Читать книгу Short Stories Volume 4 - John Arthur Barry - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Waajil, in the Central Division of the Colony of Carpentaria, was known throughout the length and breadth of the district as a "hard" station. And by common consent, the nomadic population of the bush had tacked the opprobious adjective "hungry" on to its owner's name. "Hungry Morgan of Waajil" was how he was invariably spoken of, not only by the wandering swagmen whom stern necessity drove to his station, but by his neighbors, with whom he was almost as unpopular.

His father had purchased Waajil with money made on Gympie diggings, and in the course of years formed it into a very fine property, hard drinking, hard swearing, hard riding scamp though he was. Nor could anyone hint at his possession of that cardinal sin of the bush—meanness. "Black Morgan" his men had called him; and whilst they feared his appalling temper and the long lash of the big stockwhip with which in his fits of anger he practiced upon them, still they knew that he would sooner die than defraud them out of a penny they were entitled to. And his rage over, he was always ready to pay liberally for his "fun." Also, he fed his men well; and Waajil for many years bore the reputation of being, if a bit rough, still a place one could live on.

But when the old man, full of years and rum, was carried to the station burying-ground and planted under the shady wilgas, and Mathew, his son, came down from the little cattle station on the Gulf that his father had given him as a start in life, and took charge of Waajil, there were changes with a vengeance. All the old hands were dismissed; wages lowered 25 per cent, rations cut down to the lowest possible point, and bought of the very worst quality. The "ten, ten, two and a quarter" of the old regime, with in reality "the run of your knife," so far as meat was concerned, gave way to an allowance that left the men perpetually hungry. Also the new Morgan sacked the cook, so that everybody had to "do" for themselves. For there were men found to work under such conditions— wastrels of the bush, who would stay for just time sufficient to recover from some drunken spree, and then shoulder their swags and off again on the wallaby.

And Mathew Morgan, now a dark, dour man of seven and thirty, mercilessly worked the material at his command, poor as it was, and tried very hard to get the value of his miserable wages and starvation rations out of it. The great bell rang o' mornings long before the eastern sky showed the slightest streak of grey; and in the dark shivering figures emerged from the wretched hut, known by courtesy as the "men's quarters," and straggled about picking up wood to boil their quart-pots with, whilst many of them, too tired the night before to bake johnny cake or damper for the morning meal, simply turned over on their couches of gum leaves and slept till the second bell clanged at sunrise, and brought them out with axe, or hoe or bridle, as the case might be, to work at clearing, burr cutting, or drafting, at some distant sheep yards.

The overseers were of the class known as "working," great, coarse, strapping fellows, whom Morgan took care to feed and pay fairly well, inasmuch, as unable to be all over the run himself, he was forced to have someone to trust to as far as he allowed himself to trust any living creature.

Of course, there were men who got sick of the place in a day, and who, Australia being a free country, humped their swags away the next morning. There were others who, despite the driving and the short commons, remained some time, cursing the while the master who ground so much unaccustomed labor out of their unwilling hands. These, however, were generally men with whom adjoining squatters would have nothing to do at any price. And their surprise was great at the way Morgan and his overseers would succeed in knocking the sweat out of such wastrels upon whom good food and kind treatment only had the effect of making them lazy and saucy to boot.

As time went on, the better class of swagmen, knowing that it was utterly useless to think of obtaining food, shelter, or work there, gave Waajil a wide berth. But even then Morgan often happened to catch them on the run, across which he was accustomed to ride day and night. On one occasion he found a traveller camped in a river bed, evidently intent on a spell, whilst his horse was eating Waajil grass. Upon demanding the agistment shilling which he invariably extorted on such occasions, the trespasser said nothing, but turned his pocket inside out. He was a small, thin, active looking fellow, whose bare arms and breast showed unmistakenly the marks of his former profession in many tracings of red and blue ships, flags and anchors.

"Broke, eh?" remarked the squatter, with a sneer. "Well, then," he continued, picking up, as he spoke, a new tomahawk, that lay on the unopened pack, and little dreaming of the momentous issues that the fates had hung on that small axe, "I'll take this instead of the money."

"No, you don't, you mean hound," exclaimed the man, stepping forward as Morgan remounted, "how am I to get along without a tommy?"

"That's your business," replied the other, "you should have thought of that before you came stealing my grass."

"Why, you mus' be 'Ungry Morgan hisself," said the traveller, "there, ain't, another man in the colony'd do wot you jus' done. By the Lord, if they'd had you in some places I knows on they'd ride ye down like a Yankee main-tack. 'Ungry Morgan, yah!" and the man made a gesture of infinite disgust.

"No cheek, now," replied the squatter, frowning angrily, or, I'll drive your horse to the pound. Saddle up and clear off the run, and think yourself lucky."

"Well," said the other, catching up his bridle, and speaking with excessive and labored politeness, "you 'ave got the weather bulge on me at present, Mister Morgan, of Waajil. An' I don't expec' as I'll ever git the chance o' squarin' yards with you respectin' that there new tommy as you've hannexed. But if so be as I should—well, then, stand clear! So help me," he added, as the squatter rode off without taking any further notice of him, "if the grass was only a bit drier I'd have the worth o' that tommy out o' your blooming station. Well, of all the mean things I ever struck, that beats 'em clean."

Once, a year, when shearing was over, the owner of Waajil was accustomed to pay a visit to Endeavour, the capital of the colony, staying there some three or four weeks. Except to his agents, he was known to nobody in the city; and even they were ignorant of his address, all letters being forwarded to his private box at the G.P.O.

This particular season the clip had been a very fine and heavy one, and in place of selling locally, as usual, the agents had chartered an American sailing ship, which, amongst other produce, carried the Waajil wool to London.

"She takes it for less than any British bottom would do," explained the agent to Morgan, "and she'll be Home just in the nick o' time for the February sales. I thought it too good a chance to lose, and the Hoboken seems fast, and has just been surveyed, and pronounced tight and seaworthy."

Morgan nodded his head. "Only remember that I want a shilling," said he, as he turned to leave the office, "if Waajil wool ain't worth that much a pound, clean and bright and sound, without a break, it's worth nothing. Mind and mail that reserve Home now!"

"Blow him and his reserve," muttered Mr. Combing (of Combing, Locks, and Company). "I'd sooner do business with his old father fifty times over. He'd be satisfied with the market price. And take it, and have done with it, and stand 'cham,' on the strength of the sale, too. That chap thinks nobody else can grow wool but himself. He's sly and deep and mean as they make 'em is this one! Why, hang me, if he's ever offered me a drink since I've known him, and I remember him a boy at 'King's,' over yonder. I fancy, though, that he lets himself go when he's down here. Looked just now as if he's been out all night." and the stout old broker stared after the retreating form of his client with an eye of high disfavor. In those days they managed few business matters in Endeavour without the aid of copious libations.

* * * * * *

In the sailor town of Port Endeavour are dancing saloons frequented almost solely by seamen. In one of them, known as the Royal Sovereign, a recently paid-off crew were making things lively, careening over the long floor, each with his arm round a woman's waist. A couple of waiters from the adjoining bar handed incessant drinks, whilst a squeaky fiddle and jangling piano in one corner supplied the dancers with music. All were smoking, and many were drunk; the benches around the walls were crowded with sailors and women, who applauded the dancer's with polyglot cries of encouragement.

Every nation in the civilised world seemed represented. There were Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, Spaniards, Britishers, Americans, and men of color ranging from Negroes and Kanakas to Lascars and Maories. The noise was deafening, a very bable of languages, through which the musicians, madly as they played, had hard work to make themselves heard.

Seated on one of the benches, with his arm around the waist of a rather pretty German girl, was a man in whom Mr. Combing would have been rather puzzled, indeed, to recognise his late visitor and client. Dressed in a suit of shiny serge slops, peaked cap, and crimean shirt, and drawing steadily at a short, black wooden pipe, was Mathew Morgan, the owner of Waajil, who, of all places, had chosen Sailor Town in which to "let himself go." At his feet were two large pewter pots full of ale, from which he and his partner helped themselves freely. At a glance it could he seen that he was in his element. He, usually so grim and silent among his men, with nothing but black looks for the best of them, was here babbling in talk to the girl beside him. His gestures were animated, and he laughed often. It was just such a scene and place as his father would have loved to disport himself in. Only the old digger would have been throwing his money about with the most spendthrift of the homeward bounders. His son showed not the slightest disposition that way. Indeed, his drinks had been "shouted" for him and his companion.

Presently there was a fresh inrush of seafarers, and one of them, after a while, drifted to a vacant seat near the squatter. For a time he did not notice him. Then, happening to turn, his eye fell on the couple. Morgan had now the girl on his knee, and was talking and laughing away at a great rate. Staring as if unable to credit his eyesight, the man leaned over and listened.

"Me no sailor?" The squatter was saying, imitating his companion's broken English. "How do you know?"

"Look at hands," replied the other jeeringly, as she pointed to his brown, but soft and evidently well, kept, ones. "No tar touch them," she continued, "No fear, you no sailor man."

"What am I, then, since you are so dashed knowing?" asked the other.

"Oh, some bushy or other, I 'spect," replied the girl carelessly, "come to town for a spree down. Now you shout," and she pointed significantly to her empty pot.

But the squatter promptly declined. "I've been ashore too long," said he, "and I'm stone-broke. To-morrow night, perhaps, if I can raise the wind."

"You's a shyster," replied the girl, indignantly, jumping off his knee; "money you 'ave got! I felt it in your pocket 'ust now. You let other fellow shout, shout you so much as they like, and never offer one drink to nobody."

* * * * * *

"By the Holy Poker, that settles it," muttered the listener. "I was pretty certain of 'im afore. But now I'm dead sure. An' 'Amburg Anna there seized 'im to a T, she did! I guess I'm jest about seein' my way to get upsides with you now, Mister 'Ungry, for the trick you played me last year."

A few minutes more and he might have been seen deep in talk with the master of the house, a rascally looking Jew; and to their counsels was presently summoned "Hamburg Anna," who, a little later, went up to Morgan and asked him to have a dance with her. Later, much later, past midnight, in fact, and when all the people who were sober enough had gone to their homes and their ships, the Jew was serving drinks to the three in his own little parlor, a close stuffy den, the air of which, after a few minutes, seemed to make Morgan sleepy, for he all at once fell back on the frowsy sofa, breathing stertorously. The girl glanced at him with contempt, intensified as the Jew searched the insensible man's pockets and produced nearly two pounds in gold and silver, but no scrap of paper of any description.

"You mistake make; he no sailor," said she. "He no good on a ship."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the man, handing her one of Morgan's half sovereigns. "You keep your mouth shut. Now go home and go to bed."

Outside the night was close and hot. The moon had risen, showing, not a hundred yards away, the gleam of water and the rigging of tall ships lying at the wharves. The deep silence of the middle night was upon the port, broken only by the rattle of some distant steam winch on a vessel working overtime at discharging her cargo, or by the toot toot of a steamer's syren as she moved cautiously up the harbor to her berth from the open sea. And not a soul noticed the hand-cart that presently left the Royal Sovereign with a drunken seaman lying upon a new mattress, whilst near him gleamed those sure signs of the outward bounder—a new tin hook-pot and pint. The man who pushed the cart whistled the tune of "Shenandoah" as he went, whilst the one on the bed snored heavily.

When Mathew Morgan awoke, with a head like lead and a throat like a cat's tail, he found himself lying in what he thought for a minute was one of the bunks in the men's hut at Waajil; also, he imagined, that an earthquake was in progress. As he lay there in a half-comatose condition and stared at the swaying ceiling above him something crawled up his neck and cheek and balanced itself on his nose, something large and brown, with goggle-eyes, and long feelers that it protruded and withdrew in a tentative sort of manner, as if considering the wisdom of any further advance. It was only a big, harmless, inquisitive cockroach, but the man gave a yell and jumped up and shook himself, while the insect fell with a sounding flop on the floor and scuttled off in dismay.

At that moment a door opened, and there entered a tall, powerful man in dripping oilskins, sou'wester, and sea boots. Without a moment's pause he seized Morgan by the neck and propelled him with kicks many and severe out of the door and on to the deck of the ship, "There, you blasted lime-juice scowbanker," said he "I'll larn ye to skulk when it's all hands. Up ye gets now, an' on to that maintaups'l yard, or, by the 'tarnel, I'll break every bone in that fool carcase o' yourn."

It was blowing half a gale of wind and the crew were furling the fore and main upper topsails. But Morgan knew nothing of that. He only saw some men perched precariously on a lofty stick from which rolls of canvas banged in thunderous fury, as, with shouts of encouragement to each other, they tried to grasp and subdue them. Spindrift flew in sheets over the weather-rail, and at each dive the vessel gave a cataract of ice-cold water came surging up to his knees.

"Now then," roared the man, returning from the opposite side of the deck; "ain't ye up aloft yet, eh? What yer garpin' at?" And without more ado he hit Morgan in the face, knocking him head over heels into the water that seethed along the lee-scuppers.

The bath cleared the squatter's bewildered brain as nothing else could have done, and the sight of the blood; pouring from his nose roused the fighting instinct within him. So that, picking himself up, he flew furiously at his assailant. But he was weak from the effects of the drug given him, at the Royal Sovereign, and the footing was deceptive and uncertain. Thus, the struggle was short; and presently, bruised and bleeding, he was being dragged by one leg the whole length of the deck to where stood a man dressed in black watching another who moved a wheel to and fro. This much Morgan saw as he was pulled to his feet and heard his captor say, "A regular bully-boy this, cap'en. One of the rowdy dowdy packet rats, I guess. The new crowd seem pretty well smoothed down now, only fer him. Sez he ain't no sailorman. 'Spose he only come fer a picnic like, an' not fer keeps."

The captain, a tall man with hard, blue eyes, thin lips, and face clean-shaved but for a reddish goatee, looked at Morgan as he stood holding on to a backstay, bareheaded, his clothes torn, bleeding and soaked.

"If y'arnt a sailor, then, what are ye?" he asked.

"I'm a squatter, a sheep farmer," replied Morgan sullenly; and by G—d you shall smart for this kidnapping business before I've done with you. I'm worth forty thousand pounds and I'll spend it to the last farthing to have satisfaction."

"Who got him, Mr. Higlow?" asked the captain.

"I ain't sartain," replied the officer, "but I guess he's one of that lot that Sharky Isaacs picked up for us. You oughter know, Simms," and he turned to the man at the wheel. "Didn't the cap'en give you considerable of a free hand in this biz o' gittin' men?"

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Simms, " 'e were one ov 'em, right enuff. An' if 'e ain't no sailor it warn't my fault. What call'd 'e 'ave to be messin' round in a sailor's togs, an' carryin' on top ropes in a sailor's dance room?"

At that moment Morgan caught sight of the name "Hoboken" on a couple of lifebuoys that hung on the taffrail. "Why," he cried, "I'm d—d if this isn't the same ship that's taking my wool home—800 bales—W over M. The W's for Waajil, the name of the station, and the M for Morgan, my own. Ah, won't I make you smart for this. I tell you what," he shouted in his excitement; "this little bit of fun'll cost you dear! I'll have you all in gaol yet, and the value of your infernal ship won't pay my damages. Put back and bring me to Mr. Combing, my agent, and see what he's got to say about it!"

At the mention of the agent's name the captain's lank jaw dropped ever so slightly, and for a moment the possibility of a hideous mistake flashed across his mind. But a glance at the disreputable, object before him brought reassurance. Besides, if it should be a true bill, the sea was wide and deep, and London many thousand miles away.

"You're tonified some, stranger," he replied contemptuously. "But we've only your word for all this high falutin' sort of fairy story. If you're a rich farmer, what was ye doin' in that one-horse, low-down shanty, anyhow; an' rigged up, same as ye was, in imitation of a sailor? If ye had a witness now, or any writings to prove—"

"I'm almost sure that man knows me," interrupted Morgan, who had been staring at Simms with a look of puzzled recognition. "I can't place him, but, likely enough, he's been on my station."

"Gammon," surlily replied the helmsman, thus appealed to, "I seen you fust larst night at the Royal, a cuddlin' of 'Amburg Anna, as reg'lar a bloomin' shellback to look at as ever made a pier 'ead jump at Blackwall, or roared 'Aul out to lee'ard' a comin' down Channel in winter with a dirty stockin' roun' his neck. Garn!"

"I reckon that yarn o' yourn won't wash," remarked the captain at this. "It makes me tired, that squatter biz does! Now, you git, en' if we kin make a sailor o' you we'll allow to do a fair thing by you in wages. If we can't, why, then, you're dollars wasted, an' we'll take 'em out o' your hide. Git!"

"But I tell you—" Morgan shrieked, half beside himself with rage, then the big mate's relentless vice of a hand gripped his neck and shot him for'ard. Here he was introduced to the second officer, just down from aloft, who, saluting him with a curse, ordered him to tail on to the topsail halliards if he didn't want to feel as if he'd been struck by lightning. And Simms, watching from the wheel, muttered to himself, "That there tommy o' mine's gittin' paid for, arter all! By gum, though, e'll make it 'ot for some of us bimebye." Then, as his eye fell on the captain, also watching the shanghaied man, something told him that any eventuality of the kind would be amply provided against by one word from him.

And now began for the unfortunate squatter a very bitter experience indeed. Discovering that, unless he was a past master in the art of sham, he was, as he declared, utterly ignorant of the whole business, and did not in reality know one end of the ship from the other, the men, mostly a hybrid lot of scamps, made him their slave and butt. They nicknamed him "Forty," because of the ill-timed allusion to his money. And the man who, until now, had been a law only to himself, dared not even by a look protest against the indignities heaped upon him. The bread and water of affliction was his daily diet; clothed in the insufficient rags flung to him by his masters, he had to hold himself ready to jump at their slightest call, day and night; he never sat to eat until all were finished, thankful if they had left scraps enough to satisfy his hunger with.

Not all at once had his spirit been thus broken and his stiff back bent. It had taken weeks of ill-treatment before he recognised the futility of "bucking against odds," as his persecutors put it. But at last he gave in, content to await that revenge, thoughts of which kept him warm in the icy winds of the Southern Ocean that cut into his half clad frame like knives.

The captain never noticed him by word or look, but the two mates, each in his watch, hazed him remorselessly all day long—for, he never went below—whilst at night, if anything was wanted by a man, a slung sea boot fetched "Forty" out of his bunk to get it. But for the sweet hope of vengeance, the hell in which he lived must have proved too much for him.

The only Britisher in the crew was Simms; and as time passed he began to vaguely perceive that the price he had exacted was too high, and altogether out of proportion to the slight inconvenience he had been put to that day on Waajil. Also he knew, none better, that if the captain once began to think, or even entertain the least suspicion, that the kidnapped man's tale was true, Morgan's life would not be worth a minute's purchase; and then he, Simms, would be, to all intents and purposes, a murderer. Thus, presently, stirred with some feeling of compunction for the mischief he had worked, as far as he dared, he interposed between the unhappy squatter and his tormentors in the foc's'le.

But the men were a bad lot; incompetent, too; so, that, after their "bucko" officers had been pounding them on deck, they thought it only fair to take it out of "Forty" as much as possible when they got him below. Nevertheless, Morgan was grateful, and his heart warmed to the sailor as it had never done to any human creature yet except himself. And always that vague sense of their having met before haunted him. Like most men bred amongst stock, he had a good memory for faces, and had he been in his ordinary state of mind would, doubtless, have recalled the incident, and long ago told the captain everything, thereby, perhaps, at the same time convincing the American, and assuring his own doom.

But presently the end came.

* * * * * *

They had turned the Corner—rounded the Horn—and were making north about, when, one night, Morgan, who had been called up to trim the lamp in the mate's berth, heard a tremendous grinding crash amidships, the shock of which threw him on his knees. There was a fresh breeze blowing at the time, and as he staggered through the alley-way on to the deck, he stood helpless and bewildered, staring aghast at the scene of ruin and confusion that the light of the young moon disclosed. All the lofty heights of canvas and spars from the heads of the three lower masts up had fallen, some over the side, some inboard, while a huge mass bulked high half across the cut down Hoboken, which, even to his inexperienced eye, was sinking rapidly.

Almost by instinct he groped his way across the falling spars and gear to where the sharp stem of the steamer that had wrought the mischief was slowly backing out from the Hoboken's crushed and riven timbers, her siren shrieking wildly, lights springing up from both her sides, and hoarse orders and oaths sounding from her lofty decks.

All at once a man rushed up to him, shouting, "Is that you, Forty? I been lookin' all over the shop for you. Quick now! She's sinkin' like a stone! Can you swim? No! Well, I can. Come over this way. Now shove this belt on. I shook it outer one o' the saloon berths." Whilst speaking, Simms, for it was he, took the life belt off his own body, and put it around Morgan's. "Now," he went on, "foller me, and jump clear out as ye can, or she'll drag us down. Most of the chaps is under the wreckage. There's all your wool gone, sure pop! But, never mind, there's plenty more agrowing on the sheep's backs at Waajil. Don't you mind me now?" he continued, as he led his companion to the almost submerged rail, "I'm the chap as you took the tommyhawk from that day, camping in the paddock. An' there's no denyin' I've done you a d—— bad turn for it! All the same, I ain't agoin' to have you drowned into the bargain, if I can 'elp it. Now, jump like blazes arter me, an' then strike out and away from the ship. The steamer's boats 'ull sure to be round presently and pick us up. Well, so long, if we doesn't met again. Shake?" and to the query Morgan put out his hand and gripped the sailor's hand hard and in silence, and was glad for ever after that he had done so.

Of late he had begun to almost doubt his own identity; despair had taken firm hold on him and possessed his soul with a sort of sickening conviction that he was doomed to remain ever an outcast and a wanderer—a squalid and homeless servitor of other men. And here, face to face with death, came grateful recognition. As in a flash he remembered it all now, and could almost have laughed aloud, as the huge severity of the punishment he had endured was borne home to him—three months of hideous and brutal slavery for one act of petty meanness out of thousands. Still, to his own astonishment, he had forgiven the man who had worked him such woe. More, he was beginning to wonder if people were justified in calling him "Hungry" and a "nigger driver," and his station a "workhouse," as he had often heard they did. Hard and sharp he knew he was, and had been proud of the fact. But the experience of the past months had knocked all the pride out of him. He, too, latterly in the silent night watches had found time for some reflection and searching of heart, and he knew that he was a changed man—whether for better or worse he was not quite certain. And here he was, up to his chin in water, battling furiously with the waves that dashed at him and flung brine into his smarting eyes, and tried to get down his throat and choke him, and would quickly have made an exit of him but for the lifebelt that the other man had robbed himself of for him.

He had jumped just behind Simms, but could see no signs of him, or hear ought except the roaring of water as he struggled blindly ahead. Once he thought he heard a shriek of despair close to him, but the little moon gave so feeble a light as to be almost worse than none. Presently his arm struck a floating spar, and, dragging himself upon it, he stared around. At first, panting with exhaustion, and half blinded, he could make out nothing at all. Then he saw the steamer's lights, quite close by; also other lights dancing about. He shouted wildly, but the wind bore his voice away from what he was now certain must be boats searching for any survivors. Of the Hoboken herself he could see nothing. Presently he heard the shrill screaming of a siren, and gradually the lights made towards the steamer. She was recalling her boats. And as he realised this, and the bitterness of death, trebly accentuated by the nearness of help, seized upon him more forcibly than ever—he alternately wept, and raved, and prayed, and cursed.

"All right, mate," shouted a gruff voice all at once out of the gloom, "we're a comin'," and a boat pulled up from behind him, and he felt somebody grab hold of him and drag him off his spar, and then he lost consciousness for a while. When he recovered he found himself on the steamship City of Teheran, bound to Auckland (N.Z.).

There were but two other survivors, so awfully sudden had been the catastrophe that sent the ill-fated Hoboken to the bottom, and both of them—an Italian and a German—were so terribly injured by falling spars as to make their recovery very doubtful. Truly his revenge had been more complete than he would have either dreamt of or wished for.

Having no mind to tell his story to the Teheran's people, he kept his own counsel. And, inasmuch as he was the only one who could testify—none knowing better, for they were amongst his special cares—that the Hoboken on the night of the collision was showing no lights, the steamer's officers treated him particularly well; clad him decently, and offered him a wage as assistant to the man who looked after some cattle and horses they had on board.

Shortly before they arrived at Auckland the two seamen died of their injuries, thus leaving Morgan the only survivor out of all the Hoboken's company.

From the New Zealand city, after giving evidence before the Marine Board in his character of rouseabout of the Hoboken, he took a steerage passage to Sydney in one of the Union steamers, landing there after such a four months' experience as had—whilst sprinkling his hair with grey, and bowing his back, and hardening his hands,—begun already to effect a radical change in the hard nature of the man.

* * * * * *

"Now," said Mr. Combing, as he read a note from Morgan, asking him to call at the Metropole, "there'll be the deuce to pay about that Hoboken wool. Under insured, too, a couple of thousand! He's bound to swear it was all my fault; and we'll lose his clip. Oh, hang it, let it go then! In any case, there's no satisfaction in working for a sour, mean cuss like that. If he starts naggin', I'll just give him a bit of my mind that'll surprise him."

But, to Mr. Combing's astonishment, not only was there no "naggin'," but the loss of the £2,000 was dismissed with hardly a word. As if this were not miracle enough; his client actually invited him to stay and dine with him—gave him a good dinner, too, with plenty of that dry, old Heidsieck that the worthy broker's heart delighted in. His client, it appeared, had been from home—away on a tour—and was only now returning to the station. And although Mr. Combing had hazarded no remark on the subject, he privately thought that it must have been a curious sort of tour that could not only send comparative youth well on towards middle age, but apparently change the nature of a man into the bargain. But he said nothing, not even when the squatter handed him a long list of station requisites to be forwarded at once to Waajil; and he noticed that every item, especially that one of rations—heretofore a byword for rubbish—was to be of the best quality.

Only when he got outside did he relieve his feelings with a long, loud whistle, and the remark, "Well, now, I wonder where that tour took him to? If I knew the place, there's a few other folk in this city I could recommend to make it with advantage."

But neither Mr. Combing nor anyone else ever knew.

* * * * * *

It was breathlessly hot, and the metallic chirring of the cicadas rang through the still air till the whole bush seemed to vibrate with it, as two nomads met on the dusty track, and—as if by mutual consent—turned off and made for a shady mulga, cast their swags from their tired shoulders, took a sparing drink at their water bags, filled their pipes, and prepared to exchange the news of the wallaby track.

"Where did you call larst?" inquired one presently.

"Waajil," replied the other, glancing towards some well-filled ration bags tied to his swag.

"Yah," exclaimed the first speaker; "Ungry Morgan! You never got that tucker there, I'll swear."

"'Ow long since you bin to Waajil?" asked the other.

"Why; it must be hover a year ago. An' got 'unted off wi' dogs afore I'd time to open my mouth, So I just took my 'ook, an' I sez, 'No more Waajil for this chicken,' and I mean it too, you bet."

"Don't you make any mistake, mate," retorted the nomad; "that sort o' game's all changed sence Morgan come 'ome from his tower, Waajil's up to the knocker now. Kitchen and a cook; and travellers gits their suppers and breakfus' without a word; ay, an' a bit in the mornin' to carry 'em along the track. New buildin's there is too, an' a 'ut fer strangers, cumfable as ever you seen, An' wages—for them as likes work—right up to distrik rates. Take it from me, mate, there ain't a better shop in the West than Waajil, An' there ain't no 'Ungry Morgan' no more! Don't you never miss givin' it a call when yer a passin'."