Читать книгу Short Stories Volume 1 - John Arthur Barry - Страница 5
ОглавлениеBy JOHN ARTHUR BARRY
in the Australasian Pastoralists' Review.
Published in The Clarence and Richmond Examiner
Saturday 09 March 1895 - page 6
EVERYBODY knew that old "Jimmy the Hatter" was doing well. He had been one of the first at 'Possum Gully. Also his claim was one of the best there. But what he did with his gold was a mystery. He was never known to sell any, and certainly none ever went down in the monthly escort. He was a sullen surly customer, hirsute, dirty, and ragged. And, spoken to, one received much the same answer as from a pig—a grunt. And he had but one chum. Nor did he ever seem to sleep. For when "Dutch Frank" And "Billy the Mouse," tired of puzzling their brains over the gold riddle, sneaked up to the bark humpy one stormy dark night, in an attempt to solve it, they were received with buckshot and blasphemy. As they retreated rapidly they could hear Jimmy laughing to himself.
After a time, having got most of the big pellets out, they made another attempt, reinforced by a half-caste Chinaman whose part was to take Jimmy in the rear whilst the others drew the attack in front. And apparently, for once, the old digger was caught napping, for they got right up to the door without hearing a sound. Then the still night air was pierced by a succession of horrid yells from the back of the hut. The front attack rushed away affrighted; and, at daybreak, old Jimmy appeared at the Commissioner's tent dragging along the maimed hybrid, who had fallen into a shaft sunk purposely for such an emergency, covered lightly with bushes and studded at the bottom with the business portions of broken bottles. After this incident no one thought it worth their while to visit the recluse, and he was left in peace.
But, after being missed from his claim for a week, some of the men at last went up to the old hut in the blind gully. It was empty; and the ashes on the hearth were cold. Across the ragged blankets of the bed lay Jimmy's mate, "Darkie," "high" and offensive, and with his back broken. "Darkie" was a big black snake with a red belly, who usually lived in a hole under the threshold of the door, and to whom of an evening the old man—sitting outside—was wont to play on an ancient and asthmatic concertina.
Not a sign of Jimmy could be found; nor any article of value, save an old silver watch that he was known to think very much of, and would never have willingly left behind.
Time passed, and 'Possum Gully became worked out, save for a few fossickers, who stayed on making tucker about the old claims.
One of these, an Irishman known from the country of his birth as "Tip," had been taken possession of by an idea. And in place of fossicking in the legitimate way of business, he started to fossick for old Jimmy's hidden treasure.
"That blashted ould Darkie stinged him. Then, Jimmy, he fetches the timpter of mankoind wan for his nob, an' starts out on the hot foot to plant his stuff afore he croaks. An' I'll bet he didn't git very fur."
This was Tip's notion, derided by all his mates; but he stuck to it to the extent of patching up the lonely decaying old shanty, and shifting into it—himself and his big she-cat.
And, although the floor of the hut had been turned over two feet deep by seekers of treasure, Tip dug deeper still, finding nothing. Then, certain that his original idea was the true one, he went further afield.
And to carry out the notion, and maybe give him some clue, he would go through the whole imaginary performance. Lying on the bunk, he would feign to wake suddenly, be bitten by the intruding snake, and then rush wildly out in the first direction that offered.
But it was all in vain. And many a night Tip, sitting by the fire, communing with himself, or talking to his sole companion, would wonder mightily whether, after all, old Jimmy had not made off with his pile, leaving the few things behind him as a blind. But always he would shake his head and mutter—"No; he's about. H'd niver ha' cleared an' left the ould watch as he thought the world on, an' that Billy the Mouse, bad cess to the thievin' on Adham, shuk, so he did. Ay, he's about somewheres, if I could only drop on him; bad cess to his bones, sez I."
Tip was beginning, in spite of his conviction, to get discouraged, when, one night, Cecilia—the cat—came in with something and began to play with it.
She was accustomed to carry lizards, mice, birds and snakes into the hut. This, however, was nothing of the kind. It was the skeleton of a human hand, whose loosened joints rattled in their dried and shrivelled ligaments as puss tossed and caught it.
As Tip picked it up and recognised it for what it was, he exclaimed "Begol, Sassaylia, me darlint, if ye can show me the shpot where ye found this thing ye shall live in purple an' foine linen all the resht of your days, an' not a man or the childher ye're expectin' will I deproive ye av. Glory be to God, but it's much the size an' look ov wan ov ould Jimmy's big paws, so it is." But Cecilia only purred and lifted up her great green eyes and rubbed her sleek black sides against her master's legs.
Then, for at least a week, Tip shadowed his cat; a fact which she appeared to realise and resent, and to take a malicious pleasure in leading him into all sorts of out-of-the way places where lay the favourite hunting grounds.
Between hut and creek was a well-worn track made by the carrying of water. It was a good step with a couple of full buckets; and about half-way lay a great hollow tree, against which Tip was accustomed to put his burden down and rest for a few minutes.
It was an old coolabah, the interior of which had been eaten out by fire, leaving little else but a mere shell. From this, as Tip one day leaned against, emerged Cecilia, carrying a small bone in her mouth. With a yell Tip stooped and gazed into the black cavity. He could see nothing; but he felt himself within measurable distance of a fortune.
Getting a long pole he tied a piece of stout curved wire to one end, and pushing it up the trunk raked it to and fro. Presently he felt he had hooked something. A strong pull, and sure enough out came "Jimmy the Hatter"—or rather what was left of him, but empty-handed; "A bag ov bones, jist," as Tip put it.
It took some little time, eager as he was, before Tip could summon resolution enough to take the place vacated by the skeleton. And he poked about with his crook for a fruitless hour first. But at last, screwing up his courage he crawled in. It was a tight fit, also a close and an evil-smelling one.
And, suddenly, he burst all over into a hot, tingling sweat as the thought crossed his mind that he would never get out again. He paused in his crawling, struck by an ecstacy of terror; his body seemed to his excited imagination to swell to enormous proportions, filing the big shell with a perfectly fitting human core. Digging his fingers into the crumbling charcoal and preparing for another frenzied push backwards, a faint mewing caught his ear, also answering maternal calls behind. Cecilia's kittens!
The next moment the mother herself stepped lightly along his back, and presently he saw her eyes glaring at arm's length in front. And the comfort of the thing! His scare subsided as by magic. His body seemed to resume its original proportions, and convinced by the passage of the cat that there was plenty of room, he crawled further, and presently, putting out his hand, he felt a nest of small warm furry bodies, and Cecilia's hot tongue, like a rasp upon his flesh.
But he felt something else also. Something solid and heavy, which, pulling to him, he made out to be a big preserved-meat tin, closed at each end.
The return journey seemed to last for ever. But emerging at last, wet through, and black as soot from head to foot, he found that his prize was as he supposed, a meat tin. One end had been only partially cut round, then pressed down again and a piece of basil tied tightly round it with strips of green hide. It was a 10lb. tin, and was full to the brim of nicely cleaned gold, both fine and rough. This was old Jimmy the Hatter's hoard.
Taking up the skeleton, Tip forked it back into the hollow, saying as he pushed the last bone out of sight—
"Sure, me bhoy, an' that's as good a berril as enny other for ye. Nigh on two year ye've kept me outer me money wid yer fantashtic notions o' privacy. Go back agin an' mek things for Sassaylia an' her childher to play wid."
Then Tip, first taking a liberal supply for present use, planted his newly-found fortune and set off for the township. But, disturbed by doubts, when half-way there he returned, took his treasure up, and made a fresh cache. He did this more than once or twice, the cares of the wealthy having gotten hold upon him.
Eventually reaching the township he soon got on a tearing jamberoo that lasted a week. Recovering, he came home to renew supplies, but he couldn't remember where his plant was. Think as he might, search as he might, not the least clue to its whereabouts entered his aching brain.
At last, in despair, and as a forlorn hope, he made a clean breast of the story to the priest, and had the skeleton interred with all honours in holy ground. But even this tardy expiation failed to bring back recollection.
As he still says, "It was too late, so it was. An', afther all, its well desarvin' ov the loss I am, wid me sneerin' an' jeerin' at the poor carpse, instid ov givin' the cratur daycent berril. Yez can all see, now, what'll come to a man, at times, jist bekase ov a wushy error ov judgmint."
