Chapter XVII.
Dad's "Fortune."
Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on DarlingDowns; but WE never could see anything fine about it--except theweather in drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine.The house was built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or theblacks--who were mostly dead--could n't locate it. An old wire-fence,slanting all directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear,its foot almost in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly asquatter's sheep-yard. For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub,gum-trees, and some acres of cultivation. But Dad must have seensomething in it, or he would n't have stood feasting his eyes on thewooded waste after he had knocked off work of an evening. In all hiswanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere; swimming flooded creeksand rivers, humping his swag from one end of Australia to the other; atall games going except bank-managing and bushranging--he had seen noplace timbered like Shingle Hut.
"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till thecountry gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in itthen--mark my words!"
Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live?
At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostlymountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendidcountry, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grandscheme he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full ofschemes than Dad was.
The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, aftersupper, Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had beengrubbing that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad layupon his back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his headresting on his arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses croppedthe couch-grass round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circlednoiselessly overhead, and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from theridge and from out the lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting upa portion of the sky, but Dad did not remark it. In a while he said:
"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation beforeanswering.
"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?"
A silence.
"I've been thinking of that land at the back--if we had that I believewe could make money."
"Yairs--if we HAD."
Another silence.
"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long."
Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad.
"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could youget better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning onhis side and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked withcattle and this kept under cultivation we'd make money--we'd be RICH ina very few years."
Dave raised himself on his elbow.
"Yairs--with CATTLE," he said.
"Just so" (Dad sat up with enthusiasm), "but to get the LAND is thefirst thing, and that's easy enough ONLY" (lowering his voice) "it'llhave to be done QUIETLY and without letting everyone 'round know we'regoing in for it." ("Oh! yairs, o' course," from Dave.) "THEN" (and Dadlifted his voice and leaned over) "run a couple of wires round it, putevery cow we've here on it straight away; get another one or two whenthe barley's sold, and let them breed."
"'Bout how many'd that be t' start 'n?"
"Well, EIGHT good cows at the least--plenty, too. It's simplyWONDERFUL how cattle breed if they're let alone. Look at Murphy, forinstance. Started on that place with two young heifers--those two oldred cows that you see knocking about now. THEY'RE the mothers of allhis cattle. Anderson just the same...Why, God bless my soul! we wouldhave a better start than any one of them ever had--by a long way."
Dave sat up. He began to share Dad's enthusiasm.
"Once get it STOCKED, and all that is to be done then is simply to lookafter the fence, ride about among the cattle every day, see they'reright, brand the calves, and every year muster the mob, draft out thefat bullocks, whip them into town, and get our seven and eight pounds ahead for them."
"That'd suit me down to the ground, ridin' about after cattle," Davesaid.
"Yes, get our seven and eight pounds, maybe nine or ten pounds a-piece.And could ever we do that pottering about on the place?" Dad leanedover further and pressed Dave's knee with his hand.
"Mind you!" (in a very confidential tone) "I'm not at all satisfied theway we're dragging along here. It's utter nonsense, and, to speak thetruth" (lowering his voice again) "I'VE BEEN SICK OF THE WHOLE DAMNTHING LONG AGO."
A minute or two passed.
"It would n't matter," Dad continued, "if there was no way of doingbetter; but there IS. The thing only requires to be DONE, and why notDO it?" He paused for an answer.
"Well," Dave said, "let us commence it straight off--t'morror. It'sthe life that'd suit ME."
"Of course it WOULD...and there's money in it...no mistake about it!"
A few minutes passed. Then they went inside, and Dad took Mother intohis confidence, and they sat up half the night discussing the scheme.
Twelve months later. The storekeeper was at the house wanting to seeDad. Dad was n't at home. He never was when the storekeeper came; hegenerally contrived to be away, up the paddock somewhere or amongst thecorn--if any was growing. The storekeeper waited an hour or so, butDad did n't turn up. When he was gone, though, Dad walked in and askedMother what he had said. Mother was seated on the sofa,troubled-looking.
"He must be paid by next week," she said, bursting into tears, "or theplace'll be sold over our heads."
Dad stood with his back to the fire-place, his hand locked behind him,watching the flies swarming on the table.
Dave came in. He understood the situation at a glance. The scene wasnot new to him. He sat down, leant forward, picked a straw off theflor and twisted it round and round his finger, reflecting.
Little Bill put his head on Mother's lap, and asked for a piece ofbread...He asked a second time.
"There IS no bread, child," she said.
"But me wants some, mumma."
Dad went outside and Dave followed. They sat on their heels, theirbacks to the barn, thoughtfully studying the earth.
"It's the same thing"--Dad said, reproachfully--"from one year's end tothe other...alwuz a BILL!"
"Thought last year we'd be over all this by now!" from Dave.
"So we COULD...Can NOW...It only wants that land to be taken up; and,as I've said often and often, these cows taken----"
Dad caught sight of the storekeeper coming back, and ran into the barn.
Six months later. Dinner about ready. "Take up a thousand acres," Dadwas saying; "take it up----"
He was interrupted by a visitor.
"Are you Mister Rudd?" Dad said he was.
"Well, er--I've a FI. FA. against y'."
Dad didn't understand.
The Sheriff's officer drew a document from his inside breast-pocket andproceeded to read:
"To Mister James Williams, my bailiff. Greeting: By virtue of HerMajesty's writ of FIERI FACIAS, to me directed, I command you that ofthe goods and chattels, money, bank-note or notes or other property ofMurtagh Joseph Rudd, of Shingle Hut, in my bailiwick, you cause to bemade the sum of forty pounds ten shillings, with interest thereon," &c.
Dad understood.
Then the bailiff's man rounded up the cows and the horses, and Dad andthe lot of us leant against the fence and in sadness watched Polly andold Poley and the rest for the last time pass out the slip-rails.
"That puts an end to the land business!" Dave said gloomily.
But Dad never spoke.