Читать книгу Short Stories Volume 1 - John Arthur Barry - Страница 4
ОглавлениеBy JOHN ARTHUR BARRY,
in The Australasian Pastoralists' Review.
Published in the Clarence and Richmond Examiner
Tuesday 5 February 1895 page 6
HE looked the wan and washed-out wreck of a very powerful man, and he walked with a stick, choosing the sunny side of the street.
It was a broiling hot day, too, and people beckoned him into the shelter of the broad verandahs. But for some time he only shook his head wearily.
At last the landlord of the "Wait a-while" held up his hand, and the man crossed over, and, sitting down, began to shiver.
An Overlander, going-out to the Georgina to lift a mob of cattle, was shouting. "Mine's rum," said the stricken creature, and he put away half-a-tumblerful, and seemed revived by the transaction.
"When did you come out?" asked the landlord. "Ain't out yet—not for good," replied the other. "I've got to go back in a couple of hours. They sez as I ain't got all that dashed weed outer my stummick yet. An' I don't b'lieve as I ever shall get it out. I don't mind the shakes so much. I 'ad them afore, up in the Territory. But I kind o' feels that pigweed a-takin root, an' a-growing, an' spreading all over my binjie inside."
"I know,' said the landlord, nodding comprehensively, "I swallowed a frog oncest, an' for weeks arter I could ha' sworn my binjie was turned into a pig swamp; an' I used to stop suddent an' listen for the croakin. Mental abration, the doctors calls it. Now, what you wants is plenty o' rattlin' good tucker—not the slops you gets up in the 'ospittle yonder. Arter a man's done a five weeks' perish on bloomin' pigweed an' a little tarrier dawg, his innards should be in a state o' such waccum as'd make 'em fit to tackle anythin' substanshul.''
"That's jist where you're out ov it, Boss," replied the convalescent fretfully. "The doctor sez as it 'ud kill me straightaway, to eat a bit 'o roast beef, an a mutton chop's sartain sooside. Every scrap o' that there weed's got to come away afore he'll risk any change o' dite."
"What are they feedin' you on, mate?" asked the drover.
"Arrer-root, an' say-go, an' tap-i-o-ky, an' such-like slush," replied the visitor in a tone of disgust. "An' I 'ad to promise faithful as I wouldn't take no solids, as they calls 'em, afore they'd 'low me out for a stroll. But," he concluded with a pathetic grin, "they didn't say nothin' as to liquors."
Somebody took the hint at once.
"That's good," remarked the patient, drawing a long breath, "bites all the ways down. Wot wouldn't I ha' give fer such a dazzler on that blasted hiland out yonder!"
"Spin the yarn, mate," said the drover. "I'll see you gets back safe to the 'ospittle."
"'Tain't much ov a yarn," replied the other, "you seen it pretty well all in the papers. Only they goes an' puts it in as I killed Dandy, which I'd sooner ha' died fust. 'Owever, as they're makin' a collekshun, I didn't kick up no row—'specially as the cove happolergised arterw'ards, an' sez as how he only put it in for heffect. Well, gents, 'ere's luck again, an' long life to us all; an' I'll tell ye the rights of the matter so as there'll be no mistake in the future!"
Well, I was makin' from the Paroo over on to the Warrigal. It were dry, so dry that the folks on that 'God-forsook shop telled me as I'd never git through for want o' water. O' course I was 'umpin' bluey an' leadin' ole billy, same's ever. It were a real 'ungry track. No use carryin' ration-bags. You goes up ter a station an' they chucks yer a bit o' meat, jist like a dorg—take it or leave it, an' be d——d. No flour, no tea, no sugar, no nothin' cept a few hounces 'o scraggy mutton. I never 'ad a bellyful but oncest, an' that was at a drover's camp. Drovers is about the only Chrischuns left in them parts. As fer squatters—yah! why them there 'omested lesseesers as they calls 'em 's better nor squatters! An' if 'is master went hungry, many's the night poor little Dandy 'ad to curl 'isself up agin me with a empty binjie on 'im. There wasn't nothin', you see, as he cud ketch afore we hits the rabbit country. Then 'e's all right. He'd slip inter a burrer, an' me watchin' atop with a waddy. Presen'ly, out pops mister bunny an' gits wot for. But I couldn't never tackle 'em—not if I was paid for it. You see, I'd bin at the game. So I does a small perish whiles Dandy gits mud fat. 'Owever, I doesn't mind much. You understan', I'm dead bent on gittin' out o' that Western country altogether. I were real full up an' brimmin' over, so ter speak, an' I meant to git away on to a ole' towri o" mine on the Moree side, where they never seen the sight o' mulga nor that stinkin' gidgee wots enuff to make a man turn 'is 'art up over yonder.
"So I jogs along, fair an' go easy; hot, dry weather, rabbits fer Dandy, an' when 'e's in luck, a 'an' full o' damper-dust an' a pinch o' tea fer 'is boss. But that ain't very often. The country out there ain't thickly poperlated, an' the station storekeepers is mos'ly 'ard'arted 'ermits wot ain't much better nor blackfellers.
"One night I camps on a sand'ill. I was dry; likewise pretty empty. "Water'd bin scarce along the road an' I didn't expeck another drink till I gits to a Guv'ment tank, some time nex' mornin'. An' at the larst station they'd told me straight as they didn't give nothin' to tramps—tramps, mind yer, a name as I'd never bin called afore in the country!
"'Owever, I makes one small Johnny-on-the-coals, whacks 'im 'an 'arf the larst drop o' water with Dandy, an' goes to roost.
"'Bout midnight Dandy wakes, me with 'im yap—yappin'—like mad. It were pitchy dark, an' I sets up in the blankets, but, o' course, couldn't see a stem afore one. But I feels, some'ow, as if things ain't O.K. There's cur'us noises goin' about through the night—croakin's an' little shreekin's, an a soun' like the wind a-moanin in a belar scrub.
"The fire'd burned down till it looked like a big roun' red eye a-starin' straight at a feller out o' the blackness. Afore I'd turned in I'd spotted a pile o' dead wood clost 'andy. I makes to'rds this, meanin' to chuck some on the fire. Lo, an' be'old yer, I 'adn't gone not a couple o' dozen yards when I'm splash splashin' over the rocks in water. Drorin' back to camp, I starts thinkin', an', as it turns out, pretty well hit the rights o' the bizness. It mus' be, I thought, that blasted spider's web o' cricks—the Bree, an' the Culger, an' the Warrigal, an' the Bokhira, an' the Irara, an' all the rest o' the push—that mos' times a feller can't git enuff to make a billy o' tea outer, a-comin' a-rampin' an' a-roarin' 'ot fast down from Queenslan', fit to bust their banks with stuck-up pride. Feast or famin', it is, over there. It were feast this time for them, an' famin' fer me.
"Mornin' were fine; but there wern't nothin' only water as fur's ye cud see, 'cept 'ere an' there a 'ump like wot I wos on.
"An' the water was risin' and risin', slow an' sure, all the day. An', one by one, them other 'umps all gits covered. So I slings my drum up in a brigalow tree as growed on my hiland, an' prepares fer the wust.
"One cumfut I 'ad. I seen my camp 'ad bin a ole sheep-station many year back. There was dung there yet, an' pieces o' rotten yards, likewise lashin's o' pigweed, an' a bit o' fat-hen, an' some penny-ryal; an' I knowed I was 'igh, mos likely as 'igh as I cud git, bar climbin'.
"An' sure enuff, the water, though it ruz near up to the fire, never come no further. I'd pegs in everywheres; an' all day, an' mos all night too, I'm watchin' them sticks. I never thought till arter the third day 'bout keepin' tally o' the time. But, then, I cuts a nick for each one on a branch o' brigalow. I boils the pigweed in my billy—brekfus, dinner, an' supper. It scours me 'orrible, an' I gits as weak's a kitten. Dandy, too, was fast losin' all 'is good rabbit condition. Fust job, o' mornin's, was to go roun' my hiland—'bout one hundred yards—an' brush varmin off—centerpees, scorpins, an' every sort o' bugs an' beedles as creeps' an' crawls. Oncest, at the fust, snakes, dead an' alive, uster come; an' I kills a big black feller, with a red belly, an' shoves 'im on the coals, an' tries to tackle 'im, like I seen the blacks do many a time. I only got a small bit down when my stummick, saz 'git up!' an' up it come, double quick. Then I tries Dandy, but it were no go. 'E wasn't mean enuff fer that.
"Many a time, when I'd got my belt buckled up till I wos like a bloomin 'ornet, I looks longin'ly at that poor little tarrier, an' Dandy 'e looks back agin, so much as to say, 'Alright, boss, 'ere I am, ready an' willin', if so it 'as to be.'
"But I couldn't do it. I 'adn't the 'art. There wasn't a faithfuller little beast in the world; an', when he'd look at me out o' them big brown eyes o' his'n, that pityin' an sad-like, mine ud begin to water; an' he'd drag hisself up an' lick my an's as lovin' as a Chrischun. You see I'd raired 'im from a pup. A feller out at Urisino, Sammy Wilson's place, on the Paroo, give 'im to me when he warn't so big 's yer fist, an' I carried 'im 'underds o' miles in my billy afore 'e cud walk. We'd bin together nigh on five year, an' I sez to myself as we might's well stop together now.
"At length an' at last I gits so thunderin weak that I've got ter crawl on 'an's an' knees to fill the billy to cook the weed. Then, to make the picnic completer, an' put the dead finish on it, I breaks out all over sores—great big fellers with a red spot in the middle ov em—as gives me gip if the leastest thing touches 'em. (Yes, Boss; mine's rum agen. I wont forgit this 'ouse when they gives me my colleckshun.)"
"Well, one mornin' I wakes up outer a kind o' duck's doze, feelin' somethin' cold an' 'eavy squattin' on my chest. It were poor little Dandy, stiff an' dead. An' gents, I wos that weak an' bad that I ain't shamed to say as I cried like a child over his body. That very mornin' I seen the water startin' to go down as if it meant it. Four weeks an' four days. But I was close up a goner; an I seen plain that, if I was ever to git away, there wasn't nothin' else for it, only one thing, though it went 'orrible agen the grain. But life's sweet, gents, an' never so sweet as when there's a chanst o' losin' it. So I whips out my Dover an'—well—there! That billy o' strong 'out soup saves my bacon. An' I makes another, an' another. Nex' day, leavin' my swag, I sez good-bye to Pig-weed Hiland, an' starts wadin', strikin' out fer the Guvment tank, where I know'd there was a fam'ly livin'. By gosh, that was a trip. Mud an' water, swimmin' an' wadin', deep an' shaller, I struggles and tears throught it till, that night, I hit's a bound'ry rider's hut, clean done up. There ain't nothin' there to eat 'cept an ole slush lamp full o' stinkin' fat. I scoffs that, wick an' all, as if 't'ad bin best Wollongong. An' then I lays down on the bunk, makin' sure its u.p. this time. An' there they finds me, a couple o' days arter, a rampin' lunytick, ravin bout Dandy, an' snakes, an' floods, an' such matters. (Thanks, mate, I don't mind if I does—fer the last one . . . The wardsman's a-comin' arter me, is he? Let 'm come, an' I'll knock 'is bloomin' ole head off 'im. I ain't a-goin' back to slops and low dite no more. Not if I knows it! Roll up, boys, my shout this time! I ain't got a thrum, but my name's in the papers, an' a colleckshun's comin'. . . . Let me at 'im, I tell yer! Whoop! No more orsepittle fer this chicken!)' — The Australasian.
