Читать книгу Collected Short Stories Volume 3 - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 3

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Mr. Ganter was fussy—did everything in a great hurry, and accomplished very little in a long time. He mostly had a man of some sort on the place, though he was never known to pay wages. When there was any extra work to be done he would invite some acquaintance to spend a few days at the "station." That was how I came there. None of us went for love of Ganter, but—Ganter had a daughter. Madge was a jolly, good-looking girl, who even enjoyed the embarrassing situations that her Dad created. She helped to make a holiday at Wonbadgery worth having, even with Pa Ganter and his excitements thrown in.

When I arrived the dogs had chased a goana up the chimney, and Mr. Ganter was vigorously prodding it with the clothes-prop, to the evident concern of his good lady, who had a pot of stew on the fire for dinner, into which soot was falling in clouds. There was no chance of rescuing it while Mr. Ganter performed erratically in the fireplace. I suggested shooting the animal, whereat Mrs. Ganter, a fat little woman, having more girth than height, looked serious. She stood well back, out of reach of the menacing prop, holding young Bertie by the arm. Bertie was 6 or thereabouts, freckled and sunburnt.

"Mightn't it blow the house up?" she said, anxiously.

"Might set it on fire," Madge added, her eyes sparkling.

Mr. Ganter had no ears for such wild speculations. He got the gun down from the wall, and in a moment had fired it up the chimney. Several shingles came down, and a cloud of soot; there was a desperate scratching of claws, and presently the goana flopped into the stew, which splashed over the perspiring person behind the gun.

"Oh, jemini!" laughed Madge.

"Oh! my stew!" cried Mrs. Ganter.

"Well, I'm danged!" said Mr. Ganter, stepping back and staring at the agitated pot.

I hauled the unfortunate reptile out by the tail, and all followed to the back to see the dogs worry it. Riddled with shot and parboiled, it didn't want much worrying. Madge made some allusion to stewed goana for dinner as we turned to go in.

At the partition door Mrs. Ganter stopped and clasped her hands in horror. Old Bowler, the carthorse, was standing in the front room with his head in the cupboard. He backed out with a loaf of bread in his mouth and, as Ganter rushed at him with the broom, turned sharply at the door, and threw up his heels in defiance of law and order. One hoof caught a chair, which in turn caught Mr. Ganter, and that gentleman disappeared suddenly into the skillion. Madge darted after Bowler, holding her hand to her mouth, and presently merry peals of laughter came from the front, while something like the oratory of an ox-conductor emanated from the back.

We had scones and cold pumpkin for dinner, topped up with Ganter's opinion of Bowler and a light dissertation on goanas.

That day was one of greater import to Wonbadgery than a dozen coronations. Ganter was going to kill. The bullock was yarded in the morning, so that it would be cool, and fairly empty by evening. The rest of the day was spent getting things ready for the butchering. The wood-axe was ground, and the split handle bound with strips of wet hide; the steel was hunted up, and the two knives sharpened; ropes and chains were fixed on the gallows; the old blunderbuss was cleaned and loaded, a bench rigged for salting, and the brine cask scalded. The hack and the carthorse were ready saddled at the yard in case the beast got out—which it mostly did.

Then Ganter was ready to kill.

The victim stood very quiet, looking straight at him. He thrust the gun through the rails and fired, and the ball struck well in the forehead. But the beast didn't fall; half the yard fell instead—on top of Ganter, and the bullock went roaring down the paddock. I removed some of the timber to enable Ganter to regain his perpendicular.

"Wha—what happened?" he gasped. He glared around him, till he caught sight of the bullock plunging across the paddock. Then he understood. "Geronyerorse, boy."

We found the bullock dead in a waterhole, nearly two miles away; Ganter spoke with great eloquence, as he waded in to bleed it with a pocketknife. Harness, ropes, knives, etc., were brought down, and Ganter made a rope fast to its horns. Then Bowler wouldn't pull. He backed into the hole, splashing up a deluge of mud and water. Ganter delivered an essay on horses in ornate prose, and broke some saplings over one named Bowler by way of punctuation.

I suggested putting a pebble in his ear.

"I've heard tell o' that dodge before," Ganter said, meditatively. "They say it's a fusrate plan with jibbers. We'll try it, boy."

Bowler objected, and swinging his head round suddenly knocked Ganter into the waterhole.

"Tie the useless brute up, boy!" he spluttered, staggering out. "Tie 'mup!"

Ganter stripped, and wading in, skinned and quartered the beast to the waterline, carrying the meat out in junks. Then Bowler was hooked on again, and with the assistance of a few saplings and some forcible oratory, drew out the remains, and Ganter finished skinning and cutting up on the grass. He was very tired by this time, and very muddy. The meat was also muddy.

"Shouldn't wonder if it don't go bad!" he snapped.

"Do you often kill this way, Mr. Ganter?" I ventured.

"Do I? Try an' keep them ants off, will yer?"

Then he dressed himself, and we dragged the meat home on the hide. We were sitting on the verandah having a rest and a smoke, when a humming sound was heard passing low over the roof. Ganter sprang up with a yell of "bees!" In a minute the whole family was tearing along the creek, headed by Ganter with a kerosene tin and a boot, and followed closely by young Bertie, whacking a tin dish with the rolling pin.

"Get holter something that'll make a clatter, boy," Ganter yelled out to me across his shoulder. Suddenly he disappeared over a log, and the old tin clattered ahead in a different key. Mrs. Ganter wobbled up with a bucket of water and a dipper, and commenced sprinkling the bees as they began to lower. Madge joined her with a kettle and a pannikin. The boss settled gradually towards a dead limb, a few feet off the ground.

"Fusrate," said Ganter. "Fusrate!" The clattering ceased, and all stood watching the swarm bunching on the limb.

"I knew we 'ad 'em good as soon as I saw the queen flutterin' down," Ganter said. "No fear o' the swarm leavin' her."

"How do you distinguish the queen from the other bees?" I asked him.

"Well, er—you see, the Queen—she's different—We'll take 'em to-night."

He rushed at the dog, lest it should disturb the bees, while Madge looked at me quietly.

It took Ganter an hour after tea to dress for the occasion. His arms were encased in hosiery, a wire meat cover was fastened over his face, with a mosquito curtain hanging from the back like a bridal veil, and his trousers were tied tightly round the bottoms. Young Bertie carried a maul, with which to hit the limb to jerk the bees off into the box, and Mrs. Ganter bore a sheet to throw over the box to keep them in. Madge was entrusted with the fat lamp.

"Now, look out what ye're doin'," Ganter cautioned, as he thrust the box under the black heap. "Yer ready with the sheet, mother?" Mother said she was, and came forward gingerly. "Quick's the word, mind. Closer up Bertie, One good welt does it. Now, then!"

Bertie's welt was a good one. The limb broke off, and knocked the box out of Ganter's hands. He dropped on his knees just as Mrs. Ganter threw the sheet, and it covered him and the bees. Just then one, attracted by the light, stung Madge on the lip, and, with a yell, she dropped the lamp and fled. Mother Ganter clawed wildly at her hair, and followed. Suddenly the dogs sprang up, and rushed after a huge white thing that was running and roaring through the grass. Shriek after shriek rent the night air, mingled with hoarse admonitions to "Lay down! Lay down, you mongrels!" and finally a distressful "Coo-ee," then a wail, and "I'm done!" I ran up with a sliprail. Ganter with the meat cover and net hanging round his neck, was beating desperately at the dogs with the doubled sheet.

"Well, this is a fine go!" he gasped. "Ketch them dogs, Bertie, an' get me the kangaroo tail out o' the skillion."

Then we returned to the house, where we found Madge applying the blue-bag to her lip. She made an injudicious remark about taking bees, a liberty that evoked a truculent snort from Ganter. The next instant Madge was tearing round the house, and Ganter was tearing after her with the kangaroo tail. One of the dogs intervened at the chimney corner, and the chase ended abruptly with a howl and a grunt. Soon afterwards I heard Madge laughing near the yard. I joined her, and we sat down on a log until the old man had smoked himself into a better humour. I'm afraid we sat much longer, for Ganter was laughing in five minutes, whereas his pipe had long been cold when we returned to the house. But that hour under the stars was golden.