evening outside Watty Bothways’
Hotel, the Carriers’ Arms. They performed longer and more often outside Watty’s than any other pub in town—perhaps because Watty was considered the most hopeless publican and his customers the hardest crowd of boozers in Bourke. The band generally began to play about dusk. Watty would lean back comfortably in a basket easy-chair on his wide verandah, and clasp his hands, in a calm, contented way, while the Army banged the drum and got steam up, and whilst, perhaps, there was a barney going on in the bar, or a bloodthirsty fight in the backyard. On such occasions there was something like an indulgent or fatherly expression on his fat and usually emotionless face. And by-and-by he’d move his head gently and doze. The banging and the singing seemed to soothe him, and the praying, which was often very personal, never seemed to disturb him in the least.

Well, it was about dusk one day; it had been a terrible day, a hundred and something startling in the shade, but there came a breeze after sunset. There had been several dozen buckets of water thrown on the verandah floor and the ground outside. Watty was seated in his accustomed place when the Army arrived. There was no barney in the bar because there was a fight in the backyard, and that claimed the attention of all the customers.

The Army prayed for Watty and his clients; then a reformed drunkard started to testify against publicans and all their works. Watty settled himself comfortably, folded his hands, and leaned back and dozed.

The fight was over, and the chaps began to drop round to the bar. The man who was saved waved his arms, and danced round and howled.

“Ye-es!” he shouted hoarsely. “The publicans, and boozers, and gamblers, and sinners may think that Bourke is hot, but hell is a thousand times hotter! I tell you——”

“Oh, Lord!” said Mitchell, the shearer, and he threw a penny into the ring.

“Ye-es! I tell you that hell is a million times hotter than Bourke! I tell you——”

“Oh, look here,” said a voice from the background, “that won’t wash. Why, don’t you know that when the Bourke people die they send back for their blankets?”

The saved brother glared round.

“I hear a freethinker speaking, my friends,” he said. Then, with sudden inspiration and renewed energy, “I hear the voice of a freethinker. Show me the face of a freethinker,” he yelled, glaring round like a hunted, hungry man. “Show me the face of a freethinker, and I’ll tell you what he is.”

Watty hitched himself into a more comfortable position and clasped his hands on his knee and closed his eyes again.

“Ya-a-a-s!” shrieked the brand. “I tell you, my friends, I can tell a freethinker by his face. Show me the face of a——”

At this point there was an interruption. One-eyed, or Wall-eyed, Bogan, who had a broken nose, and the best side of whose face was reckoned the ugliest and most sinister—One-eyed Bogan thrust his face forward from the ring of darkness into the torchlight of salvation. He had got the worst of a drawn battle; his nose and mouth were bleeding, and his good eye was damaged.

“Look at my face!” he snarled, with dangerous earnestness. “Look at my face! That’s the face of a freethinker, and I don’t care who knows it. Now! what have you got to say against my face, ‘Man-without-a-Shirt’?”

The brother drew back. He had been known in the North-West in his sinful days as “Man-without-a-Shirt”,
alias
“Shirty”, or “The Dirty Man”, and was flabbergasted at being recognised in speech. Also, he had been in a shearing shed and in a shanty orgy with One-eyed Bogan, and knew the man.

Now most of the chaps respected the Army, and, indeed, anything that looked like religion, but the Bogan’s face, as representing free thought, was a bit too sudden for them. There were sounds on the opposite side of the ring as from men being smitten repeatedly and rapidly below the belt, and long Tom Hall and one or two others got away into the darkness in the background, where Tom rolled helplessly on the grass and sobbed.

It struck me that Bogan’s face was more the result of free speech than anything else.

The Army was about to pray when the Pretty Girl stepped forward, her eyes shining with indignation and enthusiasm. She had arrived by the evening train, and had been standing shrinkingly behind an Army lass of fifty Australian summers, who was about six feet high, flat and broad, and had a square face, and a mouth like a joint in boiler plates.

The Pretty Girl stamped her pretty foot on the gravel, and her eyes flashed in the torchlight.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she said. “Great big men like you to be going on the way you are. If you were ignorant or poor, as I’ve seen people, there might be some excuse for you. Haven’t you got any mothers, or sisters, or wives to think of? What sort of a life is this you lead? Drinking, and gambling, and fighting, and swearing your lives away! Do you ever think of God and the time when you were children? Why don’t you make homes? Look at that man’s face!” (She pointed suddenly at Bogan, who collapsed and sidled behind his mates out of the light.) “Look at that man’s face! Is it a face for a Christian? And you help and encourage him to fight. You’re worse than he is. Oh, it’s brutal. It’s—it’s wicked. Great big men like you, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Long Bob Brothers—about six-foot-four—the longest and most innocent there, shrunk down by the wall and got his inquiring face out of the light. The Pretty Girl fluttered on for a few moments longer, greatly excited, and then stepped back, seemingly much upset, and was taken under the wing of the woman with the boiler-plate mouth.

It was a surprise; and very sudden. Bogan slipped round to the backyard, and was seen bathing his battered features at the pump. The rest wore the expression of men who knew that something unusual has happened, but don’t know what, and are waiting vacantly for developments—except Tom Hall, who had recovered and returned. He stood looking over the head of the ring of Bushmen, and apparently taking the same critical interest
in the girl as he would in a fight—his expression was such as a journalist might wear who is getting exciting copy.

The Army had it all their own way for the rest of the evening, and made a good collection. The Pretty Girl stood smiling round with shining eyes as the bobs and tanners dropped in, and then, being shoved forward by the flat woman, she thanked us sweetly, and said we were good fellows, and that she was sorry for some things she’d said to us. Then she retired, fluttering and very much flushed, and hid herself behind the hard woman—who, by the way, had an excrescence on her upper lip which might have stood for a rivet.

Presently the Pretty Girl came from behind the big woman and stood watching things with glistening eyes. Some of the chaps on the opposite side of the ring moved a little to one side and all were careful not to meet her eye—not to be caught looking at her—lest she should be embarrassed. Watty had roused himself a little at the sound of a strange voice in the Army (and such a clear, sweet voice too!) and had a look; then he settled back peacefully again, but it was noticed that he didn’t snore that evening.

And when the Army prayed, the Pretty Girl knelt down with the rest on the gravel. One or two tall Bushmen bowed their heads as if they had to, and One-eyed Bogan, with the blood washed from his face, stood with his hat off, glaring round to see if he could catch anyone sniggering.

Mitchell, the shearer, said afterwards that the whole business made him feel for the moment like he felt sometimes in the days when he used to feel things.

The town discussed the Pretty Girl in the Army that night and for many days thereafter, but no one could find out who she was or where she belonged to—except that she came from Sydney last. She kept her secret, if she had one, very close—or else the other S.A. women were not to be pumped. She lived in skillion-rooms at the back of the big weatherboard Salvation Army barracks with two other “lassies”, who did washing and sewing and nursing, and went shabby, and half starved themselves, and were baked in the heat, like scores of women in the Bush, and
even as hundreds of women, suffering from religious mania, slave and stint in city slums, and neglect their homes, husbands and children—for the glory of Booth.

The Pretty Girl was referred to as Sister Hannah by the Army people, and came somehow to be known by sinners as “Miss Captain”. I don’t know whether that was her real name or what rank she held in the Army, if indeed she held any.

She sold
War Crys
, and the circulation doubled in a day. One-eyed Bogan, being bailed up unexpectedly, gave her “half-a-caser” for a
Cry
, and ran away without the paper or the change. Jack Mitchell bought a
Cry
for the first time in his life, and read it. He said he found some of the articles intensely realistic, and many of the statements were very interesting. He said he read one or two things in the
Cry
that he didn’t know before. Tom Hall, taken unawares, bought three
Crys
from the Pretty Girl, and blushed to find it fame.

Little Billy Woods, the Labourers’ Union Secretary—who had a poetic temperament and more than the average Bushman’s reverence for higher things—Little Billy Woods told me in a burst of confidence that he generally had two feelings, one after the other, after encountering that girl. One was that unfathomable faraway feeling of loneliness and longing that comes at odd times to the best of married men, with the best of wives and children—as Billy had. The other feeling, which came later on, and was a reaction in fact, was the feeling of a man who thinks he’s been twisted round a woman’s little finger for the benefit of somebody else. Billy said that he couldn’t help being reminded by the shy, sweet smile and the shy, sweet “thank you” of the Pretty Girl in the Army, of the shy, sweet smile and the shy, sweet gratitude of a Sydney private barmaid, who had once roped him in, in the days before he was married. Then he’d reckon that the Army lassie had been sent out back to Bourke as a business speculation.

Tom Hall was inclined to reckon so too—but that was after he’d been chaffed for a month about the three
War Crys
.

The Pretty Girl was discussed from psychological points of view; not forgetting the sex problem. Donald Macdonald—shearer,
union leader and labour delegate to other colonies on occasion—Donald Macdonald said that whenever he saw a circle of plain or ugly, dried-up women or girls round a shepherd, evangelist or a Salvation Army drum, he’d say “sexually starved!” They were hungry for love. Religious mania was sexual passion dammed out of its course. Therefore he held that morbidly religious girls were the most easily seduced.