Chapter XVI.
When Joe Was In Charge.
Joe was a naturalist. He spent a lot of time--time that Dad consideredshould have been employed cutting burr or digging potatoes--inear-marking bears and bandicoots, and catching goannas and letting themgo without their tails, or coupled in pairs with pieces of greenhide.The paddock was full of goannas in harness and slit-eared bears. THEYbelonged to Joe.
Joe also took an interest in snakes, and used to poke amongst logs andbrush-fences in search of rare specimens. Whenever he secured a goodone he put it in a cage and left it there until it died or got out, orDad threw it, cage and all, right out of the parish.
One day, while Mother and Sal were out with Dad, Joe came home with afour-foot black snake in his hand. It was a beauty. So sleek andlithe and lively! He carried it by the tail, its head swinging closeto his bare leg, and the thing yearning for a grab at him. But Joeunderstood the ways of a reptile.
There was no cage--Dad had burnt the last one--so Joe walked round theroom wondering where to put his prize. The cat came out of the bedroomand mewed and followed him for the snake. He told her to go away. Shedid n't go. She reached for the snake with her paw. It bit her. Shespat and sprang in the air and rushed outside with her back up. Joegiggled and wondered how long the cat would live.
The Rev. Macpherson, on his way to christen M'Kenzie's baby, called infor a drink, and smilingly asked after Joe's health.
"Hold this kuk-kuk-cove, then," Joe said, handing the parson thereptile, which was wriggling and biting at space, "an' I'll gug-gug-gety' one." But when Mr. Macpherson saw the thing was alive he jumped backand fell over the dog which was lying behind him in the shade. Blueygrabbed him by the leg, and the parson jumped up in haste and made forhis horse--followed by Bluey. Joe cried, "KUM 'ere!"--then turnedinside.
Mother and Sal entered. They had come to make Dad and themselves a cupof tea. They quarrelled with Joe, and he went out and started playingwith the snake. He let it go, and went to catch it by the tail again,but the snake caught HIM--by the finger.
"He's bit me!" Joe cried, turning pale. Mother screeched, and Salbolted off for Dad, while the snake glided silently up the yard.
Anderson, passing on his old bay mare, heard the noise, and came in.He examined Joe's finger, bled the wound, and was bandaging the armwhen Dad rushed in.
"Where is he?" he said. "Oh, you d--d whelp! You wretch of a boy! MYGod!"
"'Twasn' MY fault." And Joe began to blubber.
But Anderson protested. There was no time, he said, to be lostbarneying; and he told Dad to take his old mare Jean and go at once forSweeney. Sweeney was the publican at Kangaroo Creek, with a reputationfor curing snake-bite. Dad ran out, mounted Jean and turned her headfor Sweeney's. But, at the slip-rails, Jean stuck him up, and would n'tgo further. Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got downand ran back.
"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again.
"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger."
Joe was looking drowsy. But, when Anderson took hold of him and placedthe wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and ablunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.
"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old mankangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance heldhis finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it andbrought the hammer down. It did n't sever the finger--it only scrapedthe nail off--but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately andgot away.
Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could runlike a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her bootsoff, Joe had disappeared in the corn.
"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They huntedthrough the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Nightcame. The search continued. They called, and called, but nothinganswered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow,sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in thegrass-paddock.
At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened,and looked distracted.
While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, droppedin. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad ifhe could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave'sbed; Dave slept on the sofa.
"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornin'," Dave said,"there won't be room for us all."
And before morning Joe DID come in. He entered stealthily by theback-door, and crawled quietly into bed.
At daybreak Joe awoke, and nudged his bed-mate and said:
"Dave, the cocks has crowed!" No answer. He nudged him again.
"Dave, the hens is all off the roost!" Still no reply.
Daylight streamed in through the cracks. Joe sat up--he was at theback--and stared about. He glanced at the face of his bed-mate andchuckled and said:
"Who's been blackenin' y', Dave?"
He sat grinning awhile, then stood up, and started pulling on histrousers, which he drew from under his pillow. He had put one leg intothem when his eyes rested on a pair of black feet uncovered at the footof the bed. He stared at them and the black face again--then plungedfor the door and fell. Whisky was awake and grinned over the side ofthe bed at him.
"Wot makit you so fritent like that?" he said, grinning more.
Joe ran into Mother's room and dived in behind her and Dad. Dad swore,and kicked Joe and jammed him against the slabs with his heels, saying:
"My GAWD! You DEVIL of a feller, how (KICK) dare you (KICK) run (KICK)run (KICK, KICK, KICK) away yesterday, eh?" (KICK).
But he was very glad to see Joe all the same; we all felt that ShingleHut would not have been the same place at all without Joe.
It was when Dad and Dave were away after kangaroo-scalps that Joe wasmost appreciated. Mother and Sal felt it such a comfort to have a manin the house--even if it was only Joe.
Joe was proud of his male prerogatives. He looked after the selection,minded the corn, kept Anderson's and Dwyer's and Brown's and old MotherMurphy's cows out of it, and chased goannas away from the front doorthe same as Dad used to do--for Joe felt that he was in Dad's place,and postponed his customary familiarities with the goannas.
It was while Joe was in charge that Casey came to our place. Astarved-looking, toothless little old man with a restless eye,talkative, ragged and grey; he walked with a bend in his back (not ahump), and carried his chin in the air. We never saw a man like himbefore. He spoke rapidly, too, and watched us all as he talked. Notexactly a "traveller;" he carried no swag or billycan, and wore a pairof boots much too large. He seemed to have been "well brought up"--hetook off his hat at the door and bowed low to Mother and Sal, who weresitting inside, sewing. They gave a start and stared. The dog, lyingat Mother's feet, rose and growled. Bluey was n't used to the ways ofpeople well brought up.
The world had dealt harshly with Casey, and his story went to Mother'sheart. "God buless y'," he said when she told him he could have somedinner; "but I'll cut y' wood for it; oh, I'll cut y' wood!" And hewent to the wood-heap and started work. A big heap and a blunt axe;but it did n't matter to Casey. He worked hard, and did n't stareabout, and did n't reduce the heap much, either; and when Sal calledhim to dinner he could n't hear--he was too busy. Joe had to go andbring him away.
Casey sat at the table and looked up at the holes in the roof, throughwhich the sun was shining.
"Ought t' be a cool house," he remarked.
Mother said it was.
"Quite a bush house."
"Oh, yes," Mother said--"we're right in the bush here."
He began to eat and, as he ate, talked cheerfully of selections andcrops and old times and bad times and wire fences and dead cattle.Casey was a versatile ancient. When he was finished he shifted to thesofa and asked Mother how many children she had. Mother considered andsaid, "Twelve." He thought a dozen enough for
anyone, and, said thatHIS mother, when he left home, had twenty-one--all girls but him. Thatwas forty years ago, and he did n't know how many she had since.Mother and Sal smiled. They began to like old Casey.
Casey took up his hat and went outside, and did n't say "Good-day" or"Thanks" or anything. He did n't go away, either. He looked about theyard. A panel in the fence was broken. It had been broken for fiveyears. Casey seemed to know it. He started mending that panel. Hewas mending it all the evening.
Mother called to Joe to bring in some wood. Casey left the fence,hurried to the wood-heap, carried in an armful, and asked Mother if shewanted more. Then he returned to the fence.
"J-OE," Mother screeched a little later, "look at those cows tryin' toeat the corn."
Casey left the fence again and drove the cows away, and mended the wireon his way back.
At sundown Casey was cutting more wood, and when we were at supper hebrought it in and put some on the fire, and went out again slowly.
Mother and Sal talked about him.
"Better give him his supper," Sal said, and Mother sent Joe to invitehim in. He did n't come in at once. Casey was n't a forward man. Hestayed to throw some pumpkin to the pigs.
Casey slept in the barn that night. He slept in it the next night,too. He did n't believe in shifting from place to place, so he stayedwith us altogether. He took a lively interest in the selection. Thehouse, he said, was in the wrong place, and he showed Mother where itought to have been built. He suggested shifting it, and setting ahedge and ornamental trees in front and fruit trees at the back, andmaking a nice place of it. Little things like that pleased Mother."Anyway," she would sometimes say to Sal, "he's a useful old man, andknows how to look after things about the place." Casey did. Wheneverany watermelons were ripe, he looked after THEM and hid the skins inthe ground. And if a goanna or a crow came and frightened a hen fromher nest Casey always got the egg, and when he had gobbled it up hewould chase that crow or goanna for its life and shout lustily.
Every day saw Casey more at home at our place. He was a very kind man,and most obliging. If a traveller called for a drink of water, Caseywould give him a cup of milk and ask him to wait and have dinner. IfMaloney, or old Anderson, or anybody, wished to borrow a horse, or adray, or anything about the place, Casey would let them have it withpleasure, and tell them not to be in a hurry about returning it.
Joe got on well with Casey. Casey's views on hard work were the sameas Joe's. Hard work, Joe thought, was n't necessary on a selection.
Casey knew a thing or two--so he said. One fine morning, when all thesky was blue and the butcher-birds whistling strong, Dwyer's cowssmashed down a lot of the fence and dragged it into the corn. Casey,assisted by Joe, put them all in the yard, and hammered them withsticks. Dwyer came along.
"Those cattle belong to me," he said angrily.
"They belongs t' ME," Casey answered, "until you pay damages." Then heput his back to the slip-rails and looked up aggressively into Dwyer'sface. Dwyer was a giant beside Casey. Dwyer did n't say anything--hewas n't a man of words--but started throwing the rails down to let thecows out. Casey flew at him. Dwyer quietly shoved him away with hislong, brown arm. Casey came again and fastened on to Dwyer. Joemounted the stockyard. Dwyer seized Casey with both hands; then therewas a struggle--on Casey's part. Dwyer lifted him up and carried himaway and set him down on his back, then hastened to the rails. Butbefore he could throw them down Casey was upon him again. Casey neverknew when he was beaten. Dwyer was getting annoyed. He took Casey bythe back of the neck and squeezed him. Casey humped his shoulders andgasped. Dwyer stared about. A plough-rein hung on the yard. Dwyerreached for it. Casey yelled, "Murder!" Dwyer fastened one end of therope round Casey's body--under the arms--and stared about again. Andagain "Murder!" from Casey. Joe jumped off the yard to get furtheraway. A tree, with a high horizontal limb, stood near. Dad once usedit as a butcher's gallows. Dwyer gathered the loose rein into a coiland heaved it over the limb, and hauled Casey up. Then he tied the endof the rope to the yard and drove out the cows.
"When y' want 'im down," Dwyer said to Joe as he walked away, "cut therope."
Casey groaned, and one of his boots dropped off. Then he began to spinround--to wind up and unwind and wind up again. Joe came near and eyedthe twirling form with joy.
Mother and Sal arrived, breathless and excited. They screeched at Joe.
"Undo th' r-r-rope," Joe said, "an' he'll come w-w--WOP."
Sal ran away and procured a sheet, and Mother and she held it underCasey, and told Joe to unfasten the rope and lower him as steadily ashe could. Joe unfastened the rope, but somehow it pinched his fingersand he let go, and Casey fell through the sheet. For three weeks Caseywas an invalid at our place. He would have been invalided there forthe rest of his days only old Dad came home and induced him to leave.Casey did n't want to go; but Dad had a persuasive way with him thatgenerally proved effectual.
Singularly enough, Dad complained that kangaroos were getting scarcewhere he was camped; while our paddocks were full of them. Joe starteda mob nearly every day, as he walked round overseeing things; and hepondered. Suddenly he had an original inspiration--originality wasJoe's strong point. He turned the barn into a workshop, and buriedhimself there for two days. For two whole days he was never "athome,", except when he stepped out to throw the hammer at the dog foryelping for a drink. The greedy brute! it was n't a week since he'dhad a billyful--Joe told him. On the morning of the third day thebarn-door swung open, and forth came a kangaroo, with the sharpenedcarving knife in its paws. It hopped across the yard and sat up, boldand erect, near the dog-kennel. Bluey nearly broke his neck trying toget at it. The kangaroo said: "Lay down, you useless hound!" andstarted across the cultivation!, heading for the grass-paddock in long,erratic jumps. Half-way across the cultivation it spotted a mob ofother kangaroos, and took a firmer grip of the carver.
Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was thematter. She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunkenmanner towards the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him,Bluey! Sool him!" Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axeto get the scalp. As the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned andhissed, "G' home, y' mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when hehad nailed the kangaroo dextrously by the thigh and got him down did itdawn upon the marsupial that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore offhis head-gear, called the dog affectionately by name, and yelled forhelp; but Bluey had not had anything substantial to eat for over aweek, and he worried away vigorously.
Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junkoff Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, andgrabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal!Mother arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, andshrieked. "Pull him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mothershrieked louder, and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey.He was a good dog, was Bluey!
At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took amouthful of kangaroo with him as he went.
Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. Itwas very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it andcried, "Oh, Joe! My child! my child!"
It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and hewent down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--likeButler--alone.