Читать книгу Quinton's Rouseabout and Other Stories - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 4

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Wood was a scarce commodity about Nuggety—a little mining town in the north-west. The old fossickers, living in little canvas humpies, could manage very well with a few sticks in summer, but in the bleak winters they wanted a good log pretty often. The nearest supply was in the hotel yards. When business was brisk the publicans didn't mind good customers taking a cheap log home with them instead of a bottle. But there were some who never spent anything on drink, yet carried off more wood than those who spent everything. They would smoke a pipe on the verandah, and when Murphy (proprietor of the Lost Souls' Hotel), had a conversation on in the bar, slip quietly sound to the back, lift a handy log from the woodheap, and sneak off into the shadows of the rock-heaps.

The flats were honeycombed with shallow holes, and narrow pads zigzagged through them to the various camps. It was an awkward place to meet anyone at night when carrying wood out of town, as to step off the track would probably mean an ugly fall down an abandoned shaft, and to turn back would simply invite investigation. One might cross 99 times empty-handed and meet nobody, and next time, staggering under a fat lump of gidgee, he might meet half-a-dozen, including Constable Swanker, who sometimes struck off among the burrows for no apparent reason.

"Lift a Handy Log From the Woodheap."

It was by accident I discovered the trick adopted by the fossickers. I came suddenly on to a man one night climbing out of a shaft and shoving a log in front of him. He had been making home with it when he heard someone coming towards him. He dropped it quietly into the nearest hole, took a few steps forward, and stopped to light his pipe, then went on. When the other man had passed out of earshot he went back and recovered his bit of wood. It cost a lot of exertion at times to get a log home. Sometimes it would have to be popped down half-a-dozen holes, and some of those holes were deep.

There was one grey-bearded hatter of the blue ribbon variety, known as Old Ned, who had become a perfect plague to Murphy. He lived directly behind Murphy's yard, and consumed enough firing material for a factory. At least, Murphy blamed him for it all, though the quantity that 'walked' more than equalled what Murphy used himself.

It cost Murphy £1 a load. So, when business was slack, and the weather a little colder than usual, he set a trap to catch old Ned. Several short, junky logs were chucked carelessly about the heap, where Ned would have no trouble in finding them. An inch hole had been bored into each, filled up with powder, and carefully sealed.

That night, about 9 o'clock, noticing a big blaze in Ned's shanty, Murphy examined his wood heap. Every 'doctored' log was gone. Then he crept over to Ned's, and posted himself at a crack in the door. Ned was sitting on a stone before his fire, his elbow on his knee and his pipe propped between his fingers. A cat lay coiled up at His feet. It was a cheery picture of a rugged fireside.

Presently a deafening explosion happened; the logs jumped, and splinters flew up in a cloud of ashes, sparks, smoke, and cinders. The cat took a flying leap through the window, and old Ned fell over on his back, and lay wedged between the stone and the foot of his bunk, gasping and staring in a dazed way at the fireworks. Murphy tore round a heap of gibbers to laugh.

A few minutes later a shot was heard from down the flat, then another behind the hill. While Murphy stood scratching his head, and shaking in his boots a terrific blast came from Widow Bran's hut on his left, followed by screams and shrieks, and a cloud of sparks up the chimney. More shots down the flat and over the hill filled the interval; then two echoing reports broke up the serenity in the Chinese camp, mingled with yells and a babel of Mongolian chatter. Murphy had a fit at this juncture, and rolled on the ground.

When all was quiet again, he made a circuit towards the pub and back to Ned's humpy. Ned was standing outside, viewing the disturbing element from afar off.

"Plenty of fireworks about to-night, Ned," he remarked. "What's on?"

"Er—dunno!" said Ned, with a scared look inside.

"Thought I heard a shot here," Murphy went on.

"Er—was outside," Ned stammered. "Some fool goin' along let a cracker off."

"Scattered your fire a bit," said Murphy quietly. "Those coals 'll be burning something directly."

Ned put one leg through the doorway, and drew it back again.

"Oh, it's all right," he said. "Nuthin' to burn."

"Better rake it together," Murphy, advised. "There's a bag behind your bunk smoking."

Ned made another attempt to screw up his courage, but just as he moved his leg the cat jumped back through the window. Ned jumped also.

"Plenty of fireworks"

"I—it's all right," he repeated. "Be turnin' in drekly."

Murphy went in and had a look round. Then, as he walked off, grinning, "All's safe enough now, Ned," he assured him. "I only put one charge in that log."

Murphy's woodheap needed no watching for a long time after that. But towards the end of winter crowds of men passed through on their way to the early sheds, and the wood began to disappear again. Many of the old hands put up at the Lost Souls' Hotel, getting credit till after shearing. Others, especially rouseabouts from "Down Below," pitched their tents on the flat.

About twenty of them camped near Old Ned's, and Murphy watched them with a suspicious eye as they searched about for twigs and chips. Murphy had a derry on those people, and was determined to make an example of some of them. He was unusually busy about the woodpile after dusk, and subsequently smoked a good many quiet pipes outside. Still, nothing happened that night.

Early in the morning he noticed they had a big fire going. A bucket was swung over it, billies stood round, three or four dogs sat on their haunches waiting, and, whilst a couple of men were cooking meat in a frying pan, others were saddling and packing horses. A hasty survey of his yard satisfied Murphy as to how many beans made five, and he hurried down to the lockup for Senior Constable Swanker. The portly officer was very eager for a case. He much regretted having missed Old Ned, and requested Murphy, as a personal favour, to give him timely warning when he laid the next trap. He hadn't done so, and now he almost ran, in case Swanker should miss the grand opportunity. He thought a lot of Swanker; he saluted when he passed, and treated him from the best bottle whenever he looked in. Swanker looked in every day—several times.

The courthouse was a narrow building, with a small office at the back. Here Swanker was seated before a brisk fire. It was a cold morning, and Swanker was a man who loved comfort. He was dressed for duty, and was pulling on his riding boots when Murphy entered.

"Come on, Swanker," he cried, excitedly. "Got twenty of 'em nicely trapped. Hurry up; the logs are burnin'."

Swanker turned pale, and cast a scared glance at his fire. As though in reply, the innocent looking log blazing there suddenly commenced shooting like Port Arthur. A flying cork struck Swanker hard between the eyes, and spread him out on his back. Whether the force of the blow stunned him, or he fainted with fright, Murphy never knew; but by the time he had fetched him round, and brought him brandy, and had a little talk with him, the great event at the travellers camp had happened. He saw some of it while running for the reviver.

He saw a bucket and a pan jump into the air with a shower of ashes, sparks, chops, and johnny-cakes; he saw men and dogs falling over one another, horses pulling back and dropping down shafts, others bolting across the flats, scattering packs and camp-ware as they went. Afterwards, when he saw them hauling their mates out of holes, digging out half-buried horses, and collecting their disseminated property, he decided that they were sufficiently punished, and let them off under the First Offenders Act. He was a feeling man, was Murphy.

"He Saw Men and Dogs Falling Over One Another."

Concerning his old friend, Constable Swanker, however, he had grave doubts. He even suspected him of being an old offender, and gazed at his own bit of mulga, burning in the house of justice, with a pained expression. He was a bit staggered when Swanker turned towards him, and said, with emphasis, while he beat a pencil on the table—

"Ye can think yeself a lucky man, Murphy, that ye're a friend of mine. Had any wan else done that, I'd 'ave had him up for damages—for the doin' of that which is a menace to the public welfare. I dunno but what ye'd get seven years. How did I know whin I picked that log up on the flat beyant as I was comin' home that it had been shtolen from your yard an' dropped there? Maybe it was dropped for me—to cast a shlur on the force. Ye see, Murphy, bein' a bit short for wance, I picked up th' shtick as any wan would—seein' it lyin' about. I warn ye now, Daniel Murphy, not to be doin' anything agin, that's likely to endanger human life widout givin' me proper notice. Had you done so lasht night, we'd 'ave had the wood stalers this morning. Come on, Murphy, I'll have a drink wid you."

"A Flying Cork Struck Swanker Between the Eyes."

Late that night a big meeting of shearers and roustabouts dismounted at a fence about half a mile from the Lost Souls' Hotel. Their horses and bikes made an imposing line in the dim starlight. The men were a determined looking lot, and they were armed with augers, braces and bits, tins of cheap powder, and bags of corks. A few carried hammers, and all wore bagging or sheepskins round their feet. Silently, they entered Murphy's yard, and like crows on a carcase, they swarmed over his woodheap.

For an hour they worked as only shearers work when they're cutting for a bell sheep. Long men and short men, thin men and stout men, sweated over an assortment of bought, borrowed, or stolen augers, and grunted over a variety of equally doubtful braces and bits. Every stick of wood was riddled—there was to be no escape for Daniel Murphy and his Chinese cook. Other men followed with tins of powder, and others behind them with corks to plug up the charge. They did their work neatly and thoroughly. Even Murphy, they reckoned, could find no fault with their workmanship.

Having still a quantity of powder on hand, they spread out among the fossickers and other residents, and operated on every woodheap and stray stick and log they met with. Then they stole away as quietly as they had come.

It happened that Cow Fat, the cook, had enough small wood inside to do him till nearly midday. For all that Murphy was puzzled and anxious all the morning. An artillery duel had commenced at an early hour, and shots continued to be heard for a considerable, time all over the field. Swanker rode off in one direction to investigate. From another direction came a score of miners, bearing down on the Lost Souls' Hotel with picks and shovels, bottles and brickbats. Having lost sundry eyebrows and other personal adornments, and suffered otherwise from concussion of the atmosphere, they had assembled in the manner of crows, and decided on Daniel Murphy as the culprit. They had all heard how Murphy had enjoyed his little joke on Old Ned and others, and it was plain to them that he was extending operations and laughing at them all in secret. If there is anything a miner abhors more than a "jumper,'" it is the practical joker. So things looked pretty sultry for Daniel Murphy when they ranged up outside the bar, and invited him in caustic terms to come out.

He stood at the the door. He heard what they had to say, and indignantly denied the impeachment. That angered them still more. A liar, they said, was the next worse thing to a practical joker. Some wanted to fight him, others brandished their picks and shovels menacingly at the pub. In vain Murphy asked them to come and have a drink, in vain he proclaimed his innocence of any complicity in the matter. It looked certain that the Lost Souls' Hotel would be wreckeed before Swanker turned up. Swanker was always a long time when he was wanted.

Luckily a diversion happened. Something like a thunderclap struck the rear of the premises and set the windows and bottles rattling. A moment of breathless silence followed, then three shots, and as many shrieks, in quick succession, and finally a wild and frantic Chinaman's rush into the bar.

"Ho you—you Murphy—whaffor!" he cried with delirious gesticulations. "Whaffor shoottee me—whaffor makee mine blow me up! Whaffor!"

"What's happened, you gibbering idiot?" gasped Murphy.

"I puttee wood on. Bynbye he jump—bang—bustem—shoo!" the cook explained, throwing up both arms. "Stove—he blow-up; loast meat blow up, cabbage blow up, plum duff—he blow up. No fear, no more cookum. No good. I wantee cheque. I clear out."

There was doubt in many faces of the miners. Some had already hurried to the kitchen. They saw the wreck, and were scared out by more shots. Then they recognised Murphy as a brother in misfortune, and fell on his neck in the bar. Later on Murphy borrowed all the available corkscrews on the field, and set a dozen blacks to work extracting the charges. They worked about ten-minutes—when Combardelo Billy had an accident. He let a spark drop on to some powder, and the resultant blast blew his pipe through the leaf of his straw hat. In the end, Murphy fired the stack, and the whole mining population turned out to see the performance. It was the last of the fireworks; but for a year or more no one on Nuggety would pick up a stick without first subjecting it to a microscopic examination.