Читать книгу Wings above Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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SOMETHING had gone wrong with the engine of a shearing plant. In the long shed the shear-blades faltered suddenly and grew still. The men handling the half-shorn sheep on the boards expressed their opinion of the engine crew with the pithy eloquence characteristic of shearers, and waited impatiently for the moment to resume work.

It did not come. Sheep that had been lying half-stupefied under the blades began to wake up and struggle, so that presently each man was wrestling with a captive determined on freedom. The shed grew loud with bleating and rough voices. Outside, the sheep waiting in the pens caught the infection, raising a confused outcry. Dogs grew restless: there was a chorus of sharp barking.

The boss of the shearing gang had turned out a sheep just before the power failed. He waited for a few moments, glad to stand upright to ease his aching back. Then, with an angry exclamation he strode out of the shed.

“This is a rotten outfit,” growled one of the men. “Third time this week that mouldy engine’s broke down. Hope Carmody’ll let the owner know what he thinks of him.”

“Carmody said last time it went wrong that he’d never touch this shed again,” responded the man nearest him. “Lie still, you brute, can’t you?”—to the sheep. “If an owner hasn’t got sense enough to make sure of his plant before we come along he’s only got himself to blame if he gets his place black-listed.”

“Me for the old days every time,” put in an elderly man. “Hand shears might a’ been a bit slower, but they didn’t let you down.”

There was an outcry of dissent. Most of the shearers were young men, who knew only the modern method and scorned the ways of yesterday. Everyone had something to say about it; the elderly man, though heavily outnumbered, maintained his point, hurling figures of shearing records at his opponents. Voices were raised in proportion to the increasing noise from sheep and dogs; so that the gang boss, returning with a heated countenance, had to shout before he could make himself heard.

“Engine’s died on us!” he yelled, thumping with a stick on the floor to command attention. “Two hours work to get ’er goin’ again. That means knock-off for to-day.”

An angry growl followed his words. Every man in the shed resented enforced idleness, since the desire of all shearers is to “cut out” a flock as quickly as possible and to hurry on to the next job. The stick thumped again for silence.

“I’ve told the owner he’s got to compensate us, so that’s all right. We’ll have to finish this lot somehow. Hands up, anyone who can use hand-shears!”

A few hands went up. The work was adjusted, and the slower clash of the hand-blades began on the half-shorn sheep. The other men poured out of the shed, feeling for pipes and cigarettes. Outside, the station hands, glum-faced, were moving the sheep from the pens to a small paddock.

“Well, I’m not sorry, for one, to knock-off two hours early,” observed a short young fellow, who, with a taller companion, had been one of the first to escape from the reeking shed. “The last two hours is the worst of the day.”

“Same here. Gets you in the back well an’ truly by this time.” The tall man paused to rub his back against a post. “The other chaps seem to stand it well enough.”

“They’re better broke to it than we are. It’s not our game, Alf. My word, I’ll be glad when I can chuck it. I’ll be thankful never to look at a sheep again—unless he’s mutton!”

“Well—what’s a man to do? Hard enough to get work anywhere, these times. An’ the only job you’d like is your old job, Bat—an’ you can’t get back to that.”

Bat’s face darkened.

“No; that’s done with. Oh, well, I’ll get on to something new after a bit. But it’s got to be something that’s not so much like hard work as shearin’. There’s easy money lyin’ round if one keeps one’s eyes open.”

“Yes, but the trouble is the police keep their eyes too well skinned,” said Alf mournfully. “Melbourne ain’t healthy for either of us now.”

“Too right it isn’t. Well, if we hang on to the shearin’ business to the end of the season we’ll have enough to see us to Sydney. Or p’r’aps to the West. I’ve always had a fancy to get up to Broome an’ try my luck on a pearlin’ lugger.”

“Mighty little chance of easy money there, I’ve been told. They watch the catch pretty carefully.”

“Oh, there’s ways. A chap I knew had a dodge of dippin’ an oyster in hot water to make it open. Then if there’s a pearl you slip it out, drop the oyster in a tin of sea-water, an’ it shuts up tight. An’ a pearl’s easy hidden.”

“Yes—but how many oysters would you open before you lit on a pearl?” demanded Alf scornfully. “They aren’t all decorated with pearls—not by long chalks.”

“Oh, I know it’s a gamble. But just think if it comes off—one little bit of a stone worth hundreds of pounds! Maybe thousands.” He sat down on a log, his eyes eager. “That’s the way I’d always like to make money—quick an’ big, with a bit of danger hangin’ to it. Not sloggin’ along at some dreary job that never gets you any further.”

“Some day something quick an’ big will hit you, Bat,” grinned his friend. “An’ then you’ll find yourself behind bars again, like when you tried to be one too many for that chap in Melbourne. Anyhow, I feel as if I’d better keep off other people’s places for a bit. Pity, ’cause it makes life so dull: once you get used to helpin’ yourself when you want to, it’s hard to settle down to bein’ a good boy. But the police get so interferin’!” He sighed.

“Oh, I’ve had all the police I want for a bit. I’ll be careful. But I’ll watch for a chance, an’ when it comes—I’ll grab it!” He jumped up impatiently. “I say, what’s the use of hangin’ around here all the evening? Nothin’ to do but talk to a set of country louts.”

“Better not let ’em hear you callin’ them names,” warned Alf.

“Not me. They think we’re country louts, too, seein’ we hardly say a word about anything but sheep. I’d like to forget sheep for a bit. Tom Wicking said I could borrow his motor-bike some time or other—how about havin’ a spin in to the township? There might be a cinema, an’ anyway we could get a game of billiards.”

“I’m your man,” agreed Alf. “Hope to goodness Tom hasn’t gone off on his bike himself.”

Luck was with them, for Wicking was grimly occupied with needle and thread—mending a pair of grease-soaked trousers that had encountered the point of a shear blade when a sheep kicked. He lent his bicycle willingly, on condition that it should be filled up with petrol in the township. The two friends made a hurried toilet in the sleeping shed, and were presently spinning down the gravelled track to the homestead gate.

Others were ahead of them, for several of the shearers had motor-bicycles: there was plenty of dust hanging over the tree-fringed road that led to the township. As a road it had little to boast of; Alf, perched on the carrier, objected bitterly to its bumps and pot-holes. Bat was possessed with the joy of speed. He paid scant attention to the growls that reached him faintly through the sputter of the engine.

Not until they were on the outskirts of the township did he slacken his pace, and then it happened suddenly. They had turned from the bush track to a more civilized road. On one side were trim cottages, with bright-hued gardens round them; on the other a wide paddock stretching to a river near which stood a larger house. Bicycles and motor-cycles were abandoned on the strip of grass that fringed the road. Across the green expanse people were hurrying to join a little crowd that had collected in the paddock a hundred yards from the fence.

Bat uttered an exclamation of astonishment, braking hard; an operation which caused Alf’s face to encounter his back with considerable force.

“What on earth do you think you’re doin’, you silly ass?” snapped the justly indignant Alf, feeling his nose gingerly.

“Doin’! Look there!”

Alf followed the direction of his pointing finger.

“Lor!” he said. “Planes! Two of ’em. Who’d a’ thought of seein’ such a thing in a mouldy little place like this? No wonder you shoved your brake on, though I wish you’d keep your back out of my face when you do.”

“This is where we get off,” said Bat, ignoring all minor matters. He wheeled their steed to the side of the road. “Come along!” He ran to the fence, climbed over it quickly, and hurried towards the crowd. In a moment, however, a thought struck him. He paused, waiting until Alf caught him up.

“Some of our crowd are over there,” he said warningly. “Careful what you say in front of them, Alf. I don’t want any of them to know that I know one end of a plane from another.”

“O.K.” Alf nodded comprehendingly. “You an’ me are just two country lads, come to gape at a plane for the first time.”

“That’s the idea.” They went on slowly.

A harassed man was in charge of the planes, his face showing anxiety.

“Keep your hands off, you boy there, d’you hear! You can look, but you can’t touch a thing. No, you can’t sit in one, Charlie Jones, not if you asked all night!”

“You belong to this outfit?” Bat asked mildly.

“Not me—but one of the chaps that came in ’em paid me to watch ’em. It’s a two-man job, with everyone wantin’ to finger them.” He raised an angry voice as a boy’s head appeared over the edge of a cockpit. “Get down out of that, or I’ll warm you!”

“I’ll give you a hand, if you like,” offered Bat kindly. “Me an’ my mate can look after one.”

“You’re a white man,” declared the uneasy guardian. “I can manage one, but a bloke ’ud need eyes in the back of his head to look after two, with every fool boy in the place wantin’ to crawl all over ’em. You two take on the biggest.” He sighed with relief as his new allies ranged themselves on either side of the larger plane.

Nothing could have suited Bat Harris better. He leaned against the plane in a careless attitude, his dark face expressionless; yet the boys who crowded round suddenly felt that it would be unwise to take any liberties with the machine he guarded. They kept at a discreet distance, talking loudly—those who had been lucky enough to see the landing acting as showmen-in-chief, with a fine air of authority.

Behind his stolid mask Bat was studying the planes eagerly. There was nothing about them that he did not know; he, who had been a pilot before crime had pulled him down. Pulled him down literally, from the sky he loved and the only life that had seemed to him worth living. All the hunger to get back mounted within him as he looked. That hunger had grown through repression in long months of jail-life and of sweating in greasy shearing sheds; it haunted him in his dreams. Now, the very feel of a plane that he could never hope to fly seemed to give him new energy. Perhaps luck was turning: perhaps to touch a plane again was the first step towards getting back from the depths.

One of the shearers strolled over to him presently.

“Ever been up in one o’ them things, Bat?”

“Not likely. The ground’s good enough for me.”

“Same here. I went once, over in New South Wales, but never again. Talk about bein’ sea-sick!—I never was so glad to get out of anything in all me life.”

“I’ve heard it takes people that way,” rejoined Bat.

“Funny how fellers’ll pay for machines like this. I believe one costs as much as half a dozen cars.”

“You don’t say!” said Bat innocently. “Well, a good car’s worth a paddockful of them, I’ll swear.”

“Anyhow, you can pull up a car pretty well anywhere—an’ that’s more than you can say for a plane,” remarked the shearer profoundly.

“Too right it is!” agreed Bat.

“Well, I’ve had enough,” the other remarked. “There ain’t so much to see, take it all in all. I’m off to the township.” He whistled softly to his friends and they strolled away together.

Dusk was closing in; little by little the crowd thinned. It was not very amusing to stand in the cold half-darkness, looking at the misty shapes of the planes. When the last earnest small boy had gone the guardian turned to the silent man beside him.

“Well, you an’ your mate done me a good turn. I’d like to stand you a drink, only I can’t leave here until the chaps that own them come back.”

“That’s all right,” Bat said. “We don’t want anything. Are they goin’ on to-night?”

“I dunno. They only asked me to stay here while they got a feed. They’ll be back pretty soon, I expect.”

“Well, we’ll be gettin’ along. Good night, mate.” He touched the plane for the last time, gently. Alf was waiting for him by the propeller. They walked across the paddock in silence.

Ahead, and moving towards them, came two points of light—cigarettes, glowing in the dusk. They heard footsteps and the sound of voices.

“Duck in here a minute, Alf.” Bat caught his friend’s arm, and they slipped noiselessly among some bushes.

“What’s the game, Bat?”

“Nothing—only I’d just as soon keep out of the way. Might be old acquaintances, an’ I’m not keen on meeting any. Ss-sh.”

Two men came slowly past their hiding-place. Bat strained his ears to catch their voices—it might be that he would recognize one. But they were strange; so much he knew, though he could not hear what they were saving. Only, when they were almost past, one phrase caught his ear. A few words only, but they galvanised his whole being into activity.

“If they’ve found gold on Billabong——”

It was the shorter man who said them, and his companion interrupted him swiftly.

“Steady, Jack. Might be some one about.”

The voices ceased, and the men went on towards the planes. In the gloom Bat waited, his mind whirling, until he judged it safe to move. Then he touched Alf’s arm and walked rapidly to the fence.

“Friends of yours?” Alf asked.

“No—never saw either of ’em before.”

“I thought they might’ve been some of your old flyin’ pals, somehow. I felt you stiffen.”

“No; they’re strangers. Alf, did you hear what they said?”

“Couldn’t catch anything except the big chap tellin’ the other feller to hush up. What was it?”

“You’ve got to keep it to yourself,” Bat warned. “I only heard half a dozen words, but they’ve got me thinkin’ all right.” His voice sank to a whisper: he halted, putting his face near Alf’s. “That chap said ‘If they’ve found gold on Billabong’!”

“Well, whoever they are, let’s hope they’re lucky,” said Alf, much mystified. “Where’s Billabong, anyway? Somewhere in the West?”

“West—your grandmother! Don’t you know the next station we’re bound for when we cut out here?”

“No, I don’t think so—I leave all that to Carmody. That’s his job. Oh yes, by Jove—I remember, now, I did hear. Place belonging to a man named Linton.”

“Yes, an’ that place’s name is Billabong. Now, do you catch on?”

Alf whistled softly.

“Never heard of any gold worth mentioning round about there.”

“No; an’ by the way the big chap shut the other fellow up it’s pretty clear someone doesn’t want anything heard. When things are kept dark, that’s the time I begin to get interested.”

“Well, I don’t think so awful much of it as you seem to,” Alf said. “I ain’t no gold-miner. Too much like hard work; an’ we’ve not got enough cash saved to take any chances. I reckon we’re better off shearin’, if you ask me.”

“I’m not going to do anything in a hurry, Alf. But you never know. I got a queer sort of feelin’ that there’s something in this for us. Suppose there did happen to be a big find on this Billabong place—suppose you an’ I managed to get in before it got known. Why, there might be a fortune in it!”

“Well, there might. I’m quite ready to jump in with both feet if there’s a chance. But I never did have much luck, an’ it’s hard to believe it’s comin’ my way.”

“That’s a fool way to think. At all events, our game is to keep our mouths shut an’ our ears extra wide open. We’ll make friends with the hands on Billabong—they’re certain to know if there’s anything unusual goin’ on. If there is, well, I’m quite ready to go on sayin’ nothin’ if Linton makes it worth my while. You can be jolly well certain he doesn’t want a rush started on his place.”

They had arrived at the fence. As they climbed over it a voice of authority hailed them.

“This your motor-cycle?”

“Lor, it’s a blooming bobby!” groaned Alf, miserably, under his breath. “Yes, it’s ours, constable. Anything wrong?”

“You’ve no business leaving it here without a light. What have you got to say about it?”

“Sorry, constable,” said Bat. “Fact is, we only meant to leave it for five minutes while we had a look at those planes. But the chap lookin’ after them was havin’ a hard time with the crowd, an’ we stayed to help him.”

“Nice yarn!” said the man of law. “I suppose you’re shearers? Your lot gives trouble enough in this town.”

“These chaps are all right, Mick,” said a voice out of the darkness. The guardian of the planes was getting over the fence. “They did me a good turn over there—the boys ’ud have had half them planes for soovyneers if they hadn’t helped me. I offered ’em a drink, but they wouldn’t wait.”

“Oh, well, if you say so, George, it’s all right,” said the policeman. “Lucky for them you came along, that’s all. Cut along, boys, an’ don’t get in my way again.”

“Lor, that was luck!” breathed Alf as they rode towards the main street of the township. “Our old pal George came in the nick of time, didn’t he? Next question I saw tremblin’ on that bobby’s lips was ‘Where’s your licence?’ An’, not havin’ any, we’d have been for it twice over.”

“Too right we would,” said Bat cheerfully. “Now p’r’aps you’ll believe our luck’s in, Alf. Who says we aren’t goin’ to strike another patch on that Billabong place?”