NUGGETSIN THEDEVIL'S PUNCH BOWL

And Other Australian Tales

BY

ANDREW ROBERTSON

AUTHOR OF "THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER," ETC.

LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET MELBOURNE MELVILLE, MULLEN, AND SLADE 1894

(All rights reserved)

PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON, AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY.

CONTENTS.

[Pg 1]

NUGGETS IN THE DEVIL'SPUNCH BOWL

[Pg 3]

CHAPTER I

Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the "ringer" of the shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort to finish the week "one better" than the record shearer of Yantala woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across the "board," with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he[Pg 4] dashed into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the "cobbler,"

a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned.

When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter.

"Who shaved the cobbler?" was shouted from one end of the shed to the other.

When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting words, a whisper ran round the "board" that Norman had beaten Bill in his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.

Bill did not like this: that was clear. He had known all the morning that his pride of place was slipping from him, for his wrist ached and was giving way under the strain. He finished shearing the "cobbler" when the manager shouted[Pg 5] "Smoko!" Then Bill slid down on the slippery floor without a word, and laid his head upon his outstretched arm.

The sun was hot. Everything was frizzling, frying, or baking. The stunted white-gums drooped and yawned; the grass hung limp; the tall thistles bowed their heads and shut their eyes; the lizards were as quiet as the granite boulders on which they lay; the crows sat motionless on the fences; and the clouds were too lazy to move.

"Ee takes es gruel without choking, an' doesn't find no bones in't," said Jack Jewell, with a jerk of his left thumb towards Bill.

"Ol' Bill's panned out. Ef ee isn't ringer 'is porridge 'as no salt in't," said Tom Wren.

"He! he!" giggled a weak little man; "it's like ridin' in a kerridge, an' comin' down to hobblin' on yer own trotters."

Peter Amos, a greybeard, shook his head solemnly as he buried his nose in a pannikin of tea, and said, "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall—that's gospel wisdom; an' don't 'it a man wen's down—that's[Pg 6] worldly wisdom, an' looks like as it 'ad jumped out o' the Bible stark naked."

"Mair like the man i' the parable, Peter," said Sandy McKerrow, "wha took the highest room wi' a swagger, an' had to climb down to the lowest room wi' his tail 'tween his legs."

"Aye, man, that's verra true, verra true," said another known as "Scottie."

Here a stalwart giant, with a shock of red hair, stood up, with doubled fists, and spat on the floor; then said, "If any of you mongrel mules says another word against Bill, I'll rattle your teeth down your throat like dice in a box."

Meanwhile the subject of this conversation had closed his eyes, and was fast asleep. All his senses were locked, bolted, and barred. Sheep, shears, tallies, and pride of place were forgotten. He was in the land of dreams, that ancient land of gold, precious stones, ivory castles, battle, murder, and sudden death.

Silence reigned in the shed. The men quietly ladled the tea out of the buckets into their pannikins, or struck a match on the seat of their trousers, lit their pipes, and smoked.

[Pg 7]

Bill slept on, but suddenly his brow was knitted and his hands were clenched. Then he opened his eyes, and looked round with a scared face.

"Boys," he said, "I've had a dream! I'll never shear another sheep!"

He slowly rose and stood up, then he took his oilstone, and with it smashed his shears into fragments.

"Good-bye all," he said; then slid into the count-out pen, vaulted two fences, got his saddle and swag. When he caught his horse, he saddled up, mounted, and rode away across the ranges.

"There's a roaring fire in that volcano," said Peter Amos, keeping the words well between his teeth, for fear of the giant with the shock of red hair.

[Pg 8]

CHAPTER II

Whether the dream or the hand of fate gave him his course I know not, but Bill rode a straight line, up hill and down dale. When he came to a fence or a log he made his horse jump it. There was no going round or turning back, till he found himself descending a steep, rugged spot, known as the Devil's Punch Bowl.

"This is the place I saw in my dream," he said aloud; "but where is the dead man?"

A little stream wound in and out among the rocks. The hum of bees and the smell of honey filled the air. Wattles waved their yellow tassels, and reflected splashes of gold on the water. Wild mint, fennel, and chamomile dipped their feet in the water, and wove two ribbons of green on[Pg 9] the margin of the brook, as far as the eye could measure them.

He came to a little track which his bush experience taught him was made by man. He followed it to the water's edge. Here it had a grim ending. A bucket and an old pannikin stood on a stone; a fresh footmark was printed, sharp and clear, on a patch of damp earth; and the body of a man, motionless, asleep or dead, was half hidden among the herbage, growing lush and tall, as if trying to screen it with loving hands.

Bill jumped off his horse, and gently turned the man over on his back and looked at him. One glance was enough. Two eyes, wide open, and horrible to behold, met his gaze. A faint smile seemed to linger about the mouth. The face appeared to be chiselled marble. It was easy to see that Death had aimed true, and that his dart had struck home.

Bill, nevertheless, instinctively put his finger on the dead man's pulse, and placed his hand over the heart. They were both still as a rundown clock, and stopped for ever.

[Pg 10]

A letter had fallen from the man's pocket when he was being turned over. Bill took it up in the hope that it would disclose something. The writing was in a woman's hand, full of affection, repetition, and platitude. It wound up with, "Your loving daughter, Mary." There was a date on the top, but no address. There was an envelope, and the postmark was Melbourne.

"Not much clue," said Bill; "nameless, so far." The man, evidently, by the clay smears on his trousers, and by the general appearance of his clothes, was a digger.

"I saw a tent in my dream, so I'll look for it," said Bill.

He went along the little track for a hundred yards, and there, behind some stunted bushes, stood a weather-stained, ragged tent. Everything about it was squalid, unkempt, unwashed, and unlovely. The only bit of sentiment, or romance if you will, was a photograph of a girl, pinned to the tent, at the head of the bed. There was a pathetic look about the eyes which seemed to follow him wherever he turned. They haunted him, and illumined the tent. After a short time[Pg 11] he went up to the portrait, and stared at it for five minutes, studying every feature.

"I suppose you are Mary," he said; "I feel we are to meet some day, and you are to come into my life."

Below the photograph, and also pinned to the canvas, was a rude diagram. At one end of a line was a triangle; at the other end a curious tree with two branches touching the ground. Between the triangle and the tree was a big dot, and at the dot were two figures, but whether 45 or 65 he could not tell. An arrow pointed to them.

He kissed the photograph, unpinned it carefully, and put it in his pocket.

Then he took down the diagram and examined it more carefully. There was an almost undecipherable scrawl at the bottom, which he made out to be, "For Mary." He put the diagram in his purse.

"This morning," he whispered, "I thought I was tied to shearing for life; now I am harnessed, in some mysterious way, to a romance. This dead man clutches me like the Old Man of the Mountain. He has me in his grip; and this Mary moves me strangely. Shall we ever meet?"

[Pg 12]

He mounted his horse, and cantered down the valley till he came to the main road, where he stood uncertain where to turn. At first he thought of going to the nearest township, twelve miles to the east, to report the finding of the body, so that an inquest might be held; but it occurred to him that his movements this morning might savour of madness, or worse, and he might be called upon to show why he left the shed so abruptly. He might be accused of causing the old man's death. These and suchlike thoughts ran up and down his brain for some time; then he slowly turned his horse to the west, and rode furiously till he came to the Yantala woolshed.

The men had finished dinner, had washed and brushed up a bit, and were catching their horses preparatory to dispersing till Sunday night.

Constable Duffus was coming out of the manager's hut, where he had dropped in for dinner. Bill told his tale to him, and the manager, coming up at that moment, listened with all his ears. One by one the shearers and the rouseabouts clustered, like a swarm of bees round their queen, and hung about Bill with open mouth, while he told[Pg 13] of finding the dead body at the Devil's Punch Bowl.

"Fwhat's this?" said the constable; "a man kicked de bucket widout benefit av clargy. Och! the lonely man. To turn yer toes up to de sky, an' nobody handy to close yer eyes, is gashtly creepy."

"But what's to be done?" said Bill. "We must give the poor man decent burial, an' find out where he came from, an' whether he has a wife or children, an' all about him."

"Them lonely buffers never have wife, nor chick, nor child, nor uncle, nor aunt, nor any other frind," said the constable. "They've got a story tacked on their back like a clout, every mother's son av thim. Or maybe, every patch on their trousers is stitched wid a mother's tears or a wife's groans. They've generally been turned out av the family for the drink or the disgrace av them. Tin to wan you'll find he's prison cropped, or you'll percaive a broad arrow on his small clothes."

"He looks as if he had been a decent old chap; respectable like, honest, but poor," said Bill.

"We must have an inquisht," said the constable[Pg 14] "on Monday morning, at tin o'clock, say, at the Pretty Sally Inn. I'll requisition a cart av ye, Mr. McDonald."

"All right," said the manager.

A cart was obtained, and the constable requested Bill to accompany him to the spot where the corpse was lying. He was nothing loth, as he hoped to find out where the dead man came from, and discover the whereabouts of the girl whose portrait had so strangely moved him.

The body was taken to the inn the same afternoon.

[Pg 15]

CHAPTER III

Next day Bill rode to the place where the dead man's tent was still standing. The place had a grim fascination for him. Something about the old man's face and staring eyes held him in thrall. The appealing look of the girl in the photograph enchained him. The dream spoke strangely to his imagination. He felt that something had entered into his life. He did not feel a free man. Compulsion appeared to be laid upon him, and he could not shake off the feeling that a course was being shaped for him, a pattern was being woven which he did not design.

He lingered about the Devil's Punch Bowl all day, and wondered what was being brewed for him. He hoped it was something pleasant: a cup to his liking.

[Pg 16]

Monday came, and the coroner arrived in a hired buggy. The constable seized upon the publican and one of his men, to serve on the jury. Then he stationed himself at the door of the inn, and impounded every man who passed along the road, until he counted ten upon his fingers, whereupon he doubled up his fists. His hands were full—the jury was complete.

The publican hustled the "good men and true" into the bar, like a flock of sheep, and was ready to "lamb" them down.

"Who stands drinks?" he said.

A man who had just finished painting the house, and was going to be paid that day, spoke up, and said, "I will; for I sees from that placard," pointing his thumb at it, "that drinks is to be redooced to-day from a shillin' to sixpence, so we'll wet the occasion."

"Give your commands, gentlemen!" said the publican; "keep the ball a-rollin'."

"Gin for me, some'at stiff, for I can't stand a corp," said one of the men.

"Brandy for me, as I feel a sinkin'," said another.

[Pg 17]

"Whisky for me; I've a qualm in the stummick."

"Beer, that's good for a buryin'," said the wag.

The publican and his wife handed out the drinks in a surprisingly short time. In some unaccountable way the news that free drinks were about had run round the place with fleet foot, and seventeen thirsty men and women stood up to receive them; then they drank and smacked their lips, for free drinks are sweet to the taste.

The publican poured out some brandy for himself, and immediately bawled: "Eighteen drinks, painter; hand us over the stiff."

"Here you are," said the painter, putting a sovereign into the publican's hand; at the same time trying to look pleased, but his mouth wouldn't go into the right position. The drawing was all wrong.

"Eighteen drinks, eighteen shillin's," said the publican.

"'Old 'ard," said the painter; "look at your own placard—sixpence each, if you please. I figur' it at nine shillin's, accordin' to Cocker."

"Placard be blowed!" said the publican;[Pg 18] "everybody knows that, in legal dociments, the day begins at twelve o'clock. The price of drinks before twelve is a shillin', after twelve they is sixpence. Here's two shillin's change, painter!"

"All right!" said the painter in a whisper, and with a cunning wink to the constable, "Hark you, I'll be even with him! I'll charge him nine shillin's extra in my bill for turpentine and putty."

"The Crowner is sittin', the jury is summoned! Quick; every mother's son av yees!" said the constable.

The inquest was soon over. The local doctor had made a post mortem examination. The verdict of the jury was, "Died from natural causes."

The clock in the bar cuckooed eleven times. Drinks were still a shilling each, so no one would venture his nose within smell of liquor for an hour at least. The jury preferred a draught of fresh air just now, as the room in which they had sat was close and stuffy. Their courage had been uncorked and spilt in the presence of the "corp," and they felt as limp as a wet rag.

[Pg 19]

Bill was anxious to get away, and he was about to jump on his horse, when the constable rushed out of the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Bill Marlock," he said, "is it running yees are, an' lavin' me wid de corp, stark an' shtiff, to rattle his bones over the logs and boulders to de cimetery. Yees found him above ground, an' de laste yees can do is to see him under de turf."

"I don't mind if I do, seein' you put it in that way," said Bill.

"I thought yees would; shure he'd do the same for you any day!"

The coffin, with the dead man in it, was carried out. When the jurymen saw it they rushed forward to lend a hand, and buzzed about like flies round carrion. They felt they had an interest in the poor body within. They had "sat" upon it, and given their verdict. They had carried out the law's behest, and they would carry out the "remains" on their shoulders. Bill took off his hat, and every man followed his example. Then the coffin was reverently laid on a cart, and[Pg 20] covered with old sacks. The constable climbed into the seat, gathered the reins in his left hand, and reminded the horse by a flick on the ear that it must look alive when it was carrying a dead man. The horse awoke with a start, and dashed down the road. Half a dozen horsemen, with Bill at their head, galloped after, enveloped in a cloud of dust—dust before and behind.

The funeral procession passed on at a quick pace, but had not gone many miles when the constable looked back and found that Bill was the only mourner. The other men had dropped out of the ranks, and had silently disappeared, one to his farm, and another to his merchandise.

In about two hours the constable and Bill arrived at the village of Mopoke. The only clergyman in the place was hastily summoned to read the burial service. He was writing his next Sunday's sermon, with a pipe in his mouth. He jumped up immediately, stuck his pen absently behind his ear, pulled his surplice from a peg, and hitched it over his shoulders as he made for the door. The prospect of a fee unstiffened[Pg 21] his rheumatic joints. There had been no burial in Mopoke for a year.

Funerals were as rare and far between as white kangaroos. The unwonted strokes of the gravedigger's axe, cutting some saplings, had rung like a knell from the cemetery in the morning, and the whole population had turned out to know the why and the wherefore. Boys and girls had played truant, and hid behind the tombs, until the school bell had ceased to tinkle and trouble their consciences; then they kicked up their heels like a flock of lambs. They had about as little reverence for the dead as hyenas. The boys played leapfrog over the graves, and the girls ran up and down the mounds or had a game of hop-scotch on the weedy paths. Suddenly they were hushed by a solemn voice chanting the words, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord."

The children dashed away, tumbling over each other as they rushed to the grave, and clustered about it like rabbits round a water-hole in a drought. The cart came up slowly, and the horse looked solemn. The clergyman took his stand at[Pg 22] the grave, reading the burial service, while the pebbles crunched under his feet and rattled below.

The constable represented the law, the clergyman the gospel.

With the help of Bill, the gravedigger lowered the coffin to its resting-place. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was said, and the earth was shovelled in right merrily. Very soon the old man was covered up, and tucked in his narrow bed. Only a little mound of earth showed the swelling of the puffed-up earth, proud of having swallowed another victim. Insatiable is the grave!

As soon as the gravedigger turned his back, the boys and girls proceeded to attest their presence as witnesses by writing their names, with knives, rusty nails, and pins, on the smooth black mound. Then there was a general exodus, and a fearful looking forward to punishment from the schoolmaster in the morning. The taskmaster was waiting for them. Pharaoh and all his host seemed to be in pursuit.

Bill Marlock heaved a sigh when he stood alone outside the cemetery gate. The old man was[Pg 23] buried, but his spirit seemed to haunt him. He felt as if it were floating by his side, and pushing him in the direction of the Devil's Punch Bowl.

Bill stood in the middle of the road uncertain where to go. He took from his pocket the photograph of the girl with the pathetic eyes. Then he looked at the letter, signed "Mary," and at the diagram. He felt bewitched, for the eyes appeared to glance for a moment towards the north-west, where the old man died; the writing of the letter seemed to slope towards the same point; and the arrow on the diagram shot straight for that goal.