We of the Never-Never Part 13

"What's 'er matter, missus only got one room?" Cheon had said, angry with circ.u.mstances, and daily and hourly he urged Johnny to work quicker.

"What's the matter indeed!" Johnny echoed, mimicking his furious gutturals, and sawing, planing, and hammering, with untiring energy, pointed out that he was doing his best to give her more.

Finding the progress slow with only one man at work, Cheon suggested the Maluka might lend a hand in his spare time (station books being considered recreation); and when Dan came in with a mob of cattle from the Reach country, he hinted that cattle could wait, and that Dan could employ his time better.

But Dan also was out of patience with circ.u.mstances, and growled out that "they'd waited quite long enough as it was," for the work of the station was at a deadlock for want of stores. They had been sadly taxed by the needs of travellers, and we were down to our last half-bag of flour and sugar, and a terrifyingly small quant.i.ty of tea; soap, jams, fruits, kerosene, and all such had long been things of the past. The only food we had in quant.i.ties was meat, vegetables, and milk. Where we would have been without Cheon no one can tell.

To crown all, we had just heard that the Dandy was delayed in a bog with a broken shaft, but he eventually arrived in time to save the situation, but not before we were quite out of tea. He had little to complain of in the way of welcome when his great piled-up waggon lumbered into the homestead avenue and drew up in front of the store.

The horse teams were close behind, the Dandy said, but Mac was "having a gay time" in the sandy country, and sent in a message to remind the missus that she was still in the Land of Wait-awhile. The reminder was quite unnecessary.

There was also a message from Mine Host. "I'm sending a few cuttings for the missus," it read. Cuttings he called them, but the back of the waggon looked like a nurseryman's van; for all a-growing and a-blowing and waiting to be planted out, stood a row of flowering, well-grown plants in tins: crimson hibiscus, creepers, oleanders, and all sorts. A man is best known by his actions, and Mine Host best understood by his kindly thoughtfulness.

The store was soon full to overflowing, and so was our one room, for everything ordered for the house had arrived--rolls of calico heavy and unbleached, mosquito netting, blue matting for the floors, washstand ware, cups and saucers, and dozens of smaller necessities piled in every corner of the room.

"There won't be many idle hands round these parts for a while," a traveller said, looking round the congested room, and he was right, for having no sewing machine, a gigantic hand-sewing contract was to be faced. The ceilings of both rooms were to be calico, and a dozen or so of seams were to be oversewn for that, the strips of matting were to be joined together and bound into squares, and after that a herculean task undertaken: the making of a huge mosquito-netted dining-room, large enough to enclose the table and chairs, so as to ensure our meals in comfort--for the flies, like the poor, were to be with us always.

This net was to be nearly ten feet square and twelve high, with a calico roof of its own drawn taut to the ceiling of the room, and walls of mosquito netting, weighted at the foot with a deep fold of calico, and falling from ceiling to floor, with a wide double overlapping curtain for a doorway. Imagine an immense four-poster bed-net, ten by ten by twelve, swung taut within a larger room, and a fair idea of the dining-net will have been formed. A room within a room, and within the inner room we hoped to find a paradise at mealtime in comparison to the purgatory of the last few months.

But the sewing did not end at that. The lubras' methods of was.h.i.+ng had proved most disastrous to my meagre wardrobe; and the resources of the homestead were taxed to the utmost to provide sufficient patching material to keep the missus even decently clothed.

"Wait for the waggons," the Maluka sang cheerily every time he found me hunting in the store (unbleached calico or mosquito netting being unsuitable for patching).

Cheon openly disapproved of this state of affairs, and was inclined to blame the Maluka. A good husband usually provides his wife with sufficient clothing, he insinuated; but when he heard that further supplies were on the bullock waggons, he apologised, and as he waddled about kept one ear c.o.c.ked to catch the first sound of the bullock bells.

"Bullocky jump four miles," he informed us; from which we inferred that the sound of the bells would travel four miles. Cheon's English generally required paraphrasing.

Almost every day some fresh garment collapsed, and I bitterly regretted my recklessness in giving Jimmy's Nellie the bath wrapper. Fortunately a holland dress was behaving beautifully. "A staunch little beast," the Maluka called it. That, however, had to be washed, every alternate day; and, fearing possible contingencies, I was beginning a dress of unbleached calico, when the Maluka, busy among the stores, came on a roll of bright pink galatea ordered for lubras' dresses, and brought it to the house in triumph.

Harsh, crudely pink, galatea! Yet it was received as joyfully as ever a woman received a Paris gown; for although necessity may be the mother of invention, she more often brings thankful hearts into this world.

A hank of coa.r.s.e, bristling white braid was also unearthed from among the stores, and within three days the galatea had become a st.u.r.dy white-braided blouse and skirt, that promised to rival the "staunch little beast" in staunch-heartedness.

By the time it was finished, Johnny and the Dandy had all the flooring boards down in the dining-room, and before the last nail was in, Cheon and the Maluka had carried in every available stick of furniture, and spread it about the room to the greatest possible advantage. The walls were still unfinished, and doors and window frames gaped; but what did that matter? The missus had a dining-room, and as she presided at her supper-table in vivid pink and the pride of possession, Cheon looked as though he would have liked to shake hands with every one at once, but particularly with Johnny.

"Looks A1," the Maluka said, alluding to the stiff, aggressive frock, and took me "bush" with him, wearing the blouse, and a holland riding skirt that had also proved itself a true, staunch friend.

Dan, the Quiet Stockman, and the Dandy, had already gone "bush" in different directions; for with the coming of the year's stores, horse-breaking, house-building, trunks and waggons had all stepped into their proper places--a very secondary one--and cattle had come to the front and would stay there, as far as the men were concerned until next Wet.

Cattle, and cattle only, would be the work of the "Dry." Dan and the Quiet Stockman, with a dozen or so of cattle "boys" to help them, had the year's musterings and brandings to get through; the Dandy would be wherever he was most needed; yard-building, yard-repairing, carting stores or lending a hand with mustering when necessity arose, while the Maluka would be everywhere at once, in organisation if not in body.

Where runs are huge, and fenceless, and freely watered the year's mustering and branding is no simple task Our cattle were scattered through a couple of thousand square miles of scrub and open timbered country, and therefore each section of the run had to be gone over again and again; each mob, when mustered, travelled to the nearest yard and branded.

Every available day of the Dry was needed for the work; but there is one thing in the Never-Never that refuses to take a secondary--place the mailman; and at the end of a week we all found, once again, that we had business at the homestead; for six weeks had slipped away since our last mail-day, and the Fizzer was due once more.

CHAPTER XII

The Fizzer was due at sundown, and for the Fizzer to be due meant that the Fizzer would arrive, and by six o'clock we had all got cricks in our necks, with trying to go about as usual, and yet keep an expectant eye on the north track.

The Fizzer is unlike every type of man excepting a bush mail-man. Hard, sinewy, dauntless, and enduring, he travels day after day and month after month, practically alone--"on me Pat Malone," he calls it--with or without a black boy, according to circ.u.mstances, and five trips out of his yearly eight throwing dice with death along his dry stages, and yet at all times as merry as a grig, and as chirrupy as a young gra.s.shopper.

With a light-hearted, "So long, chaps," he sets out from the Katherine on his thousand-mile ride, and with a cheery "What ho, chaps! Here we are again!" rides in again within five weeks with that journey behind him.

A thousand miles on horseback, "on me Pat Malone," into the Australian interior and out again, travelling twice over three long dry stages and several shorter ones, and keeping strictly within the Government time-limit, would be a life-experience to the men who set that limit if it wasn't a death-experience. "Like to see one of 'em doing it 'emselves," says the Fizzer. Yet never a day late, and rarely an hour, he does it eight times a year, with a "So long, chaps," and a "Here we are again."

The Fizzer was due at sundown, and at sundown a puff of dust rose on the track, and as a cry of "Mail oh !" went up all round the homestead, the Fizzer rode out of the dust.

"Hullo! What ho! boys," he shouted in welcome, and the next moment we were in the midst of his clattering team of pack-horses.

For five minutes everything was in confusion; horse bells and hobbles jingling and clanging, harness rattling, as horses shook themselves free, and pack-bags, swags, and saddles came to the ground with loud, creaking flops. Every one was lending a hand, and the Fizzer, moving in and out among the horses, shouted a medley of news and instructions and welcome.

"News? Stacks of it" he shouted. The Fizzer always shouted. "The gay time we had at the Katherine! Here, steady with that pack-bag. It's breakables! How's the raisin market? Eh, lads!" with many chuckles.

"Sore back here, fetch along the balsam. What ho, Cheon!" as Cheon appeared and greeted him as an old friend. "Heard you were here. You're the boy for my money. You BALLY a.s.s! Keep 'em back from the water there." This last was for the black boy. It took discrimination to fit the Fizzer's remarks on to the right person. Then, as a pack-bag dropped at the Maluka's feet, he added: "That's the station lot, boss. Full bags, missus! Two on 'em. You'll be doing the disappearing trick in half a mo'."

In "half a mo'" the seals were broken, and the mail-matter shaken out on the ground. A cascade of papers, magazines, and books, with a fat, firm little packet of letters among them: forty letters in all--thirty of them falling to my lot--thirty fat, bursting envelopes, and in another "half mo'" we had all slipped away in different directions--each with our precious mail matter--doing the "disappearing trick" even to the Fizzer's satisfaction.

The Fizzer smiled amiably after the retreating figures, and then went to be entertained by Cheon. He expected nothing else. He provided feasts all along his route, and was prepared to stand aside while the bush-folk feasted. Perhaps in the silence that fell over the bush homes, after his mail-bags were opened, his own heart slipped away to dear ones, who were waiting somewhere for news of our Fizzer.

Eight mails ONLY in a year is not all disadvantage. Townsfolk who have eight hundred tiny doses of mail-matter doled out to them, like men on sick diet can form little idea of the pleasure of that feast of "full bags and two on 'em," for like thirsty camels we drank it all in--every drop of it--in long, deep, satisfying draughts. It may have been a disadvantage, perhaps, to have been so thirsty; but then only the thirsty soul knows the sweetness of slaking that thirst.

After a full hour's silence the last written sheet was laid down, and I found the Maluka watching and smiling.

"Enjoyed your trip south, little 'un?" he said, and I came back to the bush with a start, to find the supper dead cold. But then supper came every night and the Fizzer once in forty-two.

At the first sound of voices, Cheon bustled in. "New-fellow tea, I think," he said, and bustled out again with the teapot (Cheon had had many years' experience of bush mail-days), and in a few minutes the unpalatable supper was taken away, and cold roast beef and tomatoes stood in its place.

After supper, as we went for our evening stroll, we stayed for a little while where the men were lounging, and after a general interchange of news the Fizzer's turn came.

News! He had said he had stacks of it, and he now bubbled over with it.

The horse teams were "just behind," and the Macs almost at the front gate. The Sanguine Scot? Of course he was all right: always was, but reckoned bullock-punching wasn't all it was cracked up to be; thought his troubles were over when he got out of the sandy country, but hadn't reckoned on the black soil flats. "Wouldn't be surprised if he took to punching something else besides bullocks before he's through with it,"

the Fizzer shouted, roaring with delight at the recollection of the Sanguine Scot in a tight place. On and on he went with his news, and for two hours afterwards, as we sat chewing the cud of our mail-matter, we could hear him laughing and shouting and "chiacking."

At daybreak he was at it again, shouting among his horses, as he culled his team of "done-ups," and soon after breakfast was at the head of the south track with all aboard.

"So long, chaps," he called. "See you again half-past eleven four weeks"; and by "half-past eleven four weeks" he would have carried his precious freight of letters to the yearning, waiting men and women hidden away in the heart of Australia, and be out again, laden with "inside"

letters for the outside world.

At all seasons of the year he calls the first two hundred miles of his trip a "kid's game." "Water somewhere nearly every day, and a decent camp most nights." And although he speaks of the next hundred and fifty as being a "bit off during the Dry," he faces its seventy-five-mile dry stage, sitting loosely in the saddle, with the same cheery "So long, chaps."

Five miles to "get a pace up"--a drink, and then that seventy-five miles of dry, with any "temperature they can spare from other parts," and not one drop of water in all its length for the horses. Straight on top of that, with the same horses and the same temperature, a run of twenty miles, mails dropped at Newcastle Waters, and another run of fifty into Powell's Creek, dry or otherwise according to circ.u.mstances.

"Takes a bit of fizzing to get into the Powell before the fourth sundown," the Fizzer says--for, forgetting that there can be no change of horses, and leaving no time for a "spell" after the "seventy-five-mile dry "--the time limit for that one hundred and fifty miles, in a country where four miles an hour is good travelling on good roads has been fixed at three and a half days. "Four, they call it," says the Fizzer, "forgetting I can't leave the water till midday. Takes a bit of fizzing all right"; and yet at Powell's Creek no one has yet discovered whether the Fizzer comes at sundown, or the sun goes down when the Fizzer comes.

"A bit off," he calls that stage, with a school-boy shrug of his shoulders; but at Renner's Springs, twenty miles farther on, the shoulders set square, and the man comes to the surface. The dice-throwing begins there, and the stakes are high--a man's life against a man's judgment.

Some people speak of the Fizzer's luck, and say he'll pull through, if any one can. It is luck, perhaps--but not in the sense they mean--to have the keen judgment to know to an ounce what a horse has left in him, judgment to know when to stop and when to go on--for that is left to the Fizzer's discretion; and with that judgment the dauntless courage to go on with, and win through, every task attempted.