Читать книгу The Race of Life - Guy Boothby - Страница 5

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ON the Thursday following the termination of my connection with the company who had taught me all they could of business, I left the suburb in which my mother's house was situated and went into the city in the hope that I might meet someone who would be in a position to put me in the way of obtaining employment. By this time I had learned not only a useful, but at the same time a humiliating lesson. This was to the effect that it is not so easy to obtain a situation in the Bush as folk are apt to imagine, particularly when the seeker is, as in my case, young and entirely devoid of experience. However, I was determined to succeed one way or another, and the greater the difficulties at the beginning, the greater, I told myself, the honours would be when I had surmounted them. By reason of my business training, I was familiar with the haunts of squatters when they visited the city, and I tried each of these in turn. I was entirely unsuccessful, however, in obtaining an engagement. Driven into a corner, I was compelled to admit that I knew nothing of stock, save the question of sales in town and the travelling announcements in the newspapers. I had never shorn a sheep in my life, and should not have known how to set about it had one been placed in my hands. My humiliation was complete when I had to confess that my horsemanship was of the most rudimentary description possible, that I had never had a branding iron in my hand, and that I no more knew how to tell the age of a sheep than I did of Arabic. In point of fact, as one man, more candid perhaps than polite, found occasion to point out to me, it would take as long and as much trouble to show me the way to do a thing as it would for him to do it himself. Another looked me over with a supercilious sneer that made my blood boil, and, noticing my fashionably cut clothes, enquired if I had ever slept in the Stranger's Hut, and whether on this occasion I proposed taking my valet with me? The roar of laughter which followed this witticism drove me from the place in a whirlwind of rage. I had been insulted, I told myself, and, worse than all, I knew that I was powerless to retaliate. But though I was considerably cast down by these repeated rebuffs, I was in nowise dismayed. On the contrary, I was more determined than ever that I would succeed. It was late in the evening when I returned home, thoroughly tired out. Being skilled in the somewhat difficult art of managing me, my mother did not enquire what success I had met with; indeed, there would have been no need for her to do so. She had but to look at my face to see the result plainly written there. Next day I determined to have another try, so after breakfast I set off for the city once more, to begin the round of which I was heartily sick and tired. Fate, however, for some time was still against me, and though I tried in every direction, and questioned all sorts and conditions of people, no success rewarded me. Later in the day, however, my luck changed, and I changed to hear of a man, a drover, who was going into Queensland for a mob of cattle to bring down to a station on the Lower Darling. He was short of hands, so I was informed, and I determined to apply for the job. Having obtained his address, I set off in search of him, and eventually discovered him in a small public-house in the neighbourhood of Little Bourke Street.

It was not a nice part of the town, being situated in close proximity to the Chinese quarter. The house itself more than matched its surroundings, and the customers who frequented it were in excellent keeping with both. The front bar, when I entered it, was crowded to its utmost capacity, and I don't think I should be overstepping the mark if I were to say that more than half the men it contained were decidedly the worse for the liquor they had taken. The reek of the place was enough to choke one; bad cigars, the strongest blackstick tobacco, spirits and stale beer, onions from the kitchen at the end of the passage, and the intolerable odour of packed humanity of the roughest description, were all united in an endeavour to see what really could be achieved in the way of a really nauseating stench. I had never to my knowledge smelt anything like it before, and I sincerely trust I may never do so again.

Pushing my way up to the counter, I enquired for Mr. Septimus Dorkin, and was informed by the highly-painted damsel in attendance that I should probably find him in the private bar if I looked there. I departed in search of the room in question, and discovered it without much difficulty. Why it should have been dignified with its name I could not for the life of me understand. It was in no sense "private," seeing that anyone was at liberty to use it; while if the name had been given it on account of its selectness, as distinguished from the ordinary or common bar, it was an equally unhappy choice, inasmuch as its patrons were for the most part of the same class and, in nine cases out of ten, partook of the same refreshment.

I pushed open the door and entered the room. In comparison with its size, it was as well filled as that I had just left. In this case, however, the majority of its occupants were seated in faded velvet armchairs, secured to the walls, a precaution probably taken in order that they might not be used as weapons of offence and defence in times of stress, which, I learned later on, not infrequently occurred. Scattered about the room were a number of small tables, littered with glasses of all shapes and sizes, pewter pots, and upwards of half-a-dozen champagne bottles. The majority of the men were, to put it mildly, in a state of semi-inebriation, while some had crossed the borderland altogether and now lolled in their chairs, sleeping heavily and adding to the best of their ability to the general uproar that prevailed. The picture of one elderly individual remains in my memory to this day. He might have been from fifty to fifty-five years of age, and was the possessor of an extremely bald pate. His chin rested upon his breast, so that the top of his head, with its fringe of faded hair, looked directly at the company. Some wag, with an eye to a humorous effect, and sketched with burnt cork the features of a face—nose, eyes, and mouth—upon it, and the result, if lacking in taste, was exceedingly ludicrous. The artist had just finished his work when I entered, and was standing back to see the effect. I was informed that he had once been a famous scene painter, but was now a common bar-room loafer, who would do anything if he were well paid for it. He was, I believe, found drowned in the Yarra some few years later, poor wretch.

Turning to a tall, soldierly-looking man seated near the door, I enquired in an undertone if he could inform me where I should find Mr. Dorkin, the well-known drover, who I had been informed was staying in this house. As I have just said, the man from his appearance might have been taken for a soldier, a cavalry officer for preference, but when he spoke the illusion vanished like breath upon a razor blade. The change was almost bewildering.

"Dorky, my boy," he cried in a voice like that of our old friend Punch, "here's somebody wants to see Mr. Septimus Dorkin, Esq., Member of Parliament for Mud Flats. There you are, my boy, go and 'ave a look at 'im. He won't eat you, though he do somehow look as if he'd like to try a bite."

The man to whom he referred, and for whom I was searching, was standing before the fireplace, smoking an enormous cigar and puffing the smoke through his nose. He must have stood a couple of inches over six feet, was slimly built, particularly with regard to his legs, which were those of a man who had spent his life in the saddle. His face might have been good-looking in a rough fashion, had it not been for an enormous scar that reached from his right temple to the corner of his mouth—the result of a kick from his horse. His nose had also been broken at the bridge. His eyes were his best features, well shaped and at times by no means unkindly. He wore a large moustache and a short beard, dressed simply, and, unlike so many of his class when in town, wore no jewellery of any sort or description. A plain leather watch-chain was the only adornment he permitted himself. When I came to know him better I discovered him to be a past master of his profession, a shrewd man of business, a superb judge of stock, a fearless rider, and the most foulmouthed ruffian, I firmly believe, that it has ever been my luck to become acquainted with. Wondering how I should be received, I approached him, a silence falling upon the room as I did so. This did not strike me as looking well for the success of what was to follow. Mr. Dorkin looked me over as I approached him, and I thought I detected a sneer upon his lips as he did so. As it seemed evident that I was about to be insulted, I began to regret that I had been foolish enough to come in search of him. Indeed, had it been possible I would have backed out of it even then; that, however, was out of the question. My blood was up, and I was determined to go through with it at any cost to myself. Whatever else they might call me, it should not be a coward.

"Mr. Dorkin, I believe," I said, looking him full and fair in the face as I did so. "I was told I should find you here."

"And whoever told you that, young fellow, told you the—- truth" (I do not repeat the adjectives with which he garnished his speech. They were too comprehensive for repetition.) "What do you want with me? Got a letter for me from the Prince of Wales to say that he's goin' to leave me a fortune, eh? Break the news to me gently, for I'm not so strong as I used to be."

This banter did not promise well for what was to come. Such of the assembled company as were awake evidently regarded the situation with satisfaction, and I have no doubt were looking forward to seeing what promised to be some excellent fooling at my expense. If so, they were destined to be disappointed, for I had by this time got myself well in hand, and in consequence was ready for any emergency.

"I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Gerald Williamson," I said, feeling sure that he would know my friend's name. For a few moments he did not reply, but stood stolidly pulling at his cigar and looking me up and down while he did so, as if he were thinking deeply. I could feel that every eye in the room was steadfastly fixed upon us. At last he withdrew the cigar from between his lips and addressed me as follows:—

"Mr. Gerald Williamson," he drawled. "And who the—-may he be when he's at home? Is he a shearer from the Billabong, who never called for tar—or what is he? Know the cuss, how should I know him—think I carry the visitin' card of every dog—rotted, swivel-eyed, herring-stomached son of a mud turtle in my waistcoat pocket? I guess not. Now out with it, young fellar, what is it you want with me? I've got my business to attend to, and can't afford the time to go moosin' around here listening to talk about Mr. Gerald Williamsons and folk of his kidney. Mr.— Gerald—Williamson—the infernal skunk—I don't believe there ever was such a person."

This was more than I could stand. It was bad enough to be addressed as he had addressed me, but it was a thousand times worse to have it insinuated that I was endeavouring to cultivate his acquaintance through the medium of a person who had no existence. My temper was rising by leaps and bounds.

"I saw Mr. Williamson this morning," I said. "He is the managing clerk for Messrs. Applethwaite and Grimes, whose offices are in Swanston Street, and with whom, I believe, you have done business from time to time. He told me that you are about to leave for Queensland to bring down a mob of cattle."

"He told you all that, did he?" drawled Dorkin, replacing his cigar in his mouth. "Well, I don't say he's wrong, nor do I say that he's right, mark you. What I want to know is, what the—-you've come to me about."

"To be straight with you, I want work," I replied, looking him in the face as stoutly as I knew how. "I want to go with you."

"Suffering Daniel," he returned, and accompanied it with an oath of such magnificent atrocity that I dare not attempt to recall it. "Did I understand you to say that you want to go with me? With me, Sep. Dorkin? Well, well, I'm—I'm—" He stopped and shook his head; the situation had got beyond him. Then, looking round the room, he continued, "Boys, what do you think of this for a sprightly bull calf? Wants to come with me. Now if it was Bill Kearney, or Tod Griffiths, I could have understood it; but for him to want to come with me!" Words again failed him, and he lapsed into a moody silence that lasted for upwards of a couple of minutes. Then, placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, very much as a father might address a small child, "Run along home, bub, and tell your mammie to give you a Johnny—cake. When you're a man come to me again, and if I've got time I'll teach you the difference between a 'possum and a Jackeroo-Savee. Now run along to mother, dear."

I flushed up to the roots of my hair as I heard the laugh that followed. I had never been treated in such a way in my life before, and I felt my heart thumping inside me like a sledge- hammer. Seated between the two windows that looked out on the street was a middle-sized horsey-looking man in a loud check suit and wearing a sham diamond horseshoe pin in his tie. He was by no means sober, and I had noticed also that he had always been amongst the loudest laughers at my expense. He had now an opportunity of showing his own wit, and he hastened to take advantage of it. Rising from his chair, he came slowly forward to the fireplace, before which we were standing.

"I say, Dorky, my boy," he began, "you're a bit too 'ard on the gentleman, it appears to me. Take 'im along with you, and be proud of 'is company. Don't you be afraid of him, young man. Have a drink along with us, and we'll talk it all over quiet and sociable like. There's nothin' to be gained by quarrelin', as the bantam said to the Shanghai rooster, when the rooster had pecked 'is heye hout. What's your particular poison, Dorky, Esquire? Give it a name. A glass of rum! Good! Mine's a brandy. And yours, Mr. Williamson—I mean Mr. Williamson's friend. Do me the honour of takin' a glass with me—now do! Don't be bashful."

Feeling that it might only have the effect of adding to the unpleasantness of my position if I were to refuse his invitation, I expressed my willingness to drink a glass of beer with him, upon hearing which he professed to be much delighted. He struck the bell on the table, and presently the barmaid appeared in answer to it. The look of eager expectation on the faces of the company should have warned me that some trick was about to be played on me, but I was thinking about something else and gave no heed to it.

"What's the order, gentlemen?" inquired the girl, balancing her tray upon its edge and spinning it as she spoke, to the imminent danger of the glasses on the board. Then she added flippantly, "Don't all speak at once or you'll deafen me. Oh! it's you, is it, Conky Jim? Fancy you doing a shout after all these years. Money must be very plentiful just now."

A roar of laughter followed this playful badinage, which did not seem to affect my host in the least. He looked round the room and winked at the company as if to warn them that a joke was coming.

"Now, Polly, my dear," he said with a patronising air, "don't waste the precious moments in idle conversation. I'm standing treat to-day, and don't you forget it. A nobbler of rum for Mr. Dorkin, a ditto of brandy, out of the right bottle mind, for me, and what was it? Let me see. Ah, yes, a glass of Nestlé's milk for the baby. It was milk you said, was it not, my little man?"

When the laughter died down, I told him that a glass of milk would serve my purpose as well as anything else, and though he thought I was joking I can assure you I meant it. He was not going to have it all his own way, whatever he might think. Of that I was determined! When the laughing maid had withdrawn, there was a short silence, during which I noticed that Mr. Dorkin watched me with an expression that was half curious, half sneering, upon his face. Meanwhile my host was explaining his theory of raising infants and training them in the way they should go to those about him. Then the maid reappeared upon the scene, and with the help of the looking-glass behind Mr. Dorkin I could see that she carried the rum and brandy and also the glass of milk that was the cause of all the merriment. She handed the spirits first, and then held out the tray with the milk upon it to me, saying as she did so, in a low voice, "It's a shame. Don't you take it if you don't want to." To which I replied by asking her to remain in the room for a moment. Again I noticed that Dorkin was watching my face. Whether he despised me or not for swallowing the insult so meekly I could not say. At any rate he said nothing on the subject.

"Well, here's good health and good fortune, Dorky, old boy." Then to me, "I looks towards you, younker, and take care that milk doesn't get into your head, or you'll be put to bed when you get home."

This sally was exactly to the taste of the company, with the exception of Mr. Dorkin, who seemed to be deeply occupied in thinking of something else. Now was the time for me to act, and I lost no time in doing so. Without raising my voice above its usual level, I turned and addressed myself to the man who had gone out of his way to play the trick upon me.

"I don't know what your name may be," I observed, endeavouring to speak as calmly as possible, "and I'm very sure I don't want to. There is one thing, however, that I do know, and that is the fact that you have laid yourself out deliberately to insult me. Very good. You have warned me not to let this milk affect my head. I am willing to take your advice, as doubtless the friends who surround you would do under the circumstances. I must get rid of the milk, since it is dangerous, and this is how I do it." So saying, I tossed the contents of the glass full and fair into his face. Such an object as he looked when I had done so I cannot hope to make you understand. Before he could recover himself I had placed the glass upon the table and had prepared myself for what I knew full well would follow. Fortunately I am a fairly good boxer, though of course I ought not to sing my own praises. Even then, in spite of my youth, I was also fairly strong. To crown it all, my blood was up, and I was ready for anything he might attempt.

"You—" he cried furiously, as he mopped the milk from his face and clothes; "you shall pay for this. See if he don't, boys. Throws his dirty milk in a gentleman's face, does he? All right."

Two or three of his friends rose as if to take his part, and then for the first time for nearly ten minutes Mr. Dorkin spoke. What he said was short, but to the point. "The man who interferes has to fight me," he remarked. "The young 'un is a good plucked 'un, and, by the Lord Harry, he shall have fair play. You, Jim Baker, down on your hunks again or I'll give you what will help you. Now, Conky, what have you got to say? Take care you haven't bit off more than you can chew. It does happen so sometimes."

The redoubtable Conky's only reply to this was a curse. Then turning to me, he continued, "As for you, I'll learn you to chuck your cow juice in a man's face. Take that." As he spoke, and almost before I had time to get up my guard, he had launched a vicious blow at my head. If I had not been quick it would have made me see stars for some time to come. As it happened, however, I was able, more by good luck than good management, to ward it off, and with a left hander, straight from the shoulder, landed him on the jaw and sent him down like a ninepin.

"A fair knock out," said Mr. Dorkin critically. "If I know Conky, he won't come up to time. Shake hands on it, my lad, and though it's not my way as a general rule to sing small, I'll ask your pardon. It was me that put it on you first, and by rights I ought to be where Conky is now." He went across the room to where the fallen warrior lay and gave him a hearty kick. "Get up," he said, "get up and beg pardon. You're only shamming, and you know it."

After a short interval the gentleman addressed struggled to his feet, explaining as he did so that he had been struck unfairly and that he would have his revenge later on. Again Mr. Dorkin spoke.

"Stow that rubbish," he observed. "You know as well as I do that you haven't a chance against the youngster. He could double you up, you turnip, with one hand, and he'll do it again if you don't take precious good care. Now say you beg pardon, unless you want to go down again."

The other thought first of endeavouring to carry matters off with a high hand, but a look on Dorkin's face induced him to change his mind. I thereupon came to his assistance, and in an unexpected manner.

"I don't want him to apologise," I said. "I am afraid it would not be sincere. If I may offer a suggestion, I would rather drink with him. You must remember that on the last occasion he did not give the order quite correctly," Then I called the girl to me. "I think, Mr. Dorkin," I began, "you ordered a glass of rum; I will have a glass of beer; and our friend here will, I hope, join us in a glass of milk."

The girl left the room, smiling all over her face. She and my late antagonist had never been friends, and she was by no means displeased at seeing him receive a thrashing. Presently, amid breathless silence, she returned with the drinks I had ordered. One was handed as before to Dorkin, while I myself held out the milk to my late antagonist. "Take it and drink it," I said, "or I promise you I'll do what I did before. You will find it an excellent drink, better for you than brandy and less likely to go to your head. Come, drink it up, if you don't want further trouble."

Amid the jeers of his former admirers who, according to their wont, were quite ready to drop him now that he had fallen from his high estate, he took up the glass and, with the remark that he hoped my next drink would choke me, tossed off the contents. Having done so, he took his departure from the room, more like a whipped puppy than any other animal I could liken him to.

"Young 'un, you're a good plucked 'un, and I'll do you that credit or my name's not Sep. Dorkin," remarked the individual of that name. "We've got to have a bit of a talk together before we've done, and if it comes out satisfactory, as the lawyers say, I don't know but what I won't give you the chance of coming with me when I start out. What's your name, anyway?"

"George Tregaskis," I answered. "My father was once manager of Warraboona Station on the Murray. He was killed when I was only a little chap of nine."

An elderly man who had entered the room a few moments before the Conky Jim episode rose hastily from his seat and came forward to where we were standing. He looked very hard at me, and somehow his face seemed to recall old associations, though I could not for the life of me remember where I had seen him.

"Did I understand you to say that your name was Tregaskis?" he said, looking closely into my face. "Son of George Tregaskis, who was thrown from his horse out mustering when the clumsy brute put his foot in a hole?"

"Yes," I replied, "I am his son, but though I feel sure I know your face, I can't recall where I last saw you. Give me a helping hand. It wasn't in Melbourne, I'm certain of that."

"No, it wasn't in Melbourne. It was out on the Murray at Warraboona. That's where it was. I remember the day you were born and the day you were breeched. I gave you your first riding lesson, and I'm not quite sure that I didn't do most of the work in teaching you to walk. Many's the mile I've carried you on my back, for your mother would trust you with me when she wouldn't with anybody else. Now think for a minute, and see if you can give me my name."

In a flash it occurred to me. How I could ever have forgotten it I could not understand. This old and grizzled man, who knew so much about me, could be no other than my father's faithful henchman and friend, Dick Bennet. I said as much, and as I did so, I saw tears rise in his eyes.

"Yes, it is Dick Bennet, sure enough," he said. "Old Dick Bennet, and to think that you are Master Georgie. Well, well, how you have grown up, to be sure."

Mr. Septimus Dorkin here placed his hand on my arm.

"If you want to kick me, you can do it and welcome," he said. "I give you my word I won't hit back. If I'd a' known you were George Tregaskis's boy I'd have licked your boots before I'd have said what I did to you. Law bless my cabbage tree, I knew your father afore he married your mother, and many's the droving trip we did together when he was a grown man and I was only a sprig of a boy, scarcely big enough to do up his own girths. He was a first-class bushman and an A1 man, and glory be with him. What say you, Dick Bennet, old pal?"

"Amen to it, and many of them," Dick replied, and then he brought his conversation back to me. "And to think of your being little Georgie. Well, well, I never thought to see this day—may I drop dead in my tracks if I did. And your mother, I hope she's hale and hearty?"

"Perfectly," I answered. "You must come out and see her. We're living at Caulfield, and I know how glad she'd be to have a talk with you about old times. Why not come with me now? It's no use my staying in town, for I don't seem to be able to hear of anything that would be likely to suit me. Goodness only knows I've tried hard enough."

"Not quite so fast, my young fellow," remarked my whilom enemy Dorkin. "Things have changed a bit since last we talked it over. You're George Tregaskis's boy, and you're a friend of my friend Dick here. That's good enough for me, and makes all the difference. You don't know much of Bush life, you say, and you've only learnt what you do know behind a desk, in this dod-ratted city that's not fit for a man what calls himself a man to live in. Well, I'm the chap who's got to teach you, and you may put your bottom dollar down on that. I leave here for Sydney next Friday, then go on by rail to Bourke. After that, it's all plain sailing for the Diamintina. Make it right with the old lady, and come and see me here to-morrow morning about this time. We'll square up matters then, and if I don't turn you into as proper a bushman as there is on this 'ere old Continent inside of six months, well, may I never be able to tell the difference between a kangaroo rat and a rock wallaby again. Are you game?"

I certainly was, and I said so. Then, wishing him good-bye, I left the hotel in company with Dick and set off for the railway station, where we were to catch our train for Caulfield.