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Such is Life

J >> Joseph Furphy >> Such is Life




"Impidence ain't worth a d--n, if it ain't properly carried out," replied
the inferior creation. "Think you git a note a week jist for eatin'
your (adj.) tucker an' orderin' people about? I done my day's work. Fork over
that plug o' tobacker you're owin' me about the lenth o' that snake.
Otherways, shut up. We ain't on equal terms while that stick o' tobacker's
between us."

"I'll straighten you some of these times," replied Moriarty darkly.
"It's coming, Toby!"

"No catchee, no havee, ole son!" laughed the prince. "The divil resave ye,
Paddy! Macushla, mavourneen, tare-an'-ouns! whirroo! Bloody ind to the Pope!"

"Toby," said Moriarty, with a calmness intended to seem ominous; "if I had
a gun in my hand, I'd shoot you like a wild-dog. But I suppose I'd get
into trouble for it," he continued scornfully.

"Jist the same's for layin' out a whitefeller," assented the prince,
still rasping at his cockroach, like Ugolini at the living skull of Ruggieri,
in Dante's airy conception of the place where wrongs are rectified.
(That unhappy mannerism again, you see).

"Permit me to suggest," said Moriarty, after a pause, "that if you contemplated
your own origin and antecedents, it would assist you to approximate
your relative position on this station. Don't you think a trifle
of subordination would be appropriate to"----

"A servile and halting imitation of Mrs. B.; and imitation is the sincerest
flattery," I commented. "I'll tell Miss K."

"Manners, please!--Appropriate, I was saying, to a blasted varmin like you?
Permit me to remind you that Mrs. Montgomery, senior, gave a blanket
for you when you were little."

"I know she did," replied the prince, with just a suspicion of vain-glory.
"Nobody would be fool enough to give a blanket for you when you was little.
Soolim!"

"Come on, Moriarty," said I, rising; "I must take a bit off the near end
of my journey to-night."

"Howld your howlt, chaps," interposed the good-natured half-caste
"I'll run up your horses for you. I was on'y takin' a rise out o'
Mr. Mori--(adj.)--arty, Esquire; jist to learn him not to be quite so suddent."
And in another minute, he was striding down the paddock, with his bridle
and stockwhip.

Half an hour later, my horses were equipped; and, all the Levites being absent,
four or five tribesmen slowly collected under Pawsome's shed, waiting to see
what would happen. Cleopatra was not without reputation.

"Tell you what you better do," said Moriarty to me--"better hang your socks
on Nosey Alf's crook to-night. His place is fifteen mile from here,
and very little out of your way. Ill-natured, cranky beggar, Alf is--been on
the pea--but there's no end of grass in his paddock. And I say--get him
to give you a tune or two on his fiddle. Something splendid I believe.
He's always getting music by post from Sydney. Montgomery had heard him sing
and play, some time or other; and when old Mooney was here, just before
last shearing, he sent Toby to tell Alf to come to the house in the evening,
and bring his fiddle; and Alf came, very much against his grain. Young Mooney
was asked into the house, on account of his dad being there; and he swears
he never heard anything like Alf's style; though the stubborn devil
would n't sing a word; nothing but play. And he was just as good on the piano
as on the fiddle, though his hand must have been badly out.
Mooney thinks he jibbed on singing because the women were there.
Alf's a mis-mis-mis-dash it"----

"Mischief-maker?" I suggested.

"No.--mis--mis"----

"Mysterious character?"

"No, no.--mis--mis"----

"Try a synonym."

"Is that it? I think it is. Well Alf's a misasynonym--womanhater--among
other things. When he comes to the station, he dodges the women like
a criminal. And the unsociable dog begged of Montgomery not to ask him
to perform again. One night, Nelson was going past his place, and heard
a concert going on, so he left his horse, and sneaked up to the wall;
but the music suddenly stopped, and before Nelson knew, Nosey's dog had
the seat out of his pants. Nosey came out and apologised for the dog,
and brought Nelson in to have some supper; and Nelson stayed till about
twelve; but devil a squeak of the fiddle, or a line of a song, could he get
out of Alf. But, as the boss says, Alf's only mad enough to know
the difference between an eagle-hawk and a saw--foolish expression,
it seems to me. Best boundary man on the station, Alf is. Been in the
Round Swamp Paddock five years now; and he's likely a fixture for life.
Boundary riding for some years in the Bland country before he came here.
Now I'll show you how you'll fetch his place"--Moriarty began drawing
a diagram on the ground with a stick--"You go through the Red Gate--we'll call
this the gate. The track branches there; and you follow this branch.
It's the Nalrooka track; and it takes you along here--mind, you're going
due east now"----

"Wait, Moriarty," I interrupted--"don't you see that you're reversing
everything? A man would have to stand on his head to understand that map.
There is the north, and here is the south."

"Don't matter a beggar which is the real north and south. I'm showing you
the way you've got to go. We'll start afresh to please you. Through here--
along here--and follow the same line from end to end of the pine-ridge,
with the fence on your right all the way"----

"Hold on, hold on," I again interrupted--"you're at right angles now.
Don't you see that your line's north and south?--and did you ever see
a pine-ridge running north and south? Begin again. Say the Red Gate is here;
and I turn along here. Now go ahead."

"No, I'm dashed if I do! I'm no hand at directing; but, by gosh, you're all
there at understanding."

"Jack," said I, turning to the primeval t'other-sider--"can you direct me
to Nosey Alf's?"

"I'll try," replied the veteran; and he slowly drew a diagram, true to
the points of the compass. "'Ere's the Red Gate--mind you shet it--then along
'ere, arf a mile. Through this gate--an' mind 'ow you leave 'er,
f'r the wire hinclines to slip hover. Then straight along 'ere, through
the pine-ridge, f'm hend to hend. You're hon the Nalrookar track, mind,
t' wot time you see a gate hin the fence as you're a-kerryin' hon yer
right shoulder. Gate's sebm mile f'm 'ere. Nalrookar track goes through
that gate; b't neb' you mind; you keep straight ahead pas' the gate,
hon a pad you'll 'ar'ly see; han jist hat the fur hend o' the pine-ridge
you'll strike hanuther gate; an' you mus' be very p'tic'lar shettin' 'er.
Then take a hangle o' fo'ty-five, with the pine-ridge hon yer back;
an' hin fo' mile you'll strike yer las' gate--'ere, hin the co'ner.
Take this fence hon yer right shoulder, an' run 'er down. B't you'll spot
Half's place, fur ahead, w'en you git to the gate, ef it ain't night."

"Thank you, Jack, I replied, and then imprudently continued--"It would suit
some of these young pups to take a lesson from you."

"You hain't fur wrong," replied the good old chronicle, that had so long
walked hand in hand with Time. "Las' year, hit war hall the cry, 'Ole hon
t' we gits a holt o' Cunnigarn's mongreals!'--'Ole hon t' we gits a holt o'
Thompson's mongreals!'--'We'll make hit 'ot f'r 'em!' Han wot war the hupshot?
'Stiddy!' ses Hi--'w'e 's y' proofs?' 'Proof be dam!' ses they--'don't we
know?' They know a 'ell of a lot! Has the sayin' his:--'Onct boys was boys,
an' men was men; but now boys his men, an' men's"--(I did n't catch the rest
of the sentence). "Han what were the hupshot? W'y, fact was Cunnigam
an' Thompson 'ad bin workin' hon hour ram-paddick wun night; an' six Wogger
steers got away, an' a stag amongst 'em; makin' f'r home; an' they left
a whaler mindin' the wagons; an' the two o' them hover'auled the steers
way down hin hour Sedan Paddick. Well, heverybody--Muster Magomery his self,
no less--heverybody ses, 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt of 'em fellers'
mongreals!--bin leavin' three o' hour gates hopen; an' the yowes an' weaners
is boxed; an' puttin' a file through Nosey Half's 'oss-paddick, an' workin'
hon it with 'er steers!' 'Stiddy!' ses Hi--'w'e's y'r proofs?' Way it war,
Collings; 'ere come a dose o' rain jis' harter, an' yer could n't track.
Well, wot war the hupshot? W'y, Warrigal Half war hunloadin' hat Boottara;
an' a yaller bullick 'e 'd got, Pilot by name"----

"Yes," I gently interposed. "Well, I'll have to be"----

"'Is Pilot starts by night f'm Boottara ration-paddick, an' does 'is
thirty mile to hour 'oss-paddick; an' the hull menagerie tailin' harter.
'Shove 'em in 'e yaad, Toby,' ses Muster Magomery. Presinkly, up comes Half,
an 'is 'oss hall of a lather. 'Take yer dem mongreals,' ses Muster Magomery;
'an' don' hoversleep y'self agin.' Think Half war goin' ter flog 'is hanimals
thirty mile back? Not 'im"----

"It would hardly be right," I agreed. "Well, I must be jogging"--

"Not 'im," pursued Jack. "'E turns horf o' the main track t' other side
the ram-paddick; through the Patagoniar; leaves hall gates hopen;
fetches Nosey's place harter dark; houts file, an' hin with 'is mob,
an' gives 'm a g-tful. Course, 'e clears befo' mo'nin'; an' through hour
Sedan Paddick, an' back to Boottara that road. 'Ow do Hi know
hall this?--ses you?"

"Ah!" said I wisely. "Well, I must be"----

"No; you're in for it," chuckled Moriarty.

"Tole me 'is hown self, not three weeks agone. Camped hat hour ram-paddick,
shiftin' Stewart's things to Queensland. An' wot war the hupshot? 'Stiddy,
now,' ses Hi--'w'e 's y' proofs?' 'Some o' these young pups horter take
a lessing horf o' you, Jack,' ses you, jist now. You're right, Collings.
Did n' Hi say, las' lambin'--did n' Hi say we war a-gwain ter hev sich anuther
year as sixty-hate? Mostly kettle wot we hed then, afore the wool rose;
an' wild dogs bein' plentiful them times; an' we'd a sort o' 'ead stock-keeper,
name o' Bob Selkirk; an' this feller 'e started f'm 'ere with
hate 'underd an' fo'ty sebm 'ead"----

"And he would have his work cut out for him," I remarked, in cordial assent.
"You've seen some changes on this station, Jack. Well, I must be going."

Leaving the old fellow talking, I threw the reins over Cleopatra's head,
and drew the near one a little the tightest. He stood motionless as a statue,
and beautiful as a poet's dream.

"Would n't think that horse had a devil in him as big as a bulldog,"
observed the horse-driver. "Shake the soul-bolt out of a man, s'posen you
do stick to him."

"And yet Collins can't ride worth a cuss," contributed Moriarty confidentially.
"He's just dropped to this fellow's style. Boss wanted to see him on
our Satan, but Collins knew a thundering sight better."

A slight, loose-built lad, with a spur trailing at his right heel,
advanced from the group.

"Would you mind lettin' me take the feather-edge off o' this feller?"
he asked modestly. "If he slings me, you can git on-to him while he's warm,
an' no harm done. I'd like to try that saddle," he added, by way of excuse.
"Minds me o' one I got shook, five months ago, with a redheaded galoot
I'd bin treatin' like a brother, on account of him bein' fly-blowed,
an' the both of us travellin' the same road. Best shape saddle I ever had
a leg over, that was. Will I have a try?"

"Not worth while, Jack," I replied. "He might prop a little, certainly;
but it's only playfulness." So I swung into the deep seat of the stolen saddle,
and lightly touched the lotus-loving Memphian with both spurs.

First, a reeling, dancing, uncertain panorama of buildings, fences,
and spectators; then a mechanical response to the surging, jerking,
concussive saddle, and a guarded strain on the dragging reins. Also
a tranquil cognisance of favourable comment, exchanged by competent judges--
no excitement, no admiration, remember; not a trace of new-chum interest,
but a certain dignified and judicious approbation, honourable alike to critic
and artist. Fools admire, but men of wit approve.

"You see, it's--only playfulness--I remarked indifferently; the words being
punctuated by necessity, rather than by choice. Magnificent, but--not war.
There's not a-shadow of vice in his com-position. As the poet says:--


This is mere--madness,
And thus awhile the--fit will work--on him.
Anon as patient as the female--dove,
When that her--golden couplets have dis--closed,
His silence will--sit drooping.


There you are!" And Cleopatra stood still; slightly panting, it is true,
but with lamb-like guilelessness in his madonna face.

Then, as the toilers of the station slowly dispersed to see about
getting up an appetite for supper, Moriarty advanced, and laid both hands
on Cleopatra's mane.

"Collins!" he exclaimed; "I'm better pleased than if I had won ten bob.
What do you think?--that verse you quoted from Shakespear brought the question
to my mind like a shot of a gun; the very question I wanted to ask you
a couple of hours ago. I know it's been asked before; in fact, I met with it
in an English magazine, where the writer uses the very words you quoted
just now. I thought perhaps you had never met with the question,
and it might interest you--Was Hamlet mad?"

Of some few amiable qualities with which it has pleased heaven to endow me
beyond the majority of my fellows, a Marlborough-temper is by no means
the least in importance. I looked down in the ingenuous face of the searcher
after wisdom, quenching, like Malvolio, my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control.

"Semper felix," I observed hopelessly. "You're right in saying that
the question has been asked before. It has been asked. But daylight
in the morning is the right time to enter on that inquiry. For the present,
we must leave the world-wearied prince to rest in his ancestral vault,
where he was laid by the pious hands of Horatio and Fortinbras--where, each in
his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of The Hamlet sleep."

"Quotation--ain't it?" suggested Moriarty critically.

"No." I sighed.

"Well then, I'm beggared if I can see anything in that sort of an answer,"
remarked the young fellow resentfully.

"Dear boy," I replied; "I never imagined that you could. I would you had
but the wit; 'twere better than your dukedom. By-the-way-what is Jack's
other name?"

"Which Jack? Old Jack, or Young Jack, or Jack the Shellback,
or Fog-a-bolla Jack?"

"Young Jack; the chap that offered to ride Cleopatra."

"Jack Frost."

"Right. Good-bye. And remember our arrangement."

"Good-bye, ole man. Depend your life on my straightness."

Then I whistled to Pup, noticed that Bunyip had n't got on the wrong side
of the fence, and turned Cleopatra's head toward the Bogan.

G. P. R. James rightly remarks that nothing is more promotive of thought
than the walking pace of a horse. We may add that nothing on earth can soothe
and purify like the canter; nothing strengthen and exhilarate like the gallop.
The trot is passed over with such contempt as it deserves. So, for the first
mile I was soothed and purified; for the next half-mile I busied myself
on a metaphysical problem; and so on for about five miles.

The metaphysical difficulty (if you care about knowing) arose in connection
with the singular issue of that preposterous wager. Whence came such
an elaborate dispensation? If from above, it was plainly addressed
to Moriarty, as a salutary check on his growing propensity; if from beneath,
it must have been a last desperate attempt to decoy into evil ways one who was,
perhaps, better worth enlisting than the average fat-head. To which of these
sources would you trace the movement? Mind you, our grandfathers--to come
no closer--would have piously taken the event on its face value of £50,
as a blessing to the Prodistan, and a chastisement to the Papish. But we move.
And, by my faith, we have need.

Presently I entered on the narrow pine-ridge; and now, carrying a line of fence
on my right shoulder, I followed the pleasant track, winding through pine,
wilga, needle-bush, quondong, and so forth. Two miles of this; then
on my right appeared the white gate, through which ran the Nalrooka track.
Up to this time, I had been following the route which a harsh usage
of the country had interdicted to Priestley.

Montgomery and Folkestone, returning from their drive, had just come through
this gate; the buggy, turned toward home, was on the track in front of me,
and Montgomery was resuming his seat, after shutting the gate.
The station mail-bag, loosely tied, was lying on the foot-board.

I had just done explaining where I was bound for, and on what business,
and where I intended staying that night, when I nearly tumbled off my horse
with a sort of white horror.

For straight behind the buggy, and less than eighty yards away, Priestley's
fourteen-bullock team came crawling along the fence, with the evident purpose
of catching the Nalrooka track at the gate. Priestley had chanced it.
Knowing every gate on the run, he had merely gone round the ration-paddock,
and had already made a seven-mile stage in ten miles' travelling--that is,
losing three miles in the detour. Once through this gate, the track would
be lovely, the wagon would chase the bullocks; evening would soon be on;
he would fetch feed and water at the Faugh-a-ballagh Tank, in the quiet
moonlight; moreover, if he met a boundary man, he could easily say he had
permission from the boss; in any case, it would soon be not worth while
to order him back; and he would be off the run some time to-morrow forenoon.
I could read his thoughts as I looked at him across Montgomery's shoulder.
Concealed from distant observation by the timber of the pine-ridge,
he had dismissed all apprehension, and allowed his mind to drift to a bend
of the Murrumbidgee, a couple of miles above Hay. There were his young
barbarians all at play; there was their dacent mother; he, their sire,
looking blissfully forward to superhuman work, and plenty of it.

Straight into the lion's mouth! Heaven help--but does heaven help
the Scotch-navigator? I question it. Half an hour's loafing, at any time
during the day, would have timed his arrival so as not only to obviate
the present danger, but to spare him the disquieting consciousness
of narrow escape. And heaven helps those who help themselves

He knew the gate was near; and, with the automatic restlessness of
an impatient dog tied under a travelling dray, he walked back and forward,
backward and forward beside his weary team; often looking back to see
the wagon clear the trees, but never, by any chance, looking forward
against the blaze of the declining sun intently enough to notice the back
of the buggy, partly concealed, as it was, by an umbrageous wilga.
As I watched him, I wished, with Balaam, that there were a sword in mine hand,
that I might slay the ass.

I dare n't ride past the buggy, for fear of Montgomery looking round
to say something. I half-heard him tell me that the Sydney crew had won
the regatta, and that Jupiter was starting a hot favourite for the Flemington.
And all this time, the unconscious son of perdition was crawling nearer;
not a jolt nor a click-clock came from his wagon as it pressed the yielding
soil; and the faint creaking of the tackle was drowned in the rustle
of a hot wind through the foliage.

"I'm sorry to see you starting so late in the day, and Saturday too,"
continued the squatter courteously. "The barracks will be lively to-night
over these sporting events."

I bowed. I would have licked the dust to see him stand not upon the order
of his going, but go at once. "Well, I must be moving," I mumbled hastily,
glancing behind me at the sun, and backing Cleopatra into the scrub,
to let the buggy pass--noting also that Priestley was n't forty yards away.

"Now, confess the truth, Collins--you've been having a tiff with
Mrs. Beaudesart?" continued Montgomery. "Lovers' quarrel? That's nothing.
I did n't think you were so pettish as to run away like this."

"Indeed, Mr. Montgomery," said I earnestly; "I assure you I'm only going
at the call of duty. I'll show"----here it struck me that the production
of my letter would delay things worse, and----

"By the way, there's a parcel for Alf Jones in the mail-bag," continued
the squatter, with hideous dilatoriness. "I see it's a roll of music.
Better take it. And his newspaper. Get him to give you a tune on his violin,
if you can. It will be something to remember."

"Thank you for the suggestion, sir," I continued slavishly, whilst backing
Cleopatra a little further into the scrub, and clearing my throat with a sharp,
pentrating sound, as if I had swallowed a fly.

Just then, the bullocks stopped of their own accord, within ten yards
of the buggy; and Priestley, pre-occupied in laying out fresh work for himself,
was roused by my loud r-r-rehm! and took in the situation.

Montgomery seemed amused at my tribulation. "Why, your manner betrays you,
Collins! Never mind. You'll grow out of that in good time. When is it
coming off?" He crossed his knees, and held the reins jammed between them,
whilst deliberately filling and lighting his pipe. Meanwhile, Priestley,
in silent communion with his Maker, stood by his team as if waiting
to be photographed. The buggy was in a cool, pleasant shade; and Montgomery
would maintain this flagitious procrastination of his managerial duties
while I remained a butt for his ill-timed chaff. Critical is no name
for the state of affairs.

But an angel seemed to whisper me soul to soul. I responded
to the inspiration.

"Well, I'll show you the letter, Mr. Montgomery," said I, with a petulance
tempered by sycophancy. I first felt, then slapped, my pockets--"By japers!
I've left my pocket-book on the seat in front of the barracks!" I continued
hurriedly, as I turned Cleopatra back toward the station, and bounded off
at a canter. I had n't gone five strides, when, flick! went the buggy-whip;
the vehicle started after me; and Priestley was saved. But there is no such
thing as permanent safety in this world. The first rattle of the wheels
was followed by a loud, pompous, bank-director cough from one of the bullocks.

"Hullo! what the (sheol) have we here?" It was Montgomery's voice,
no longer jocular. I turned and rode back, as he swung his buggy round
on the lock, skilfully threading the trees and scrub, till he resumed
his old position, but now facing the bullock team. "And what,
in the devil's name, brings you round this quarter?" he demanded sternly.
"This is a bad job!"

"You're right, Mr. Magomery," assented the bullock driver, with emphasis;
"it is a bad job; it's a (adj.) bad job. Way it comes: you see, I got a bit
o' loadin' for Nalrookar"----

"Two-ton-five. I know all about that, though I'm not interested in the
transaction," retorted Montgomery. "I asked you what the (sheol)
brings you here?"

"Well, that's just what I was goin' to explain when you took the word
out o' my mouth. You see, Mr. Magomery, the proper road for me would 'a' been
back along the main track to the Cane-grass Swamp, an' from there along
the reg'lar Nalrookar track; but I was frightened o' the Convincer,
so I thought I'd just cut across"----

"Great God! You thought you'd just cut across! Do you own this run?

"Well, no, Mr. Magomery, I don't; that's (adj.) certain. But if I'd 'a'
thought you'd any objection, I'd 'a' ast leaf."

"That's what you should have done. You've acted like a d----d fool."

"You'd 'a' give me leaf?" suggested the bullock driver, in a tone
full of unspoken entreaty.

"I'd have seen you in (sheol) first. I decline to make a thoroughfare
of the run. But by condescending to ask me, you'd have saved yourself
some travelling. The nearest way to the main road is past the station.
Here! rouse up your d----d mongrels, and make a start along this track.
I'll see that you're escorted. If you loose-out before you reach the main
road, I shall certainly prosecute you. Once there, I'll take care you don't
trespass again during this trip. Come! move yourself!"

Priestley had never been taught to order himself lowly and reverently
to all his betters; yet there was deeper pathos in the rude dignity
of his reply than could have attended servility.

"It s this way, Mr. Magomery--I don't deny I got here in a sneakin' way.
I feel it, Mr. Magomery; by (sheol) I do. Still, I'm here now. Well,
if I tackle this track out to the main road, there's three o' them bullocks'll
drop in yoke before I fetch the station. Would you like to see the bones
layin' aside this track, every time you drive past? I bet you what you like,
you'd be sorry when your temper is over. Then we'll say I'm out on the
main road--how 'm I goin' to fetch Nalrooka? Not possible, the way I'm fixed.
I would n't do it to you, Mr. Magomery."

I had ridden to the side of the buggy. "Mr. Montgomery," said I; "I wish
to heaven that you were under one-tenth of the obligation to me that I am
under to you, so that I might venture to speak in this case. But the
remembrance of so much consideration at your hands m the past, encourages me.
There's a great deal in what Priestley says; my own experience in bullock
driving brings it home to me; and I sympathise with him, rather than with you.
Of course the matter rests entirely in your hands; but to me it appears
in the light of a responsibility. It is noble to have a squatter's strength,
but tyrannous to use it like a squatter."

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