Читать книгу On the Wallaby, The Diary of a Queensland Swagman - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 6

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While having my mid-day meal at the foot of a hill beyond Breakfast Creek I was joined by a veteran whose very hide bore evidence of an extensive knowledge of western latitudes. Old and grizzly, unkempt and travel-stained, he was "goin' in." He strode jauntily up to where I sat, nibbling a blade of grass as he came.

"Well, young fellow," he said, unslinging his swag and depositing it carefully in the shade. "How goes it?"

"All right, so far," I answered.

He looked at me closely for a moment. "You don't seem unfamiliar to me," he said, thoughtfully. "What might your name be, if it's a fair question?"

"Edinbury Swan," I replied. He shook his head. "Never bumped that before. I'd certainly remember it if I had. Unusual name!—How long have you been at this?"—critically eyeing my hat. It was a black and white boater such as young fellows wear about town.

"Only to-day."

"To-day? Phugh! I said that myself 35 years ago. That's a tidy while before you left the dockyard. . . . 'Taint none o' my business what sent you adrift; but you ought to get another hat. You're right out of the fashion here."

From that he drifted into a dissertation on the ways and customs of those who tramp the long roads in search of work, and incidentally gave me much gratuitous advice. His name, as I learned from his habit of now and again using it himself, was Jack Blunt.

"Th' main problem you've got to solve," he continued, "is the grand art of livin' sumptuous on nothing a year. That isn't very difficult, as every squattage supplies swagmen with rations, exceptin' an odd hungry place that don't respect the honoured customs of the country. But don't be in a tearin' hurry rushin' up to the store. Do a quiet beat round, an' land yourself in the kitchen about meal time. You'll perhaps get a feed, an' some tucker to take with you. Then you want to go to the boss with your bags—big ones. No use thinkin' you'll get 'em filled if they're small ones. You won't, he's nearly sure to be into his last half bag o' flour. Never mind that. Half a bag's more 'n you want.

"By-an'-bye you'll want tobacco. Now, th' golden rule on th' track's this: Never cadge off a footman, or the one-horse bloke. The cove who has two nags is good game. So are drovers an' carriers, and anyone who's in a billet—particularly th' chap at th' store. Nail him. Don't wait till you want a smoke. Seize every chance you see till you get a supply in. Got a match on you? When you can't carry any more tobacco, accumulate matches. Bless me soul, safeties!"

After lighting his pipe, he resumed:

"You'll have to change the style of your clothes. Got any with patches on? Then keep an eye about you an' cop the first bit of stuff you see an' patch your oldest pair o' pants with it. No holes in 'em? What's that matter? The patches will cover the places where the holes ought to be. Those will be your ration pants. You only want two more pair—track pants an' Sunday pants. Sunday is the day you're in a town; if it isn't actually Sunday, it's Sunday-pants day, anyway.

"Lemme see, now. You've got tobacco and matches and tucker and rations. Well, now, young fellow, you want a job. Reach me that firestick, will you? You're a midlin' poor hand at makin' a fire. I can tell you that much. Would you mind shovin' my billy in a bit. Your best track is the stock route. You'll find it convenient to meet drovers even if they're full-handed. It's one of the beautiful customs of the bush for the drovers' cook, like the shearers' cook, the rouseabouts' cook, the cattle-musterers' cook, and the lamb-markers' cook, to receive the weary wayfarer with open arms, and send him away rejoicin'. Feel your way along, and make for places where there's a busy crowd; and if there's nothing for you to do, you'll find the scenery worth lookin' at wherever a lot o' men dine together. When you go to a squattage, find out from the men if an extra hand is wanted for any particular kind of work. Whatever the work may be, it's your profession. Been at it all your lifetime, though you can turn your hand to other things, besides."

At this point his billy boiled, and, laying his pipe aside, he made his tea, after which he unpacked an astonishing load of assorted provisions. These he laid out carefully on the grass to the accompaniment of an appropriate recitation:

Place side by side with johnny-cakes or damper

Three bags containing sugar, flour and tea,

A billy and some meat, and swaggie's hamper

Will, with a pannikin, completed be.

Then spread you out a blanket and some sheeting,

And roll within a little dilly-bag,

A change of togs, a coat for Sunday meeting—

And there you have his ordinary swag.

Build you a fire beside some eucalyptus,

By No Man's Creek, and 'neath the starry dome,

Where dingoes wander whence their lonely crypt is—

And there you have his customary home.

Take you a man sunbrowned, with thews of iron,

A cheerful heart, stout as an ironclad,

And dress him like a wheel without a tire on—

And there you have the nomad on the pad.

Then give him but his health and strength for hawking,

And his condition labels him "for hire;"

Turn him adrift on hardy feet for walking,

And to complete him call him Long Maguire.

Mr. Blunt now commenced heartily on his meal, sitting on the ground with his legs crossed in an attitude of such elegant ease that made seats superfluous. He was in a happy frame of mind; he had a little hut on the bank of the river above Brisbane, where he intended to live comfortably, and rest till the end of summer. He did not look to be worth anything, but his bank book, greasy and crumpled and dog-eared, showed a credit balance of a thousand pounds.

"I'll try a lump o' that brownie of yours; it looks better 'n mine," he said, when he had got through his first course. "Woman made? I thought so. Lor' bless her doughy fivers." After a long pause he said: "I haven't been lookin' after myself too well the last few days; but I'm goin' to make some pancakes—with heggs—when I get home, an' to-morrow I'll have a knuckle-bone of ham, a plum puddin' and a bottle o' beer."

"You're going to enjoy yourself," I remarked.

"I always do when I'm at home. Why not?" He helped himself to another lump of my brownie, and while he ate it he rummaged amongst his assortment of small bags, one of which contained lumps of soap, and finally tossed one across to me.

"Help yourself to any kind you like," he said.

It contained pieces of tobacco, ranging from hard corners the size of a marble to half plugs, and broken sticks of twist, which had evidently been contributed by dozens of good-natured folk along the track.

Mr. Blunt then set about tidying up for town. Whilst thus employed he sang, softly, this fragment of a song of the road:

When your clothes are tattered,

Your boots are wearing out;

When your hat is battered.

An' there's no help about;

When everything looks blue, you may

Sling your pack

Upon your back,

And tramp, tramp away!

When the road is dusty,

Flies in millions by;

When the damper's musty,

And the holes are dry;

When to tarry means decay,

Nor ill nor well,

You cannot spell,

So tramp, tramp away!

Battling on forever.

Things are always bad,

Goal draws nearer never

When you're on the pad;

Dodgin' crows from day to day,

Till you lie

Alone to die,

And tramp, tramp away!

He gathered up his belongings again, and after lighting his pipe with a firestick, looked carefully about to see if he had missed anything.

"Well," he said, shouldering his swag, 'I'll be toddlin' home now."

It made me feel a little droopy watching him go, and hearing his joyful whistle; but I passed on with a quicker step than his, now swinging my small billy, fresh blackened from its first baptism of fire, and camped in the vicinity of Downfall Creek. Here I made some flapjacks on an old shovel-blade which I picked up near the water, first scouring it well with wet sand, and then I cooked them on it. At this early stage of my wandering career I possessed no utensils excepting my pannikin and a one quart billycan. The latter ere long had to do duty in the dual capacity of tea billy and meat pot. I had a few shilling left, which I hung on to with a tenacity that might have kept me from making a beast-of-burden of myself if it had developed a month or two earlier.