[Illustration: ‘Oh! Good Mister Bunyip,’ he quavered, ‘let’s off this oncest.’ ([Page 6].)]

[Frontispiece

[v]
]STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP
And Other Stories

BY
JOHN ARTHUR BARRY

WITH INTRODUCTORY VERSES
BY
RUDYARD KIPLING

NEW EDITION

Author of “In the Great Deep,” “The Luck of the Native Born,”
“A Son of the Sea,” “Red Lion and Blue Star,”
“Old and New Sydney,” etc.

N.S.W. BOOKSTALL CO.
SYDNEY.
———
1905

All Rights Reserved

[vi]
]John Sands, Printer, Sydney.

[vii]
]CONTENTS.
———o———

[ix]
]AGAIN.

There have been occasions when, after long rest as a hulk lying in some land-locked cove, with little of its past history except the name left in people’s memories, that once again the old ship has been brought forth, staunch as ever, to perform, it is hoped, faithful service on the outer seas.

Something of this kind has happened in the case of “Steve Brown’s Bunyip.” The book has been so long out of print as to perhaps render any apology for its re-appearance needless. All the more so, as from many quarters through the years that have elapsed since its retirement, there have been frequent and kindly enquiries after its welfare. Also, numerous requests have reached the author that the book might again be allowed to test the weather of popular opinion, and, if possible, hold its own as it did aforetime.

Thus, in a new guise, and in a new land, the old “Bunyip,” rejuvenated and embellished, with, so to speak, colours flying and band playing, leaves its long rest at moorings, and once more sets sail in modest confidence that age will not have rendered its timbers less seaworthy, but rather have preserved and toughened them in such wise as may enable the old vessel to successfully compete with the modern craft of her class that have since appeared.

The Author.

[xi]
]INTRODUCTION.

There dwells a Wife by the Northern March

And a wealthy Wife is she.

She breeds a breed o’ rovin’ men

And casts them over sea.

And some they drown in deep water,

And some in sight of shore;

And word goes back to the carline Wife

And ever she sends more.

For since that Wife had gate or gear,

Or hearth or garth or bield,

She wills her sons to the white harvest,

And that is a bitter yield—

[xii]
]She wills her sons to the wet ploughing

To ride the horse o’ tree,

And syne her sons come home again

Far spent from out the sea.

The good Wife’s sons come home again

Wi’ little into their hands

But the lear o’ men that ha’ dealt wi’ men

In the new and naked lands—

But the faith o’ men that ha’ proven men

By more than willing breath,

And the eyes o’ men that ha’ read wi’ men

In the open books o’ Death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,

But poor in the goods o’ men:

And what they ha’ got by the skin o’ their teeth

They sell for their teeth again.

Ay, whether they lose to the naked life,

Or win to their hearts’ desire,

They tell it all to the carline Wife

That nods beside the fire.

[xiii]
]Her hearth is wide to every gust

That gars the dead ash spin—

And tide by tide and ’twixt the tides

Her sons go out and in.

[Out in great mirth that do desire

Hazard of trackless ways,

In wi’ great peace to wait their watch

And warm before the blaze.]

And some return in broken sleep

And some in waking dream,

For she hears the heels o’ the dripping ghosts

That ride the long roof-beam.

Home—they come home from all the seas—

The living and the dead—

The good Wife’s sons come home again

For her blessing on their head.

Rudyard Kipling.

[1]
]Steve Brown’s Bunyip.
———o———

STEVE BROWN’S BUNYIP.

The general opinion of those who felt called upon to give it was that Steve Brown, of the Scrubby Corner, ‘wasn’t any chop.’

Not that, on the surface, there seemed much evidence confirmatory of such a verdict—rather, indeed, the contrary.

If a traveller, drover or teamster lost his stock, Steve, after a long and arduous search, was invariably the first man to come across the missing animals—provided the reward was high enough.

Yet, in spite of this useful gift of discovery, its owner was neither liked nor trusted. Uncharitable people—especially the ones whom he took such trouble to oblige—would persist in hinting that none knew so well where to find as those that hid.

All sorts of odds and ends, too, from an unbranded calf to a sheepskin, from a new tarpaulin to a pair of [2] ]hobbles, had a curious knack of disappearing within a circuit of fifty miles of the Browns’ residence.

In appearance, Steve was long, lathy, awkward and freckled, also utterly ignorant of all things good for man to know.

Suspicious, sly and unscrupulous, just able by a sort of instinct to decipher a brand on an animal, he was a thorough specimen of the very worst type of far inland Australian Bush Native, and only those who have met him can possibly imagine what that means.

Years ago, his parents, fresh from the wilds of Connemara, had squatted on this forest reserve of Scrubby Corner. How they managed to live was a mystery. But they were never disturbed; and in time they died, leaving Steve, then eighteen, to shift for himself, by virtue of acquired knowledge.

Shortly after the death of his mother, he took unto himself the daughter of an old shepherd on a run adjoining—a fit match in every way—and continued to keep house in the ramshackle shanty in the heart of the Corner.

He had never been known to do a day’s work if he could possibly get out of it; much preferring to pick up a precarious living by ‘trading’ stock, ‘finding’ stragglers, and in other ways even less honest than the last, but which nobody, so far, had taken the trouble of bringing home to him.

. . . . . . . . . .

It was Sunday, and the caravan was spelling for the day.

[3]
]Greg, having had his dinner—only a half ration, as feed was scarce—and feeling but little inclined for a chat with the tiger, or the lion, or the bear, or any other of the sulky, brooding creatures behind the iron bars, whom he saw every day, and of whose company he was heartily tired, took it into his great head to have a look at the country.

So, unperceived of Hassan Ali, who was fast asleep in the hot sunshine, or any of the rest dozing in the tents, Greg, plucking a wattle up by the roots to keep the flies off, sauntered quietly away. He was not impressed by inland Australia. In the first place it was hot and dusty, also the flies were even worse than in his native Ceylon. Nor, so far as he could discover, was there anything to chew—that is—no tender banana stems, no patches of young rice or succulent cane. All that he tried tasted bitter, tasted of gum, peppermint, or similar abominations. He spat them out with a grunt of disgust, and meandered on.

Presently the scrub grew thicker, and, heated more than ever by the exertion of pushing his huge body through an undergrowth of pine and wattle, he hailed with delight the sight of a big waterhole, still and dark, in the very heart of it. Descending the slope at the far side of the thickly-grassed, open glade, Steve Brown, driving a couple of ‘lost’ horses, paused in dismay and astonishment at sight of the immense beast, black, shining wetly, and sending up thick jets of water into the sunlight to an accompaniment of a continuous series of grunts and rumbling noises.

[4]
]‘Hrrmp! hrrmp!’ blared Greg, in friendly greeting, as he caught sight of the figure staring fascinated.

And then he laughed to himself as he saw how the loose horses, snorting with terror, galloped off one way, and the horseman another.

But it was getting late; so, coming out of the water, and striking a well-beaten pad, he followed it. Supper time was approaching, and he kept his ears open for the shrill cry of Hassan Ali.

Meanwhile Steve had made a bee-line on the spur for home, with some vague idea surging through his dull brain of having caught a glimpse of an Avenging Power. It is mostly in this way that anything of the sort strikes the uneducated conscience.

‘What’s the matter now?’ asked his wife as he entered, pale, and with hurried steps. ‘You looks pretty badly scared. Did the traps spot yer a-plantin’ them mokes, or what?’

‘Traps be hanged!’ replied Steve. ‘I seen somethin’ wuss nor traps. I seen the bunyip down at the big waterhole.’

‘Gam, yer fool!’ exclaimed his wife, who was tall, thin, sharp-faced, and freckled, like himself. ‘What are you a-givin’ us now? Why, yer gittin’ wuss nor a black fellow wi’ yer bunyips!’

‘Well,’ said Steve, fanning himself with his old cabbage-tree hat, and glancing nervously out of the door, ‘I’ll tell yer how it was. Ye knows as how I dropped acrost that darkey’s mokes when he was camped at the Ten Mile. Well, o’ course, I takes ’em to the water in the [5] ]scrub—you knows the shop—intendin’ to hobble ’em out till such time as inquiries come this road. Well, jist as I gets in sight o’ the water I seen, right in the middle of it, I seen—I seen—’ but here he paused dead for want of a vocabulary.

‘Well, thick-head, an’ wot was it ye seed—yer own hugly shadder, I s’pose?’ said Mrs Brown, as she caught up and slapped the baby playing with a pumpkin on the floor. ‘Look better on yer, it would, to wind me up a turn o’ water, an’ it washin’ day to-morrer, ’stead o’ comin’ pitchin’ fairy stories.’

‘It warn’t,’ replied Steve, taking no notice of the latter part of her speech. ‘But it was as big—ay, an’ a lot bigger’n this hut. All black, an’ no hair it was; an’ ’t’ad two white tushes’s, long as my leg, only crookt, an’ a snout like a big snake, an’ it were a-spoutin’ water forty foot high, and soon’s it seen me it bellered agin and agin.’

‘You bin over to Walmsley’s shanty to-day?’ asked his wife, looking hard at his pale face and staring eyes.

‘No, s’elp me!’ replied Steve; ‘not fer a month or more! An’ yer knows, Mariar, as it aint very often I touches a drop o’ ennythin’ when I does go over.’ Which was strictly true, for Steve was an abstemious rogue.

‘Well, then, you’ve got a stroke o’ the sun,’ said his better-half, dogmatically, ‘an’ you’d best take a dose of salts at oncest, afore ye goes off yer ’ead wuss.’

‘Hrrmp! hrrmp! hrrmp!’ trumpeted Greg cheerfully, as at this moment, interposing his huge bulk before [6] ]the setting sun, he looked in at the back door with twinkling eyes.

With a scream the woman, snatching up her child, bolted into the bedroom, leaving Steve quaking in an ecstasy of terror, as Greg, spying the pumpkin, deftly reached in with his trunk and asked for it with an insinuating grunt.

But Steve, pretty certain that it was himself who was wanted, and that his time had come at last, tumbled off the stool and grovelled before the Unknown Terror.

Without coming in further, Greg could not get within a foot of the coveted article. To come in further would be to lift the house on his shoulders, so Greg hesitated.

For ten years—long ago in the days of his youth—he had been a member of the Ceylon Civil Service, and had learnt discipline and respect for the constituted authorities. Also, besides being chief constable of his fellows, he had been a favourite at headquarters, had borne royalty itself, and was even named after Governor Gregory. Therefore, hungry as he was, Greg hesitated about demolishing a house for the sake of a pumpkin; but Steve, now on his knees in the middle of the floor, with that curling, snakelike thing twisting and twitching before his eyes, knew less than nothing of all this.

Had he been able, he would doubtless have prayed in an orthodox manner to be delivered out of the clutches of the Evil One. Being unable to pray, he did the best he could, which was indifferent.

[‘Oh good Mister Bunyip,’ he quavered,] ‘let’s off this oncest, an’ I’ll takes them mokes back to the nigger. [7] ]I’ll give up them two unbranded foals as I shook off the carrier larst week, likewise the bag o’ flour off his waggin. If yer’ll go away, Mr Bunyip, I’ll never plant nor shake nothin’ no more. I won’t

—s’elp me! An’ if yer’ll go back quiet’—here the wall-plate began to crack, and Steve’s voice to rise into a howl—‘I’ll promise faithful never to come next anigh yer waterhole over yonder to plant hosses.’

As he concluded, Greg, having at length jammed his big head in far enough to just reach the pumpkin with his trunk, withdrew, taking both doorposts with him.

‘He’s gone, Mariar,’ said Steve, after a pause, wiping his wet face; ‘but it wor the narriest squeak you ever seed. Took nothin’, he didn’t, only that punkin as was on the floor. Tell you wot,’ as his wife came trembling out of the other room, ‘we’re a-goin’ to shift camp. Neighbours o’ that sort ain’t ter be played with. Ain’t it a wonder, bein’ so handy like, as he never come afore? I knows how it was, now!’ he exclaimed, a happy inspiration seizing him. ‘It were all through them two larst cussed mokes! The feller as owns ’em’s a flash blackfeller shearer. I had a pitch with him the night afore an’ he reckons as how he’d just cut out ov a big shed on the Marthaguy. So I sez to myself, “You’re good enough, ole chap, fer a fiver, ennyhow.”’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asked his wife softly, regarding the crushed doorway with affrighted face.

‘Don’t yer see? The bunyip’s the blackfeller’s Devil. Ole Billy Barlow tell’d me oncest as he seen the head ov [8] ]one rise up out of a lagoon. I’ll have to fossick up them mokes, Mariar, an’ take ’em to that darkey straight away, afore wuss ’appens. S-sh, sh-sh! Wot’s that?’

It was Greg, who wanted his supper badly, and was soliloquising at the other end of the hut. He had been down to a little fenced-in paling paddock on the flat, and, looking over, to his delight had seen a crop of maize, sweet and juicy and not too ripe, also more pumpkins.

But with the love of the law and the memory of discipline still strong in him, he had returned to ask permission of the owner—the stupid white man who sat in his hut and talked nonsense. And now he was holding council with himself how best to make the fool understand that he was hungry, and wanted for his supper something more than a solitary pumpkin.

Hassan Ali, he knew, had but dried hay and the rinds of melons to give him. Here, indeed, was a delectable change, and Greg’s mouth watered as he gurgled gently in at the opening which did duty for a window, and close to which the family crouched in terror.

Why could not the stupid fellow understand? Could it be that he and his were deaf? A bright idea, and one to be acted upon, this last!

Therefore, carefully lifting up and displacing half the bark roof, Greg looked benignly down and trumpeted mightily until the hut shook as with an earthquake, and the whole land seemed to vibrate, whilst his audience grovelled speechless. Then, finding no resulting effect, and secure in the sense of having done his uttermost to [9] ]make himself understood, he went off with a clear conscience to the corn-patch and luxuriated.

‘It ain’t no bunyip, Steve,’ wailed his wife, as they heard the retreating steps; ‘it’s the “Destryin’ Hangel” as I heerd a parson talk on oncest when I was a kid, an’ that wor the “Last Tramp”—the noise wot shows as the world is comin’ to an ind. It ain’t no use o’ runnin’. We’re all agoin’ to git burnt up wi’ fire an’ bremston! Look out, Steve, an’ see if there’s a big light ennywheres.’

‘Sha’n’t,’ replied Steve. ‘Wot’s the good? If it’s the end o’ the world, wot’s the use o’ lookin’? An’ I b’lieve ’ere’s yer blasted Hangel a-comin’ agen!’

Sure enough, Greg, having had a snack, was returning just to assure the folk that he was doing well; that his belly was half full, and that he was enjoying himself immensely.

So he hrrmped softly round about in the darkness, and scratched his sides against the rough stone fireplace, and took off one of the rafters for a toothpick, and rumbled and gurgled meditatively, feeling that if he could only drop across a couple of quarts of toddy, as in the old Island days, his would be perfect bliss.

All through the hot summer night he passed at intervals from the paddock to the house and back, and all the night those others lay and shivered, and waited for the horror of the Unknown.

Then, a little after sunrise, a long, loud, shrill call was heard, answered on the instant by a sustained hoarse blare, as Greg recognised the cry of his mahout and keeper.

[10]
]And presently Steve, plucking up courage in the light, arose, and, looking out, shouted to his wife triumphantly,—

‘Now, then, Mariar, who’s right about the bunyip! There he goes off home to the waterhole with a black nigger on his back!’

[11]
]DEAD MAN’S CAMP.

One lurid summer, in 1873, I was crossing over from Saint George’s Bridge, on the Balonne, to Mitchell, on the Maranoa. I had been to a rush at Malawal, N.S.W., but as it proved a rank duffer, got up by the local storekeepers in a last effort to keep the township in existence, I made back again by ‘The Bridge,’ on chance of getting a job of droving with some of the mobs of sheep or cattle always passing through the Border town, bound south from the Central and Gulf stations.

Queenslanders will remember that summer, on certain days of which men were stricken down in dozens, and birds fell dead off the trees in the fierce heat.

There is no drearier track in Australia than the one I speak of—all pine-scrub, too thick for a dog to bark in, and the rest sand and ant-hills.

There was nothing doing just then in ‘The Bridge,’ so I pushed on for the Maranoa. It was only the beginning of summer, and I reckoned on finding water twenty-five miles along the track, at a hole in the Wullumgudgeree Creek, known of aforetime.

It was a dismal ride, with nothing but walls of close-set scrub on each side, and sand, heavy underfoot, and glaring ahead. Even the horses seemed to feel its [12] ]influence as they ploughed along, heads bent down, coats black with sweat, and big clusters of flies swarming thickly at their leather eye-guards. Even one’s own close-knit veil was but poor protection, for the pests gathered on it in such numbers as to almost obscure the sight. The flies and mosquitoes

were a caution that summer. However, shogging steadily on, with a pull at the water-bag now and then, I at length reached the creek, dry as a bone where it crossed the road. But, following it down through the scrub, I found the hole, pretty muddy and fast diminishing. Nor was it improved by the dog and the pack-horse rushing into it and rolling before I could stop them.

The sun was setting, a big red ball, over the tops of the pines as I hobbled out, pitched the tent on one side of the round open space, lit a fire, and slung the billy. There was not bad picking for the horses, and as I belled the pack I fervently trusted they would not stray far in such a God-forsaken spot.

After supper—damper, mutton and sardines, washed down by tea, boiled, skimmed and strained three times before coming to table—I felt pretty comfortable, and lay down with my head on one of the swags to enjoy a smoke and fight the mosquitoes

, who were beginning to sample freely. The sun had set, but the moon, big, yellow and hot-looking, hung in a hazy sky.

But for the buzzing of the insects and the snoring of the dog, fast asleep in a deep hole scratched in the sand, everything was very quiet. The thick scrub into which the horses had retreated deadened the sound of the bell.

[13]
]Presently, however, evidently compassionating my lonely state, a little bird, after partaking of the remnants of my supper, came and perched on the ridge-pole of the tent, and piped forth at short intervals in a shrill monotone. ‘Sweet, pretty creature! Pretty, sweet, little creature!’ He was company of a sort, spite of his egoism. But there was other toward.

The flies had, ere this, gone to roost, but the mosquitoes were troublesome. They had also taken anticipatory possession of the tent. Burning some old rags, I cleared them out of that, fixed up the netting, and was preparing to turn in, when I heard the sound of hoofs coming thump, thump, down the dry creek bed. The dog, awaking, barked loudly, and in a minute or two a man and a woman rode into the bright firelight. They each had a big swag in front of them; and at a glance I saw that their horses were not only well-bred, but had come far and fast.

‘Water!’ exclaimed the man.

I gave him some; and he lifted the woman off and handed her the mug.

‘We’re travellin’, mate,’ said he, as I helped him to unsaddle. ‘Got bushed atween ’ere an’ the Maranoa. A bit o’ damned bad country!’

He had not come from that direction at all; but in such a scrub all directions were much alike. And, anyhow, it was no business of mine. They had plenty of tucker, and I put the billy on again.

As the woman stood at the fire, holding up her riding-dress with one hand and with the other hastily fastening [14] ]some stray braids of long hair that had come adrift, I saw that she was a fresh-faced, pleasant-featured girl of about eighteen or nineteen. As she presently dropped her skirt, took off her hat, and used both hands to her hair, I noticed by the flickering light a red, angry-looking scar extending from the bridge of the nose up to and across the left eyebrow.

Her companion was a type I knew well. A cattleman all over, from the long, lean, curved legs of him to the sharp-eyed, tanned, resolute face. And from the swag I saw sticking out the curiously-carved handle of a stockwhip. They both seemed weary and thoughtful, and after supper I offered them the shelter of the tent. The man thanked me.

‘The missus,’ said he, ‘’ll be only too glad of the chance. She ain’t much used to campin’ out.’

So they lugged their belongings inside, whilst, making up the fire, and throwing some green bushes on it to drive the skeeters away, I laid on my blankets, with the pack-saddle for a pillow, and the dog at my feet.

Awaking about midnight, as most bushmen do, I saw that big clouds were sailing fast across the moon. The air had become rather chilly, and, throwing more wood on the fire, I stood warming myself and filling my pipe. The dog, also getting up, yawned sleepily, and came and gazed into the blaze. The little bird from the ridge-pole still chirped its eulogistic call, but drowsily, and with effort, as of one who nods and winks. From the scrub came the faint tinkling of bells, showing that the horses were feeding steadily.

[15]
]Suddenly the silence was broken by the peculiar long, rumbling whinny with which a straggling horse greets the presence of others. Then I heard the hobble-chains clanking as our horses galloped up to inspect the newcomer. Then ensued a short pause, followed by the sound of a wild snorting stampede as they crashed away, their hobbles jingling and bells ringing furiously through the scrub.

‘Bother!’ thought I, as the noise grew fainter and fainter, ‘that means, most likely, a long walk in the morning. Hang all brombees!’

Preparing to lie down again, in not the best of tempers, I became aware of at least one horse steadily making towards the camp. As the steps approached, the dog, growling low, and with every hair bristling, backed towards the tent. A cold feeling of disquiet and nervousness took possession of me as I saw this.

Turning from watching the animal, my eye caught a dark mass between scrub and fire. Just then the moon shone out from behind a bank, and, not ten yards away, stood a horseman, his head drooping on his chest, his body rocking slightly in the saddle.

I gave a sigh of relief. Drunken riders are common enough in the Bush. And, with all trepidation vanished, I sang out gruffly enough,—

‘Better get off, mate, before you fall off! Come and have a drink of tea!’

He would be a nuisance, of course, with the inevitable bottle of rum in his swag, and in his person all the loathsome imbecility inseparable from the sobering-up [16] ]process. But, as an institution, he had to be attended to.

And I repeated my invitation irritably to him, sitting there in the bright moonlight, one hand grasping the reins, the other resting on the wither, his chin on his breast, staring fixedly at me from under the broad-leafed hat.

‘Oh,’ I muttered, ‘you drunken brute! I’ve got to lift you down, have I! About all you’re fit for is to frighten people’s horses away.’

The dog, only his head protruding from under the tent, kept up a long, snarling, choking growl, broken by gasps for fresh breath.

Advancing, I placed my hand upon the horseman’s. It was like ice. Looking up, I saw a black-whiskered face, ashen-grey under the hat-leaf, and apparently leaning forward to gaze into mine out of wide-open, staring, glassy eyes.

Suddenly, realising the meaning of the thing, I ran to one side and shouted hurriedly—I know not what.

Then I heard someone in the tent cursing the dog, who yelped, as from a kick, and, presently, the stranger came out and walked up to the fire. Standing away, and in deep shadow, he did not see me. But, catching sight of that dread rider, sitting motionless, he went over and peered into its face.

Then with a tremendous oath he sprang back, and I could see his sharp-cut features working with emotion as he exclaimed, ‘George! What game’s this?’

Advancing again he stroked the horse, and, as I had [17] ]done, placed one of his hands on that other so cold one.

Apparently convinced, he ran into the tent, whence came in a minute an excited murmur of voices.

A heavy cloud was across the moon, but I could make out the pair fumbling for their bridles amongst a heap of saddlery at the foot of a sapling.

Meanwhile the horse was making ineffectual tugs at the bridle to get its head down to some dry tussocks growing near. But all its straining could not relax by one inch the steel-like grip of those dead fingers. Only the corpse at each jerk nodded in a ghastly cordial sort of fashion.

Presently, moonlight filled the little plain again, and the horse, growing impatient, turned and made off towards the sound of the distant bells.

Taking heart of grace, I ran up and caught it. As I led it back I noticed that the rider’s legs were bound tightly to the saddle by straps passed from the front D’s over the thighs to the ones on the cantle.

As I began to undo them I saw the man slinging off into the scrub with the woman at his heels. I shouted to them. But they took no notice.

Working away at the knots and buckles, the chin-strap slipped, the jaw fell, and the gleaming teeth showed in such an awful grin that I involuntarily stepped back.

Now the hat tumbled off, revealing the features of a young man with coal-black hair and moustache, and beard flecked with spots of dry white foam.

Even at its best, I should have called it a hard, cruel face. It was simply hideous now.

[18]
]As I stood irresolutely staring, a voice behind me made me jump. It was the woman.

‘Here,’ she said, as with trembling fingers she essayed to loosen the dead grasp on the reins, ‘I’ll help you. He was a real bad un! But he couldn’t scare me when he were alive, an’ I aint goin’ to let him do it now. See’ (pointing to the cut on her forehead), ‘this is the last thing he done. Slip your knife through them reins,’ she continued. ‘He’s had a fit, or a stroke o’ the sun, an’ he’ll never slacken his grip, no more’n he would my throat if he could ha’ got hold on it. He was my husband; an’ jealous of his own shadder. But I never minded much till he took to knockin’ me about. I couldn’t stand that. So I cleared with Jim yonder.’

By this, we had undone the saddle and breast-plate straps with which the man, feeling himself mortally struck, and wishful to avoid falling off and lying there to rot in that wild scrub, had, in perhaps his last agony, tied himself to the saddle. And between us we let him slide gently down on to the sand, whilst the horse shook itself, sniffed unconcernedly at the body, and wandered away to the others.

For a while she stood gazing on the thing as it lay there with stiffly curved legs and upturned glassy eyes.

Then she smiled a little out of a white face, set hard with horror and detestation, saying,—

‘After all, perhaps, he thought a lot of me!’ And, going to the tent, she returned with a blanket, and carefully spread it over the corpse.

[19]
]Then, as the man came up with the horses and began to saddle them, she said, holding out her hand,—

‘So long! an’ many thanks. You’ve bin a real right bower. We’re a-goin’ into the Bridge, an’ we’ll send the traps out, all square an’ fair. So long! agen.’

‘So long, mate!’ shouted the man, with a tremor in his voice lacking in the woman’s. And then they rode away, two dark shapes against the moonlit scrub.

‘Died by the visitation of God,’ said the Coroner’s Jury.

‘Served him damned well right!’ said the district generally, who knew the story.

But travellers along the Maranoa track make a point of giving ‘Dead Man’s Camp’ a very wide berth.

[20]
]THE SHANGHAI-ING OF PETER BARLOW.

‘Yes, Peter, no doubt they’re a couple of fine colts, and should make good steppers. I hope you’ll have them well broken in for the drag by the time I return. Then, with the other pair of browns, they ought to turn out about the smartest four-in-hand in the district.’

‘Goin’ away, sir?’ asked Peter Barlow, Head Stockman and Chief of Horse at Wicklow Downs.

‘Yes, Peter; I’m thinking of taking a trip to the Old Country,’ replied Mr Forrest, owner of the big cattle station on the border. ‘I mean to take Mrs Forrest and the children, and be away twelve months; so you’ll have plenty of time to fix up a team. We start in three weeks from to-day.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Peter, ‘afore you goes I shouldn’t mind takin’ a spell down country myself, if you haven’t no objection.’

His employer turned sharply round from the horse-yard rail, and looked at the young fellow.

Twenty-five, born on the station, an orphan, fairly steady, very useful, the best rough-rider in the district, [21] ]never more than fifty miles away from home in his life. Such was the record of Peter Barlow, who chewed a straw, and smiled as he noticed his master’s surprise.

‘Why, what’s bitten you, my lad,’ said the latter, ‘that you want to get away amongst the spielers and forties of the big smoke? Isn’t Combington large enough for a spree?’

‘Well, sir,’ replied Peter, rather sheepishly, ‘you see, they’re always a-poking borack an’ a-chiackin’ o’ me over in the hut because I’ve never seed nothin’. There’s chaps there as has been everywheres, an’ can talk nineteen to the dozen o’ the things they’ve gone through, an’ me a-settin’ listenin’ like a stuffed dummy.’

‘I see, Peter,’ said Mr Forrest, laughing, ‘you want to travel. “Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits,” eh, Peter? Believe me, my lad, for all that, you’re better off as you are, notwithstanding the gas of those other fellows. However, you may take a month if you like. I think, though, that you’ll be glad to get back in the half of it. But how would it do for you to come down with us? I shall be staying in town for a week or so, and could often see you, and that you didn’t get into any mischief.’

But Peter shook his head sagely, saying,—

‘You see, sir, I’d like to git back in about a fortnight or so. There’s that lot o’ calves in the heifer paddock to be weaned, an’ that last lot o’ foals ’ll want brandin’, an’—’

‘All right, Peter, my boy,’ interrupted the squatter, laughing again. ‘Put money in thy purse, go forth and [22] ]see the world. Only, when you’re tired, don’t forget the track back to the old station.’

So, after a day or two, Peter rode 150 miles to the railway terminus, and, leaving his horse in a paddock, embarked on a very strange adventure, and one that will be handed down with ever-increasing embroidery to each generation of Barlows, until, in time, the narrative overshadows that of Munchausen. It would be tedious to attempt to depict Peter’s astonishment at the first sight of steam. As a matter of fact, he was not a bit surprised—or, if he was, he didn’t show it. It takes more than the first sight of an express train to upset the marvellous stoicism, or adaptability—which is it?—of the Native-Born. It takes all that subsequently befel

to do so. Peter arrived in safety at the first large inland town. Here he tarried awhile and enjoyed himself after the manner of his kind. He stared into shop windows; went to a race meeting, and there lost five pounds to a monte man. With a dim notion percolating under his cabbage-tree that he had been cheated, he made a furious attack on both man and table. Sequel—five shillings or twenty-four hours. This, now, was something like life! Would he not soon be able to ruffle it with the loudest of them on his return?

After this exploit Peter decided to proceed on his travels.

His first emotion of expressed surprise was displayed at sight of the sea. As the train ran along the embankment, and the stretch of water studded with ships’ masts caught his eye, he exclaimed,—

‘By Jinks! that’s a thunderin’ big lagoon if yer likes. [23] ]But what’s all that dead timber a-stickin’ up in it? Must ha’ been a good-sized flood hereabout!’

Then his fellow-travellers laughed; and Peter, abashed, withdrew into himself, but stared steadily over that wondrous expanse of water whose like so far exceeded his imaginings.

At the port Fate led him—of all people in the world—to put up at a sailors’ boarding-house. And here, for the first time in his life, he found himself an oracle.

Many sailors ‘go up the Bush.’ But those who get so far as where Peter hailed from seldom or never return to the sea.

Therefore, no one criticising, wondrous were the yarns he spun to an ever-shifting audience of all nations. Wondrous yarns of fierce blacks, of men perishing of thirst and hunger in the lonely bush, of wild cattle, of bucking horses, of the far inland life. And, in return, they told him tales of the stormy seas, and drank heartily at his expense. The port was busy, wages high, and men scarce. But Peter’s audience never failed him. The fame of the ‘Jolly Bushman down at Gallagher’s’ had spread about the shipping, and whole crews used to drop in of an evening to listen to Peter and drink his beer and rum.

It would have taken a longer purse than Peter’s to stand this kind of thing.

He had put aside enough money to take him back, and now he resolved to travel no further. He had heard and seen sufficient; and, above all, been listened to with deference and attention.

Besides, had he not been on board of ships and there [24] ]drank rum of such strength as made his very hair stand on end; and eaten biscuits and salt junk.

Moreover, once his friends had taken him out and away upon the ‘lagoon,’ away so far, than when he looked for his native land he beheld it not. Then the water, hitherto smooth, gradually began to heave and swell into hills as tall as the Wonga Ranges, and, presently, he fell deadly sick and lay in the salt water in the boat’s bottom, feeling as if the very soul-bolts were being wrenched out of him.

Afterwards his friends had apologised, and said something about ‘a squall.’ But Peter would venture no more.

These things, and many others, would he have to tell. Also the time was approaching for the weaning of calves and branding of foals. He had spent nearly all his money. But that did not trouble him. For the future he must be a bold man who, in the hut, or on the run, could snub Peter Barlow. One last jovial evening he and his sea-friends would have together, and then, hey for the far-inland scrubs and rolling downs.

So far as Peter recollected, it was a jovial evening. He had sung his famous ballad of ‘The Wild Australian Boy,’ applauded to the echo as he had never been at home. He had drunk healths innumerable in divers liquors; had accepted as much strong ‘niggerhead’ in parting gifts—it was all they possessed—as would have stocked a tobacconist’s shop, and seen the last guest lurch out into the night.

Then Gallagher had proposed one more drink, ‘for luck!’ After that—oblivion.

[25]
]. . . . . . . . . .

When Peter awoke, his first thought was that he must have fallen asleep in the saddle, as he had done before now when camping out with cattle from the back of the run.

But, on this occasion, his throat was hot and dry, and his head full of ringing bells. Raising himself, he bumped his nose sharply, and fell back to consider.

It was almost dark, and he could hear a noise of wind and of rushing waters. Also he felt a rocking motion which assuredly was not that of a feeding horse.

He had heard the same sounds and felt the same motion recently, but he could not recollect when. Presently a door slid open, and a flood of sunshine came in, with a black face in the midst of it.

‘Ahi,’ said a voice, as Peter blinked at its owner. ‘You ’wake now, eh? Copper hot, I ’spect? Have drink?’ and the speaker handed up a hook-pot full of water.

Peter drank copiously, and made shift to get out.

‘Where the blazes am I?’ he exclaimed, weak and trembling all over, as his feet touched the deck.

‘Barque John F. Harkins, o’ Boston, State o’ Maine. I’m de doctor. Guess you’ve been shanghaied. Best come out afore de greaser gets mad.’

This was Greek to poor Peter. But, stumbling over the door-sill, he gazed about him with a wildly-amazed look, which made the negro cook grin more widely than ever.

All around was blue water, blue water from where it touched the sky-line to where, close to him, it rushed [26] ]swiftly past, curling, white-tipped. Above his head acres of snowy canvas bellied in graceful curves aloft into a blue sky; everywhere a maze of ropes and gear, crossed and re-crossed like the threads of a spider’s web.

Peter gasped. He was astonished and dismayed too deeply for words; and at the expression of his face the darkey laughed outright.

The ship giving a sudden lurch, he staggered, slipped over to leeward, and clutched a belaying pin. Then he heard a bell strike somewhere. Then men came out of a hole in the deck near by, and one, staring hard, exclaimed,—

‘Why, damn my rags, if this ain’t the Jolly Bushman come to sea!’

‘What!’ shouted the mate, walking for’ard to meet his watch. ‘Isn’t he a sailor-man?’

‘Nary sailor-man,’ replied the other. ‘He’s a fellow from the country—a good sort o’ chap—but as green’s they make ’em as regards o’ salt water.’

‘Damn that Gallagher!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘He brought the coon aboard, an’ got the bounty, swearin’ he was a shellback all over—blood Stockholm tar, and every hair on his head a rope yarn! If ever we fetch Coalport again I’ll skin that Irish thief!’

So also affirmed the captain of the John F. Harkins, who was out of pocket a month’s advance, besides two pounds “head money,” to the crimp who had netted poor Peter.

Luckily, very luckily for Peter, he had not fallen into the hands of a set of ‘white-washed Americans,’ half Irish, half anything, proficients in the art of [27] ]sea-bullying, and in the use of revolvers and knuckle-dusters.

The officers and most of the men of the John F. were genuine Down-Easters, natives of Salem, Martha’s Vineyard, and thereabout, shrewd and kindly people; and, though all naturally indignant at the trick played upon them, too just to visit their wrath on its unfortunate object.

Presently Peter was recognised by the steward, who had tasted of his hospitality ashore, and who now, seeing the poor fellow still suffering from the effects of the narcotic administered in that last ‘for luck’ drink of scamp Gallagher’s, put him to bed and brought him restoratives. So, in due course, Peter became his own man again, and got fine-weather sea-legs upon him, and would have been comparatively happy but for thoughts of those far-away calves and foals, and the clumsy fingers of a certain assistant stockman. They taught him how to sweep decks, coil up ropes, and make sinnet. They also coaxed him aloft; but he never could get further up the rigging than the futtock-shrouds. There he stuck helplessly, and over them he never went. He was young and light and active; but, somehow, he couldn’t bend his body outward into empty air and trust its weight to a little bit of rope no thicker than a clothes-line. It didn’t seem natural. One cannot make a sailor at twenty-five.

The John F. was bound for Colombo, thence to Hamburg, and, so far, everything had been fine sailing. But one day a dead-ahead gale arose and blew fiercely for three days.

[28]
]Then it was that Peter began to realise earnestly what he had before but dimly suspected, viz., that on such an occasion one foot of dry land is worth ten thousand acres of foaming ocean. Easier by far would it have been for him to sit the roughest colt that ever bucked than to stand a minute erect on the barque’s deck.

Of such jumping and rearing, plunging and swerving, Peter had possessed no conception before, except in the saddle. There, however, he would have been comparatively safe. Here he was tossed about apparently at the pleasure of the great creature beneath him—one minute on to the back of his head, the next in the lee-scuppers. When he arose, dripping and grasping blindly for support, the rushing past of big seas, the wild, stern hum in the strained rigging, the roar of the blast in the bellies of the tugging topsails, and the swirling of green water round his legs, so bewildered him that he was unable to distinguish one end of the ship from the other.

Under the circumstances, he did the wisest thing he could, and turned into his bunk. There he lay, and wondered with all his might why men should go to sea.

On the fourth day, the gale moderating, they made sail again. During this operation an unfortunate A.B. fell from the main-yard, and broke his leg. The captain did his best, but he was, like the rest, quite unskilled, and the poor fellow lay in agony. Two days after this, when nearly a calm, the mate roused the skipper out of a nap with,—

[29]
]‘Here’s one of them big packet boats a-overhaulin’ us, sir.’

‘Well,’ replied the skipper sleepily, ‘what about it? Let her rip. I don’t want her. Wish we had her wind, that’s all.’

‘Poor Bill’s leg, sir,’ answered the other.

‘Why, of course; I forgot,’ said the skipper. ‘Stop the beggar, by all manner of means. She’ll have a doctor, an’ ice, an’ all sorts o’ fixin’s on board. Run the gridiron half-mast, Mr Stokes. They packets don’t care much about losin’ time for sich a trifle as a broken leg, but thet oughter ease her down.’

And so it did. No sooner was the American flag seen flying half-way up the signal halliards than the steamer kept away, and came thundering down upon the barque.

‘What’s the matter?’ shouted someone, as she slowed nearly alongside.

‘A doctor!’ roared the mate. ‘Man very bad with a broken leg!’

‘Send him on board, and look smart,’ was the reply.

So a boat was lowered, and amongst its crew was Peter Barlow, who, from the first, had been told off to attend the injured man, and who assisted to carry him up the gangway-ladder of the R.M.S. Barcelona.

‘Umph, umph,’ said the surgeon; ‘he’ll have to stay here if he wants to save his leg.’ Then to Peter, ‘Off you go back, my lad, and get his kit and what money’s coming to him. It’ll be many a long day before he sails the sea again.’

But Peter, whose eyes had been roving over the [30] ]surrounding crowd, suddenly, to the medico’s astonishment, shouting,—‘The boss, by G—d!’ rushed through the people, and, regardless of appearances, seized a gentleman’s hand and shook it frantically, exclaiming,—

‘Oh, Mr Forrest, sir, don’t you know me? I’m Peter, sir—Peter Barlow, from the ole station. I’ve been shanghaied an’ locussed away to sea, an’ I wants to git back home again!’

Mr Forrest was more astonished than Peter at such a meeting. Matters, however, were soon arranged.

Peter went on to Colombo in the Barcelona, and, in a fortnight, joining another boat, duly arrived at Wicklow Downs, whence he has never since stirred.

And, if the reader chance one day to journey thither, he may hear at first hand this story, embellished with breezy Bush idioms and phrases that render it infinitely more graphic and stirring a version, but which, somehow, do not read well in type.

[31]
]‘EX SARDANAPALUS.’

‘Make it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’

A few minutes later, and eight men sat on eight sea-chests, looking hungrily across at one another. Between them lay an empty meat-kid.[Footnote 1] ] In a box alongside were some biscuits, black and honeycombed with weevil-holes. Dinner was over in the Sardanapalus’ fo’c’stle, but still her starboard watch glared hungrily at each other.

‘I’ve lost two good stone since I jined this starvation hooker!’ presently growled one. ‘I ain’t never full, and I kin feel them cussed worms out o’ the bread a-crawlin’ about in my stummick like so many snakeses.’

‘Same ’ere, matey,’ chimed in another. ‘A mouthful o’ salt horse an’ a bite o’ rotten bread for breakfus, ditto for dinner, an’ a soldier’s supper;[Footnote 2] ] with lime-juice an’ winegar chucked in, according to the Hack,[Footnote 3] ] ain’t to say fattenin’.’

‘That’s wot’s the matter, when the skipper finds the ship,’ remarked a third. ‘Yer gets yer whack, an’ ye gits nae mair, as the Scotchies has it.’

‘We doesn’t even get that itself,’ put in another, who [32] ]was sitting on the edge of his bunk. ‘That yaller hound of a steward gives short weight all round.

Lord!’ he continued, ‘only to think that, this time last year, I was a-smackin’ my chops over mutton uns; an’ full and plenty of everythin’ in the Hostralian Bush. What a hass I was to leave it! One’d think there was some sort o’ damned magic in the sea to be able to draw a feller a thousand miles down from good times, good tucker, good pay, an’ all night in, with a spree whenever you felt fit.’

‘Too good, Billy, altogether,’ piped up a grey-headed old chap. ‘An’ that’s what’s the matter. You gets up the Bush, you gets as fat as a bacon hog, you lives like a gentleman, an’, in the long run, it don’t agree with your constitooshun. You gets the boil,[Footnote 4] ] an’ your liver turns a sort o’ dandy-grey, russet-colour, and you misses the gravy-eye[Footnote 5] ] trick at the wheel, an’ you misses the jumpin’ out o’ a wet bunk, all standin’ in wet clothes, and the hissle o’ the gale in your ears, an’ the woof o’ the cold water over your boot-tops, an’ down the small o’ your back as ye comes a-shiverin’ an’ a-shakin’ on deck. You’ve bin used to this sort o’ thing all your life, Billy, an’ your liver an’ all the other innard parts gives notice when they’re a-tired o’ the soft lyin’ an’ the good livin’ up-country, an’ drives ye back to the old life an’ the old ways agin. That’s where the magic comes in, my son.’

After this there was silence for a while. Each man’s face poked over his bunk with a short clay pipe in its [33] ]mouth. Strong, rank fumes of tobacco filled the place.

‘I say, boys,’ suddenly exclaimed one, ‘what’s this hooker got in her?’

‘General,’ replied the old man, whose name was Nestor. ‘I heerd the customs officer at Gravesend say as it was one o’ the walluablest general cargers as ’ad ever left the docks.’

‘Well then, mates,’ said the other, ‘all I’ve got to remark is as we’re the biggest an’ softest set o’ fools as ever left the docks, to go a-starvin’ in this fashion, when t’other side o’ that there bulkhead’s every sort o’ tucker you can mention.’

. . . . . . . . . .

‘Make it eight bells! Go below, the starboard watch!’

The same eight men sat on their respective sea-chests.

Between them stood their allowance of beef and biscuit. But it was untouched. Yet the meal had been in progress an hour.

Alongside of him every man had one or more tins of some kind of preserved provisions, out of which he was keeping his plate supplied to an accompaniment of plain and fancy biscuits.

‘Try a little o’ this ’ere fresh herrin’, Jim,’ said one to his neighbour very politely; ‘I kin recommend it as tasty.’

‘Thank ye, Billy (looking at the label, and passing his own tin), and ’ere’s some sheep’s tongues with tomaty sauce, which p’raps ’ll remind you on the Bush of Australier.’

[34]
]‘Ah, if we’d only a drop o’ good stuff now, to wash these ’ere tiddlewinks down with,’ exclaimed Nestor, ‘I’d feel happy as a king—an’ as full!’

‘All in good time, dad,’ remarked Billy; ‘this ’ere’s only what the swells’d call a hinstalment—a triflin’ hinstalment o’ what the Sardinapples owes us for a whole month’s out-an’-out starvin’. Just wait awhile till we gets to the bottled ale an’ porter, which’ll likely be in the lower tiers, an’ then we’ll begin to live like gentlemen-shellbacks oughter.’

‘I votes as how we should let on to the port watch,’ presently said a man, as he finished off his repast with a handful of muscatels and blanched almonds.

‘Ay,’ responded old Nestor. ‘It do seem mean, us livin’ high, an’ them a-drawin’ their belts tighter every day. Besides,’ added he, meditatively, ‘company is pleasing; an’ there’ll be all the more for Pentridge. Not that I thinks it needs come to that if we’re careful. But (with a doubtful shake of the head) I’m afraid the grog’ll be too much for some of us when we gits to it.’

A word here as to the Sardanapalus.

She was one of the old-fashioned frigate-built ships—somewhat slow, but comfortable.

Carrying, as per owner’s advertisement, ‘a first-class milch cow and surgeon,’ she was rather a favourite with that description of passengers who, obeying a doctor’s prescription, were obliged to take ‘a long sea voyage.’ The passage money was very high. There were no ‘intermediates,’ no subdivisions. A very good table was kept, and the ‘dog-basket’ and ‘menavelings’ from it alone would have [35] ]supplied the fo’c’stle twice over. But for these leavings a host of ill-fed, brass-bound apprentices, boys, and petty officers were ever on the watch—the former knowing as crows, sharp as kites. Foremast Jack had not the ghost of a chance with them.

Ever since she slipped along the ways the Sardanapalus had borne the reputation of being a ‘hungry ship.’ More than half-a-dozen times had she hauled into dock with a collar of clean picked beef bones around her figure-head. It was currently understood that the skipper ‘found’ the ship. He was an Orkney man, owned a part of her; and probably did so. She was a regular trader at that time. She is now a custom-house hulk in an East Indian harbour.

The chief officer was a native of Vermont, U.S., and, with regard to the crew, a bit of a bully. As he was wont to often inform them, with the national snuffle intensified,—

‘I’m a big lump of a horse—a high-bred stepper—an’ when I kick bones fly.’

He came out a loser by this gift, as will be presently seen.

Long before the opening of this yarn the crew had remonstrated with their superiors about their food. The captain had laughed at them, and the mate inquired whether they imagined the Sardanapalus had been specially fitted out as a cook-shop for their pleasure.

Perhaps it was this that now made them linger joyfully over their stolen meals; and, occasionally, explore with naked lights the ‘general’ when they ought to have [36] ]been sleeping on empty stomachs in their watch below.

It being an article of faith with the crew that the chief mate was responsible for the cargo, they felt a thorough pleasure in its total destruction. Nestor, old sea-lawyer that he was, had told them that, although a parcel might be opened and the contents abstracted, yet, could the smallest portion of the case, cask, or whatever it chanced to be, be produced, the mate would be held blameless. But, on the other hand, if not a vestige of anything were to be found to correspond with the item in the manifest, then would the chief assuredly be mulcted in the full value of the missing article. With this devoutly-wished-for end in view, any light package was dragged for’ard, handed up, and given a free passage. This was criminal and indefensible. But they hated the Yankee with a very hearty hatred. Had they not been able to discharge some of it in this manner there would have surely been a mutiny, and possibly bloodshed, before the termination of the passage.

In his character of ‘horse’ the mate had one day broken a poor submissive German sailor’s ribs by repeated kicks from his heavy sea-boots. Such things create antipathies, even on board ship. Consignors and consignees alike would have danced with wrath and anguish could they have witnessed that night’s jettison.

The forecastle was what is known as a ‘lower’ one. A bulkhead separated the two watches. This partition was composed of very heavy hardwood planking, on the after side of which was the fore-hatchway, filled up to [37] ]within six feet of the deck by a collection of sails, rope, water-tanks, bundles of hay for the cow, etc. Aft of these, at about the same height, stretched the cargo. It will thus be noticed that the Sardanapalus was not a ‘full ship.’

The starboard watch had removed two of the broad massive bulk-head planks. The port watch two also. At such times as a fresh supply of provisions was needed, four men from each watch in turn exploited the cargo. The others kept a look-out aft, and stood by the scuttle to receive and give things ‘a passage.’ As time passed, the crew, under the new regimen, began to grow fat and jolly-looking. They worked with a will, and as a pleasure to themselves. Also, to the utter astonishment of their superiors, they sang and skylarked in the second dog watch.

‘And these,’ exclaimed the captain, ‘are the scoundrels who growled about their food!’

He visited the galley, and sniffed and peered into the fo’c’sle coppers, and also cross-examined the cook and the steward.

‘Give the beggars more rice,’ said he to the latter official—a sleek, oily quadroon. ‘Let ’em have “banyan day” three times a week. We’ll have enough meat left then for the trip home without buying any in port.’

The crew grinned, but said nothing. The skipper was bothered.

‘Had the fore-hatch off yesterday, didn’t you?’ he asked the mate.

‘Yaas, sir,’ snuffled he.