Читать книгу Collected Prose - Paterson Andrew Barton - Страница 6
ОглавлениеA Station Sketch
Hughey was butcher on the station, and his soul yearned for a dog. Dogs there were about in plenty, but he wanted something special, and as the super was going to Sydney, Hughey commissioned him to buy him a dog. "Buy a dog," he said, "as can fight. I don't put no value on pedigree--I don't want no pedigree, I want a dog, get a dog as can fight, and he'll fill the bill." Wherefore there appeared shortly in a Sydney paper, in the somewhat inaccurate grammar of the super: "WANTED, at once, a dog as can fight. Apply Bushman's Hotel."
Next morning the men with dogs commenced to roll up. The dogs were of all sorts, sizes, and colours, having only one thing in common--they each and all looked as if they would tear a man's leg off on the slightest pretext. When the super went down and admitted them into the bar parlour, he and the landlord had to get up on the table to obtain anything like an unprejudiced view of the competitors. They soon weeded them down to two, one a villainous-looking half-bred devil, and the other a pure-bred bulldog of undeniable quality, a truculent ruffian with milk-white skin and bloodshot eyes, by whose noble proportions the soul of the landlord was much gratified. The other dog, however, was evidently the better in a fight, because the gentleman in charge of him said he thought the best way to decide was "to let the two dawgs 'ave a go in, to see which is the best dawg". The one-eyed nobleman who represented the bulldog saw that his dog would have no chance in a fight, but being himself of the pugilistic persuasion, he tied his dog to the leg of a table and advanced on the other man with his fists up. "Suppose me an' you has a go in," he said, "to see which is the best dawg?"
This proposal would have been promptly acceded to but for the arrival of another man with a dog--a big brown dog with a coarse, heavy-jawed head, big round the ribs, fairly long and light in the legs, evidently as active as a cat and hard as nails. But the previous dog owners knew him and apparently recognised that they and their canines were in the presence of a master. "'Ere's 'Arrison's dawg," they said, "an' in corse if you want a dawg to fight..." So the super explained that that was just what he did want, and he became the purchaser of the brown animal, which duly arrived among us and was installed as Hughey's dog. As he had no tail Hughey, of course, christened him "Stumpy".
And he could fight. He "counted out" every dog in the place the first two days he was there. His great activity, combined with his powerful jaws, made him a Czar among tykes. After the first two days not a dog dared heave in sight while Hughey's dog was taking a walk. He chased the kangaroo dogs away up the paddock, he fought two rounds with the bullock driver's dog, and would have killed him only for the arrival of the bullocky with the whip, and as he was intercepted in hot pursuit of the boss's favourite collie, Hughey thought it was best to tie him up. This made him worse, and whenever he managed to slip his collar or break the chain there would be a procession of dogs making full speed for the river, with Stumpy after them kicking the dust up in hot pursuit. Once they got to the river they were safe, as he was an indifferent swimmer and would not take to the water. Whenever any traveller or teamster came along with a dog that he fancied could fight, Hughey's dog was always trotted out to maintain the honour of the station, which he invariably did with a vengeance.
Soon his fame spread far and wide. Long, gawky, cornstalk youths used to ride miles to see him, and a kind of exhibition used to be given on a Sunday for the benefit of visitors. Stumpy was chained up by a fairly long chain, and the entertainment consisted of taking a dog, one that knew Stumpy's prowess for choice, and then getting Stumpy out to the full length of his chain, and giving him a fair hold of the visiting dog's tail. A most exciting struggle would ensue. The hospitable Stumpy would drag with might and main to get his guest within the reach of his chain, and the frenzied excitement in his face as he felt the other dog's tail slipping out of his teeth was awful to witness. The other dog meanwhile industriously scratched gravel to get away. Sometimes he turned and confronted Stumpy, but no dog ever did that more than once; once was more than enough, and on any second appearance they would devote all their energies to pulling away, and praying that their tails would break. Sometimes the tail was bitten through by Stumpy, and on these occasions the dog was, if possible, recaptured and the affair was started fresh, fair, and square. If Stumpy pulled the dog into his reach he used to drag him back into the centre of the circle covered by his chain, shorten his hold on the tail in a workmanlike manner until he got him right up close to him, when he would suddenly release the tail and make a spring for the dog's neck. This was a most exciting moment, because if Stumpy missed his spring the other dog would probably dash away out of reach, and it was with breathless interest the assembled crowd would watch Stumpy nerving himself for this critical rush. If Stumpy got a fair hold, the game was stopped and the dog released.
One night some dingoes came howling round the homestead, scaring the sheep in the yard, frightening the cows and calves and small dogs, making the fowls cackle and the cocks crow, and stirring up the deuce generally. It was bright moonlight, and the big, grey expanse of the plain lay open and clear almost as day when the men slipped down to the back to let Stumpy go. They reckoned this dingo business would be right into his hand, and when they got down there he was, straining at the collar so hard that he nearly choked. They let him go, and he dashed madly off into the moonlight in the direction of the howling dingoes, breathing murder and dog's meat, and the men followed at a run, one of them carrying an old carbine. "Lord help the dingo as Stumpy gets hold on!" gasped out Hughey as they ran along. They soon lost sight of Stumpy in the dim distance, and the howling had abruptly ceased. They ran on until out of breath, when they pulled up and listened: a dead silence reigned, there was no sound of dog or dingo, and nothing in sight on the plain but the clumps of saltbush. "I expect he's follerin' them away into the scrub," said Hughey. "I reckon they'd better take to the river if they want to keep their hides outside their gizzards," said another. They waited awhile and whistled and called, but nothing came, so they tramped off home. As they drew near the sheep yard it became evident something was wrong; the sheep were "ringing" wildly, rushing in all directions to escape some foe.
"By Jove, there's a dingo in the yard," said Hughey, and they rushed up at the double. The carbine was handed to one of the blackfellows, a noted shot, and as the party ran up he got a clear view of the marauder in the yard worrying a struggling ewe. The blackfellow put the carbine to his shoulder and was just going to let drive, when Hughey knocked up the muzzle of the weapon. "Don't fire," he said, "it's Stumpy."
And so it was. That amiable animal, finding that he could not catch the dingoes, had come back to give the sheep a turn. After this he was tied up at night and only occasionally let loose in the daytime, and on one of these excursions an event happened which sealed his fate.
Hughey used to kill the sheep for eating, and of course, Stumpy came in for the lion's share of the waste meat. The men's cook was a big Dutchman, a half-witted chap who occasionally went religion-mad, and between him and Stumpy there was a vendetta. Stumpy, you see, had killed his dog, and he had poured boiling water on Stumpy on the only occasion when the latter visited the kitchen: so it was not to be wondered at that when the cook walked rather carelessly, and perhaps swaggeringly, past Stumpy, who was devouring some sheep's liver, Stumpy went after him and bit him severely. The cook went to Hughey, who was putting the ornamental touches on the ribs of the dead sheep by cutting patterns with his knife. "Hughey," he said, "your tam tog vas pite me!"
"What do I care!" responded Hughey. "I suppose it won't poison him--did he swaller the piece?"
The Dutch cook looked at Hughey in a curious way, and walked on. Late that night when the episode was forgotten, the cook announced his intention of going out to shoot some possums. "Don't shoot yourself!" was the only advice he got, but again he smiled that curious smile as he replied, "I vill shoot a bossum--a big one."
Then he set forth into the night with all the dogs in the place accompanying him. A couple of shots were heard down by the river, and soon the Dutchman came back and put the gun away, and went off to the house. He asked for the boss, and much to the boss's astonishment said he meant to leave next morning. "You can't leave," said the boss. "You are under agreement to give a certain amount of notice--you can't leave all at once."
"Vell," responded the Dutchman slowly, "it is all in de agreement, but I must go. De stars is gettin' very close togedder and I haf a heap of preachin' to do--as soon as dem stars gets togedder de vorld vill be purnt up and I must go and preach to the beeples."
"Off his nanny again," thought the boss, "the sooner he goes the better." So the cook returned to the hut, and the men heard him packing and rolling things at all hours of the night, then he went out again and quiet reigned.
Next morning he was gone. The men had to cook their own breakfast, which annoyed them greatly, and then they went down to the house to see if the boss knew anything of the cook's disappearance, and he learned that he had given notice.
"He seems to have taken my dog," groaned Hughey. "I can't see him anywhere."
Then Hughey went off to the meat house to get the sheep he had killed on the previous day. There it hung, wrapped round by a white cover just as he had left it. As he took it down he noticed that it felt strangely light, but he carried it to the kitchen, laid it on the chopping block and took off the cover. Then he found out why it was so light. In the place of the sheep there lay, skinned, dressed, and ornamented in true butcher fashion, the corpse of Stumpy. The Dutchman had shot him and butchered him the previous night, and had gone forth to do his "preaching to the peoples" for fear of the consequences.
Hughey swore an oath of vengeance, but he never came across the cook again. The latter got into a lunatic asylum and spends his days in asserting that the Prince of Wales meanly cut him out of the affections of Alexandra, to whom he (the mad butcher) was engaged to be married, and in the contemplation of that romantic matter he has forgotten all about Hughey's dog.
The Bulletin, 2 November 1889
