George MacDonald - "The Seaboard Parish Volume 1"

E. P. Roe - "Taken Alive"

Unkown - "The Bible, New Testament, in Danish"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra"

Such is Life

J >> Joseph Furphy >> Such is Life




"Six, this spring."

"Ay--that! Ye wud n't be fur partin' we her, sur? A'm mortial covetious
fur till git thon baste. Houl' an"--he pondered a moment, glancing first
at the honest-looking hack he was riding, then at the magnificent animal
which carried the half-caste. "Houl' an. Gimme a thrifle fur luck,
an' take ether wan o' them two. A'll thrust ye till do the leck fur me
some time afther."

He had been travelling with the red-headed fellow, and the fascination
of swapping was upon him, poorly backed by his suicidal candour.
The utter simplicity of his bracketing his own two horses--worth,
respectively, to all appearance, £8 and £30--and the frank confession
of his desire to have my mare at any price, made me feel honestly compunctious.

"Now thon's a brave loose lump iv a baste," he continued, following my eye
as I glanced over the half-caste's splendid mount. "Aisy till ketch,
an' as quite as ye plaze."

"How old is he, Mr. M'Nab?"

"He must be purty oul', he's so quite and thractable. Ye kin luck
at his mouth. A don't ondherstand the marks myself."

I opened the horse's mouth. He was just five. I regret to record
that I shook my head gravely, and observed:

"You've had him a long time, Mr. M'Nab?"

"Divil a long. A got him in a swap, as it might be this time yistherday.
There's the resate. An' here's the resate the man got when he bought him
out o' Hillston poun'. Ye can't go beyant a poun' resate."

"Why do you want to get rid of the horse, Mr. M'Nab?"

"Begog, A don't want till git red iv the baste, sich as he is,"
replied M'Nab resentfully. "But A want thon wee shilty, an' A evened a swap
till ye, fur it's a prodistaner thing nor lavin' a man on his feet, so it is."

"See anything wrong with the horse, Steve?" I asked in an undertone.

"Perfect to the eye," murmured Thompson. "Try him a mile, full tilt."

I made the proposal to M'Nab, and he eagerly agreed. At my suggestion,
the half-caste unhitched and tried Fancy, while I mounted the black horse,
and turned him across the plain. I tried him at all paces; but never before
had I met with anything to equal that elastic step and long, easy,
powerful stride. To ride that horse was to feel free, exultant, invincible.
His gallop was like Marching Through Georgia, vigorously rendered
by a good brass band. All that has been written of man's noblest friend--
from the dim, uncertain time when some unknown hand, in a leisure moment,
dashed off the Thirty-ninth chapter of the Book of Job, to the yesterday
when Long Gordon translated into ringing verse the rhythmic clatter
of the hoof-beats he loved so well--all might find fulfilment
in this unvalued beast, now providentially owned by the softest of foreigners.

"Well?" interrogated M'Nab, as I rejoined him.

"Don't you think he's a bit chest-foundered?" I asked in reply.

"Divil a wan o' me knows. Mebbe he is, begog. Sure A hed n't him long enough
fur till fine out."

"And how much boot are you going to give me?" I asked, with a feeling of shame
which did honour to my heart.

"Och, now, lave this! Boot! is it? Sure A cud kerry thon wee shilty ondher
may oxther! Ye have a right till be givin' me a thrifle fur luck.
A'll let ye aff we two notes."

But after five minutes' more palaver, M'Nab agreed to an even swap.
I had pen and ink in my pocket; my note-book supplied paper;
and receipts were soon exchanged. Then the saddles were shifted,
and we cantered ahead till we rejoined Thompson. I tied my new acquisition
behind the wagon, where, for the first five minutes, he severely tested
the inch rope which secured him.

"Now, Mr. M'Nab," said I, "I'll give you my word that the mare
is just what you see. You may as well tell me what's wrong with the horse?"

"Ax Billy about thon. Mebbe he's foun' out some thricks, or somethin'."

"Well, look here," said Billy devoutly--"I hope Gord'll strike me stark,
stiff, stone dead off o' this saddle if the horse has any tricks,
or anythin' wrong with him, no more nor the man in the moon.
Onna bright. There! I've swore it."

"Well, the mare is as good as gold," I reiterated. "She's one among a hundred.
Call her Fancy."

"The horse's name's Clayopathra," rejoined M'Nab; "an' by gog ye'll fine him
wan out iv a thousan'. A chris'ned him Clayopathra, fur A thought
till run him."

"A very good name too," I replied affably. "I should be sorry to change it."

And I never did change it, though, often afterward, men of clerkly attainments
took me aside and kindly pointed out what they conceived to be a blunder.
I have dwelt, perhaps tediously, upon this swap; my excuses are--first,
that, having made few such good bargains during the days of my vanity,
the memory is a pleasant one; and, second, that the horse will necessarily play
a certain part in these memoirs.

"Well, we'll be pushin' an, Billy," said M'Nab; "the sun's gittin' low.
An' you needn't tail me up enny fardher," he added, turning to Rufus.
"Loaf an these people the night. A man thravellin' his lone,
an' nat a shillin' in his pocket!"

"O, go an' bark up a tree, you mongrel!" replied the war-material,
with profusion of adjective. "Fat lot o' good tailin' you up!
A man that sets down to his dinner without askin' another man
whether he's got a mouth on him or not! Polite sort o' (person) you are!
Gerrout! you bin dragged up on the cheap!"

"Come! A'll bate ye fifty poun' A'm betther rairt nor you! Houl' an'!--
A'll bate ye a hundher'--two hundher', if ye lek, an' stake the money down
this minit"----

"Stiddy, now! draw it mild, you fellers there!" thundered Cooper from behind.
"Must n't have no quarrellin' while I'm knockin' round."

"Ye'll be late gittin' to the ram-paddock, Tamson," remarked M'Nab,
treating Cooper with the silent contempt usually lavished upon men
of his physique. "Axpect thon's where ye're makin' fur?"

"I say--you better camp with us to-night," suggested Thompson,
evading the implied inquiry.

Without replying, the contractor put his horse into a canter, and,
accompanied by his esquire, went on his way, pausing only to speak to Mosey
for a few minutes as he passed the foremost team.

"Curious sample o' (folks) you drop across on the track sometimes,"
remarked Rufus, who remained with us.

"No end to the variety," I replied. Then lowering my voice
and glancing furtively round, I asked experimentally,
"Haven't I seen you before, somewhere?"

"Queensland, most likely," he conjectured, whilst finding something
of interest on the horizon, at the side farthest from me.
"Native o' that district, I am. Jist comin' across for the fust time.
What's that bloke's name with the nex' team ahead--if it's a fair question?"

"Bob Dixon."

"Gosh, I'm in luck!" He spurred his mare forward, and attached himself to Dixon
for the rest of the afternoon.

But time, according to its deplorable habit, had been passing,
and the glitter had died off the plain as the sun went on its way
to make a futile attempt at purifying the microbe-laden atmosphere of Europe.

At last we reached the spot selected as a camp. Close on our left
was the clump of swamp box which covered about fifty acres
of the nearer portion of the selection, leaving a few scattered trees
outside the fence. On our right, the bare plain extended indefinitely.

I ought to explain that this selection was a mile-square block,
which had been taken up, four years previously, by a business man of Melbourne,
whose aim was to show the public how to graze scientifically on a small area.
Now Runnymede owned the selection, whilst its former occupier
was vending sixpenny parcels of inferior fruit on a railway platform.
The fence--erected by the experimentalist--was of the best kind;
two rails and four wires; sheep-proof and cattle-proof.

The wagons drew off the track, and stopped beside the fence
in the deepening twilight. The bullocks were unyoked with all speed,
and stood around waiting to see what provision would be made for the night.

"Look 'ere," said Mosey, taking a dead pine sapling from the stock of firewood
under his wagon, and, of course, emphasising his address by an easy
and not ungraceful clatter of the adjective used so largely by poets
in denunciation of war--"we ain't goin' to travel these carrion a mile
to the gate, an' most likely fine it locked when we git there.
Hold on till I git my internal machine to work on the fence.
Dad! Where's that ole morepoke? O, you're there, are you? Fetch the jack
off o' your wagon--come! fly roun'! you're (very) slow for a young fellow.
Bum," (abbreviation of "bummer," and applied to the red-headed fellow)
"you surround them carrion, or we'll be losin' the run o' them two steers."

A low groan from Bum's mare followed the heavy stroke of the ruffian's spurs.
"Some o' you other (fellows) keep roun' that side," said he;
"I'll go this road. Up! you Red Roverite! "--No use...
The mare had had enough for one day; she stumbled, and fell,
rolling heavily over her rider. "What the (quadruple expletive)'s the matter
with her?" he continued, extricating himself, and kicking the beast
till she staggered to her feet. "Come on agen, an' don't gimme no more
o' your religiousness." He remounted, and the mare, under the strong stimulus
of his spurs, cantered laboriously out into the dark.

Meanwhile, Mosey had taken a hand-saw from its receptacle on his wagon,
and had cut the pine spar to a length of about eighteen inches less
than a panel of the fence. "Lash this 'ere saplin' hard down on the top rail,"
he now commanded. Price and Dixon obeyed, and Mosey laid
his powerful bottlejack on the rail, filling up the space, and began to turn it
with a long bolt, by way of lever. "You see, Tom," he remarked to me;
"this fixter'll put the crooked maginnis on any fence from ere to 'ell.
It's got to come. No matter how tight rails is shouldered,
they'll spring some; an' if every post'll give on'y half a inch, why then,
ten posts makes five or six inches; an' that's about all you want.
Then in the mornin', you can fix the fence so's the ole-man divil his self
could n't ball you out. Ah!----! That's what comes o' blowin'."
For the post, being wild and free in the grain, had burst along
the two mortices; one half running completely off, just above the ground.
"Serve people right for puttin' in rails when wire would do,"
he continued, removing the screwjack. "Accidents will happen--
best reg'lated famblies. 'Tain't our business, anyhow. Now, chaps,
round up yer carrion, an' shove 'em in."

The four wires in the lower part of the fence rung like harp strings
as the cattle stepped into or over them, and in a few minutes
the whole live stock of the caravan-eighty-four bullocks and seven horses--
were in the selection, but too thirsty to feed. Then whilst Thompson, Mosey,
Willoughby and I tailed them toward the tank, Dixon hurried on ahead
with his five-gallon oil-drum, in order to replenish it before the water
was disturbed; and Price, by Mosey's orders, accompanied him
on the same business. We steadied the bullocks at the tank till all
were satisfied, then headed them back to within fifty yards of the wagons,
where we hobbled all the horses, except Bum's mare.

"Steve," said I to my old schoolmate: "of course, you and I are seized
of the true inwardness of duffing; but to those who live cleanly,
as noblemen should, this would appear a dirty transaction."

"The world's full of dirty transactions, Tom," replied the bullock driver
wearily. "It's a dirty transaction to round up a man's team
in a ten-mile paddock, and stick a bob a head on them, but that's a thing
that I'm very familiar with; it's a dirty transaction to refuse water
to perishing beasts, but I've been refused times out of number,
and will be to the end of the chapter; it's a dirty transaction
to persecute men for having no occupation but carting, yet that's what
nine-tenths of the squatters do, and this Montgomery is one of the nine.
You're a bit sarcastic. How long is it since you were one
of the cheekiest grass-stealers on the track?"

"Never, Steve. You've been drinking."

"Anyway, you need n't be more of a hypocrite than you can help,"
grumbled Thompson. "If you want a problem to work out, just consider
that God constructed cattle for living on grass, and the grass
for them to live on, and that, last night, and to-night, and to-morrow night,
and mostly every night, we've a choice between two dirty transactions--
one is, to let the bullocks starve, and the other is to steal grass for them.
For my own part, I'm sick and tired of studying why some people
should be in a position where they have to go out of their way to do wrong,
and other people are cornered to that extent that they can't live
without doing wrong, and can't suicide without jumping out of the frying-pan
into the fire. Wonder if any allowance is made for bullock drivers?--
or are they supposed to be able to make enough money to retire
into some decent life before they die? Well, thank God for one good camp,
at all events."

"How's the water?" asked Cooper, meeting us at the fence.

"Enough for to-night," replied Thompson; "but very little left for posterity."

"After us, the Deluge," observed Willoughby.

"I hope so," replied Cooper devoutly. "Lord knows, it's badly wanted;
and I'm sure we don't grudge nobody the benefit. Turnin' out nice an' cool,
ain't it? The bullocks'll be able to do their selves some sort o' justice."

It was a clear but moonless night; the dark blue canopy spangled
with myriad stars--grandeur, peace, and purity above; squalor, worry,
and profanity below. Fit basis for many an ancient system of Theology--
unscientific, if you will, but by no means contemptible.

Price and Cooper, being cooks, had kindled an unobtrusive fire in a crabhole,
where three billies were soon boiling. And the tea, when cool enough,
needed no light to escort a due proportion of simple provender
into that mysterious laboratory which should never be considered too curiously.

After supper, we lay around, resting ourselves; everyone smoking tranquilly
except Willoughby. Dixon and Bum were evidently old friends; they reclined
with their heads together, occasionally laughing and whispering--a piece
of bad manners silently but strongly resented by the rest of the company.

"I'll jist go an' have a squint at the carrion," remarked Mosey, at length,
with the inevitable adjective; and, passing through the broken fence,
he disappeared in the timber and old-man salt-bush.

"Wants some o' the flashness took outen him," remarked Price,
in arrogant assertion of parental authority, yet glancing apprehensively
after Mosey as he spoke.

"Should 'a' thought about that before," observed Cooper gravely.
"Too late now. You ain't good enough."

A few minutes silence ensued, while each member of the company
thought the matter over in his own way. Then Mosey returned.

"Grass up over yer boots, an' the carrion goin' into it lemons," he remarked.
"I do like to give this Runnymede the benefit o' the act.
'On't ole Martin be ropeable when he sees that fence! Magomery's as hard
as nails, his own self; but he ain't the class o' feller that watches
from behine a tree--keeps curs like Martin to do his dirty work.
But he'd like to nip every divil of us if he got half a slant. I notice,
the more swellisher a man is, the more miserabler he is about a bite o' grass
for a team, or a feed for a traveller. Magomery's got an edge on you,
Thompson--you an' Cunningham--for workin' on Nosey Alf's horse-paddick,
an' for leavin' some gates open. Moriarty, the storekeeper,
he told me about it."

"Well, we did n't work on Alf's horse-paddock, and we did n't leave
any gates open," replied Thompson. "We lost the steers from the ram-paddock,
here, and we found them away in the Sedan paddock. Certainly, we camped them
all night in the Connelly paddock, but we never touched Alf's grass,
and we left no gates open."

"Chorus, boys!" said Mosey flippantly.

"O, what a (adj.) lie!" echoed Dixon, Bum, and the precentor himself.
Thompson sighed; Cooper growled; and Willoughby coughed deprecatingly.

"I don't blame ole Martin to have a bit of a nose on me," continued Mosey
laughingly. "Lord! didn't I git the loan of him cheap las' summer!
Me an' the ole man was comin' down from Karowra with the last o' the clip;
an' these paddicks was as bare as the palm o' your hand; so we goes on
past here, an' camps half-ways between the fur corner o' the ram-paddick
an' the station gate; an' looses out about an hour after sundown.
It was sort o' cloudy moonlight that night; an' I takes the carrion
straight on, an' shoves 'em in the horse-paddick, an' shuts the gate.
Then I fetches 'em into a sort of a holler, where the best grass was,
an' I takes the saddle an' bridle off o' the horse, an' lays down,
an' watches the carrion wirin' in. Well, you know, ole Martin,
the head boundary man, he's about as nice a varmin as Warrigal Alf;
an' the young fellers at the barracks they 'on't corroborate with him,
no road; an' he thinks his self a cut above the hut, so he lives
with Daddy Montague, in Latham's ole place, down at the fur corner
o' the horse-paddick. Well, this ole beggar he's buckin' up to Miss King,
the governess, an' Moriarty, the storekeeper, he's buckin' up to her too"----

"Clever feller, that Moriarty," interposed Price, in pathetic sycophancy.
"Rummest young (fellow) goin', when he likes to come out. Ain't he,
Mosey?" He paused and laughed heartily. "Las' time I unloaded
at Runnymede--an' it was on'y one ton lebm; for we was goin' out emp'y
for wool, on account o' them two Vic. chaps snappin' our loads.
I disremember if I tole you the yarn when I pulled you at the Willandra.
Anyhow it was raining like (incongruous comparison) when I drawed up
at the store; an' Moriarty he fetches me inter the office, an' gives me
a stiffener o' brandy. Or whisky? Now, (hair-raising imprecation)
if I don't disremember which. But I think it was brandy. Yes, it was brandy."

"Well?" interrogated Mosey, after a pause.

"On'y jist showin' how one idear sort o' fetches up another,"
replied the old man, with simulated ease of manner.

"Well, you are a (adj.) fool. But as I was telling you chaps:
About eleven o'clock, who should come dodgin' down the paddick but ole Martin.
Bin pokin' roun' after Miss King, I s'pose. He walks right bang
through the carrion, thinkin' they was the station bullicks; an' me
layin' there, laughin' in to myself. By-'n'-by he stops an' consithers,
an' then he goes roun' examinin' them, an' smellin' about, an' then
he has a long squint at Valiparaiser; an' in the heel o' the hunt he rounds up
the lot, an' sails off to the yard with 'em; an' me follerin'
ready to collar 'em when the coast was clear. By-'n'-by I sees him leavin'
the yard, an' I goes to it, an' lo an' behold you! there was a padlock
on the gate as big as a sardine-box."

" Well, we had a bunch o' keys at the camp. I had snavelled 'em
at the railway station, las' time we was at Deniliquin, thinkin' they might
come in useful. So I heads for the camp at the rate o' knots.
Collars the keys, an' gits a drink o' tea, an' takes a bit o' brownie
in my fist, an' back I goes, doin' the trip in about an hour. Providential,
one o' the keys fits the lock, so I whips out the carrion, an' shoves 'em
down to where the ole sinner took 'em from. Well, there was two station teams
in the paddick--I s'pose they wanted 'em very early for somethin'--
so I saddles Valiparaiser an' scoots across to where I seen these bullicks
when I was goin' for the keys; an' I shoves 'em into the yard;
an' I rakes up a ole grey horse, lame o' four legs, an' shoves him in along
o' the carrion, an' locks the gate, an' goes back to our lot,
an' keeps an eye on 'em till they laid down, fit to bust. Lord! how I laughed
that night! I seen Martin watchin us nex' mornin', after we started.
He's got a set on me for that, among other things."

"Hasn't Warrigal Alf got a set on you too?" asked Thompson coldly.
"Strikes me, you're not the safest man in the world to travel with."

"Yes, Alf gives me the prayers o' the Church now an' agen," replied Mosey
complacently. "It was this way: The winter afore last, we got a leader
in a swap at Deniliquin. Same time I made the keys. Yaller,
hoop-horned bullick--I dunno if you seen him with us? Well, this Pilot,
you could n't pack him"--Here Cooper slowly rose, and walked across
to his wagon--"Lazy mountain o' mullick, that."

"Burden to his own self," assented Price obsequiously.

"Thick-headed galoot, appearingly," suggested Bum.

"Ought to be hunted back to the Sydney side," contributed Dixon.

----"You could n't pack him for a near side leader," resumed Mosey;
"but there was nothin' for it but shepherd all night. You might bet yer soul
agen five bob, Pilot was off. Whenever he seen a fence, he'd go through it,
an' whenever he seen a river, he'd swim it; an' the whole fraternity
stringin' after, thinkin' he was on for somethin' worth while. Grand leader,
but a beggar to clear. Well, las' year, when we went up emp'y to Bargoona--
same trip the ole man got that wonderful drink off Moriarty--who should we fine
there but this Alf, waitin' for wool, an' due for the fust load.
No fear o' him goin' up emp'y nyther. He'd manage to collar six ton"----

"Don't mention that name if you can help it, Mosey," interrupted Cooper,
as he returned to the group, carrying a blanket and the little bag
of dead grass which he used as a pillow. "I'm a good-tempered man,"
he continued, in sullen apology; "but it gives me the wilds
and the melancholies, does that name."

"Which?--Bargoona?"

"No; the other name. You've got Nosey Alf, an' Warrigal Alf, an' (sheol) knows
how many other Alfs. I got reason to hate that name."

"Well," resumed Mosey, after a pause, "as I was tellin' you, this cove
he was there; an' it so happened his near side leader had got bit with a snake,
an' died; an' as luck would have it, he'd sold the pick of his bullicks
to a tank-sinker, an' bought steers in theyre place; an' he had n't
another bullick fit to shove in the near side lead to tackle sich a road
as he'd got in front of him. Well, this cove he makes fistfuls o' money,
but he's always dog-poor, so he"----

"Which cove makes fistfuls o' money?" demanded Price, roused from a reverie
by the magic dissyllable.

"Fine out, you (adj.) ole fool. So he was flyblowed as usual
in regard o' cash; an' he was badly in want of a near side leader;
an' I kep' showin' off this Pilot, shifting wagons from the door o' the shed,
an' tinkerin' about; an' he offered us two good bullicks for the counterfit;
an' me an' the ole man we hum'd and ha'd, an' let on we did n't want
to part with him; an' me as thin as a whippin'-post with watchin'
the yaller-hided dodger every night, to keep him from goin' overland
to the bounds o' creation. Well, at long an' at last we swapped level
for Valiparaiser. I seen the workin' o' Providence in it from fust to last.
The horse he's worth twenty notes, all out; an' Pilot he was dear at a gift.
I say, Tom; that's a grand horse you got off o' the Far-downer.
Goes like a greyhound. Gosh, you had that bloke to rights.
He's whippin' the cat now like fury. I was chiackin' him about the deal,
when he told me you swapped level; an' he wanted to change the subject.
'I'm frightened you'll be short o' grass to-night,' says he.
'Where you goin' to camp?' says he. The (adj.) fool!"

"What did you tell him?" asked Thompson.

"Ram-paddick, of course. You don't ketch me tellin' the truth
about where I'm goin' to camp. But you got a rakin' horse, Tom;
an' I give you credit for gittin' at the blind side o' the turf-cutter."

"He'll do me well enough for poking about," I replied modestly.
"But how did the other fellow get on with Pilot?"

"It was the fun o' the world," resumed Mosey. "The other feller he left
the shed three days ahead of us; an' when we drawed out, an' camped
at the Four-mile Tank, this feller's wagon was standin' there yet;
an' no sign o' him nor his carrion. I was thinkin' he'd have some fun
with Pilot, 'specially on account of havin' to do his bullick-huntin' on foot;
for he could n't afford to git another horse till he delivered.
Well, I never seen him agen till to-day when we stopped for dinner;
but the feller at the Bilby Well he told me about it when we was goin' back
to Bargoona, nex' trip."

"Seems, the other feller he goes out in the mornin' on foot,
thinkin' to fine his carrion among that mulgar in the corner to yer left;
an' when he got to the corner, there was a hole in the fence,
an' the tracks through. Course, he runs the tracks; he runs 'em all day,
an' at night he lays down, an' I s'pose he swears his self to sleep.
Nex' mornin', off he scoots agen, an' jist before sundown he hears the bells,
an' he pipes the tail end o' the string ahead; an' the front end
was jist at the Bilby Well--sixty good mile, if it's an inch,
an' scrub all the road. Pilot he had n't thought worth while to go roun'
by the Boundary Tank, to git on the wool track; he jist went ahead
like a surveyor, an' the fences was like spiders' webs to him.
It was blazing hot weather; and the other fellow he never seen tucker
nor water all the trip, for he wouldn't leave the track. Laugh?
Lord! I thought I'd 'a' busted when the bloke at the well told me.
I noticed the other feller was a bit narked when he seen me
on the horse to-day. He's got red o' Pilot."

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