Jimmy Grimshaw's Wooing.
The Half-way House at Tinned Dog (Out-Back in Australia) kept DanielMyers--licensed to retail spirituous and fermented liquors--in drink andthe horrors for upward of five years, at the end of which time he layhidden for weeks in a back skillion, an object which no decent man wouldcare to see--or hear when it gave forth sound. 'Good accommodationfor man and beast'; but few shanties save his own might, for aconsideration, have accommodated the sort of beast which the man Myershad become towards the end of his career. But at last the eccentric Bushdoctor, 'Doc' Wild' (who perhaps could drink as much as Myers withoutits having any further effect upon his temperament than to keep himawake and cynical), pronounced the publican dead enough to be buriedlegally; so the widow buried him, had the skillion cleaned out, and thesign altered to read, 'Margaret Myers, licensed, &c.', and continued toconduct the pub. just as she had run it for over five years, with thejoyful and blessed exception that there was no longer a human pig andpigstye attached, and that the atmosphere was calm. Most of the regularpatrons of the Half-way House could have their horrors decently, and,comparatively, quietly--or otherwise have them privately--in the BigScrub adjacent; but Myers had not been one of that sort.
Mrs Myers settled herself to enjoy life comfortably and happily, atthe fixed age of thirty-nine, for the next seven years or so. She wasa pleasant-faced dumpling, who had been baked solid in the droughts ofOut-Back without losing her good looks, and had put up with a hard life,and Myers, all those years without losing her good humour and nature.Probably, had her husband been the opposite kind of man, she would havebeen different--haggard, bad-tempered, and altogether impossible--forof such is woman. But then it might be taken into consideration that shehad been practically a widow during at least the last five years of herhusband's alleged life.
Mrs Myers was reckoned a good catch in the district, but it soon seemedthat she was not to be caught.
'It would be a grand thing,' one of the periodical boozers of Tinned Dogwould say to his mates, 'for one of us to have his name up on a pub.; itwould save a lot of money.'
'It wouldn't save you anything, Bill, if I got it,' was the retort. 'Youneedn't come round chewing my lug then. I'd give you one drink and nomore.'
The publican at Dead Camel, station managers, professional shearers,even one or two solvent squatters and promising cockatoos, tried theirluck in vain. In answer to the suggestion that she ought to have a manto knock round and look after things, she retorted that she had had one,and was perfectly satisfied. Few trav'lers on those tracks but tried'a bit of bear-up' in that direction, but all to no purpose. Chequemenknocked down their cheques manfully at the Half-way House--to getcourage and goodwill and 'put it off' till, at the last moment, theyoffered themselves abjectly to the landlady; which was worse than badjudgment on their part--it was very silly, and she told them so.
One or two swore off, and swore to keep straight; but she had no faithin them, and when they found that out, it hurt their feelings so muchthat they 'broke out' and went on record-breaking sprees.
About the end of each shearing the sign was touched up, with an extracoat of paint on the 'Margaret', whereat suitors looked hopeless.
One or two of the rejected died of love in the horrors in the BigScrub--anyway, the verdict was that they died of love aggravated by thehorrors. But the climax was reached when a Queensland shearer, seizingthe opportunity when the mate, whose turn it was to watch him, fellasleep, went down to the yard and hanged himself on the butcher'sgallows--having first removed his clothes, with some drink-lurid idea ofleaving the world as naked as he came into it. He climbed the pole, satastride on top, fixed the rope to neck and bar, but gave a yell--a yellof drunken triumph--before he dropped, and woke his mates.
They cut him down and brought him to. Next day he apologised to MrsMyers, said, 'Ah, well! So long!' to the rest, and departed--cured ofdrink and love apparently. The verdict was that the blanky fool shouldhave dropped before he yelled; but she was upset and annoyed, and itbegan to look as though, if she wished to continue to live on happilyand comfortably for a few years longer at the fixed age of thirty-nine,she would either have to give up the pub. or get married.
Her fame was carried far and wide, and she became a woman whose name wasmentioned with respect in rough shearing-sheds and huts, and round thecamp-fire.
About thirty miles south of Tinned Dog one James Grimshaw,widower--otherwise known as 'Old Jimmy', though he was little pastmiddle age--had a small selection which he had worked, let, given up,and tackled afresh (with sinews of war drawn from fencing contracts)ever since the death of his young wife some fifteen years agone. He wasa practical, square-faced, clean-shaven, clean, and tidy man, with acertain 'cleanness' about the shape of his limbs which suggested theold jockey or hostler. There were two strong theories in connection withJimmy--one was that he had had a university education, and the otherthat he couldn't write his own name. Not nearly such a ridiculous norsimple case Out-Back as it might seem.
Jimmy smoked and listened without comment to the 'heard tells' inconnection with Mrs Myers, till at last one night, at the end of hiscontract and over a last pipe, he said quietly, 'I'll go up to TinnedDog next week and try my luck.'
His mates and the casual Jims and Bills were taken too suddenly tolaugh, and the laugh having been lost, as Bland Holt, the Australianactor would put it in a professional sense, the audience had time tothink, with the result that the joker swung his hand down through animaginary table and exclaimed--
'By God! Jimmy'll do it.' (Applause.)
*****
So one drowsy afternoon at the time of the year when the breathless dayruns on past 7 P.M., Mrs Myers sat sewing in the bar parlour, when aclean-shaved, clean-shirted, clean-neckerchiefed, clean-moleskinned,greased-bluchered--altogether a model or stage swagman came up, wasserved in the bar by the half-caste female cook, and took his way to theriver-bank, where he rigged a small tent and made a model camp.
A couple of hours later he sat on a stool on the verandah, smoking aclean clay pipe. Just before the sunset meal Mrs Myers asked, 'Is thattrav'ler there yet, Mary?'
'Yes, missus. Clean pfellar that.'
The landlady knitted her forehead over her sewing, as women do whenlimited for 'stuff' or wondering whether a section has been cutwrong--or perhaps she thought of that other who hadn't been a 'cleanpfellar'. She put her work aside, and stood in the doorway, looking outacross the clearing.
'Good-day, mister,' she said, seeming to become aware of him for thefirst time.
'Good-day, missus!'
'Hot!'
'Hot!'
Pause.
'Trav'lin'?'
'No, not particular!'
She waited for him to explain. Myers was always explaining when hewasn't raving. But the swagman smoked on.
'Have a drink?' she suggested, to keep her end up.
'No, thank you, missus. I had one an hour or so ago. I never take morethan two a-day--one before breakfast, if I can get it, and a night-cap.'
What a contrast to Myers! she thought.
'Come and have some tea; it's ready.'
'Thank you. I don't mind if I do.'
They got on very slowly, but comfortably. She got little out of himexcept the facts that he had a selection, had finished a contract,and was 'just having a look at the country.' He politely declined a'shake-down', saying he had a comfortable camp, and preferred being outthis weather. She got his name with a 'by-the-way', as he rose to leave,and he went back to camp.
He caught a cod, and they had it for breakfast next morning, andgot along so comfortable over breakfast that he put in the forenoonpottering about the gates and stable with a hammer, a saw, and a box ofnails.
And, well--to make it short--when the big Tinned Dog shed had cut-out,and the shearers struck the Half-way House, they were greatly impressedby a brand-new sign whereon glistened the words--
HALF-WAY HOUSE HOTEL, BY JAMES GRIMSH
AW. Good Stabling.
The last time I saw Mrs Grimshaw she looked about thirty-five.