Three Elephant Power and Other Stories — HIS MASTERPIECE
HIS MASTERPIECE
Greenhide Billy was a stockman on a Clarence River cattle-station, and admittedly the biggest liar in the district.
He had been for many years pioneering in the Northern Territory, the other side of the sun-down--a regular “furthest-out man”--and this assured his reputation among station-hands who award rank according to amount of experience.
Young men who have always hung around the home districts, doing a job of shearing here or a turn at horse-breaking there, look with reverence on Riverine or Macquarie-River shearers who come in with tales of runs where they have 300,000 acres of freehold land and shear 250,000 sheep; these again pale their ineffectual fires before the glory of the Northern Territory man who has all-comers on toast, because no one can contradict him or check his figures.
When two of them meet, however, they are not fools enough to cut down quotations and spoil the market;
they lie in support of each other, and make all other bushmen feel mean and pitiful and inexperienced.
Sometimes a youngster would timidly ask Greenhide Billy about the 'terra incognita': “What sort of a place is it, Billy--how big are the properties?
How many acres had you in the place you were on?
” “Acres be d----d!
” Billy would scornfully reply; “hear him talking about acres!
D'ye think we were blanked cockatoo selectors!
Out there we reckon country by the hundred miles.
You orter say, 'How many thousand miles of country?'
and then I'd understand you.
” Furthermore, according to Billy, they reckoned the rainfall in the Territory by yards, not inches.
He had seen blackfellows who could jump at least three inches higher than anyone else had ever seen a blackfellow jump, and every bushman has seen or personally known a blackfellow who could jump over six feet.
Billy had seen bigger droughts, better country, fatter cattle, faster horses, and cleverer dogs, than any other man on the Clarence River.
But one night when the rain was on the roof, and the river was rising with a moaning sound, and the men were gathered round the fire in the hut smoking and staring at the coals, Billy turned himself loose and gave us his masterpiece.
“I was drovin' with cattle from Mungrybanbone to old Corlett's station on the Buckadowntown River” (Billy always started his stories with some paralysing bush names).
“We had a thousand head of store-cattle, wild, mountain-bred wretches that'd charge you on sight; they were that handy with their horns they could skewer a mosquito.
There was one or two one-eyed cattle among 'em--and you know how a one-eyed beast always keeps movin' away from the mob, pokin' away out to the edge of them so as they won't git on his blind side, so that by stirrin' about he keeps the others restless.
“They had been scared once or twice, and stampeded and gave us all we could do to keep them together; and it was wet and dark and thundering, and it looked like a real bad night for us.
It was my watch.
I was on one side of the cattle, like it might be here, with a small bit of a fire; and my mate, Barcoo Jim, he was right opposite on the other side of the cattle, and had gone to sleep under a log.
The rest of the men were in the camp fast asleep.
Every now and again I'd get on my horse and prowl round the cattle quiet like, and they seemed to be settled down all right, and I was sitting by my fire holding my horse and drowsing, when all of a sudden a blessed 'possum ran out from some saplings and scratched up a tree right alongside me.
I was half-asleep, I suppose, and was startled; anyhow, never thinking what I was doing, I picked up a firestick out of the fire and flung it at the 'possum.
“Whoop!
Before you could say Jack Robertson, that thousand head of cattle were on their feet, and made one wild, headlong, mad rush right over the place where poor old Barcoo Jim was sleeping.
There was no time to hunt up materials for the inquest; I had to keep those cattle together, so I sprang into the saddle, dashed the spurs into the old horse, dropped my head on his mane, and sent him as hard as he could leg it through the scrub to get to the lead of the cattle and steady them.
It was brigalow, and you know what that is.
“You know how the brigalow grows,” continued Bill; “saplings about as thick as a man's arm, and that close together a dog can't open his mouth to bark in 'em.
Well, those cattle swept through that scrub, levelling it like as if it had been cleared for a railway line.
They cleared a track a quarter of a mile wide, and smashed every stick, stump and sapling on it.
You could hear them roaring and their hoofs thundering and the scrub smashing three or four miles off.
“And where was I?
I was racing parallel with the cattle, with my head down on the horse's neck, letting him pick his way through the scrub in the pitchy darkness.
This went on for about four miles.
Then the cattle began to get winded, and I dug into the old stock-horse with the spurs, and got in front, and began to crack the whip and sing out, so as to steady them a little; after awhile they dropped slower and slower, and I kept the whip going.
I got them all together in a patch of open country, and there I rode round and round 'em all night till daylight.
“And how I wasn't killed in the scrub, goodness only knows; for a man couldn't ride in the daylight where I did in the dark.
The cattle were all knocked about--horns smashed, legs broken, ribs torn; but they were all there, every solitary head of 'em; and as soon as the daylight broke I took 'em back to the camp--that is, all that could travel, because I had to leave a few broken-legged ones.
” Billy paused in his narrative.
He knew that some suggestions would be made, by way of compromise, to tone down the awful strength of the yarn, and he prepared himself accordingly.
His motto was “No surrender”; he never abated one jot of his statements; if anyone chose to remark on them, he made them warmer and stronger, and absolutely flattened out the intruder.
“That was a wonderful bit of ridin' you done, Billy,” said one of the men at last, admiringly.
“It's a wonder you wasn't killed.
I suppose your clothes was pretty well tore off your back with the scrub?
” “Never touched a twig,” said Billy.
“Ah!
” faltered the inquirer, “then no doubt you had a real ringin' good stock-horse that could take you through a scrub like that full-split in the dark, and not hit you against anything.
” “No, he wasn't a good un,” said Billy decisively, “he was the worst horse in the camp.
Terrible awkward in the scrub he was, always fallin' down on his knees; and his neck was so short you could sit far back on him and pull his ears.
” Here that interrogator retired hurt; he gave Billy best.
After a pause another took up the running.
“How did your mate get on, Billy?
I s'pose he was trampled to a mummy!
” “No,” said Billy, “he wasn't hurt a bit.
I told you he was sleeping under the shelter of a log.
Well, when those cattle rushed they swept over that log a thousand strong; and every beast of that herd took the log in his stride and just missed landing on Barcoo Jimmy by about four inches.
” The men waited a while and smoked, to let this statement soak well into their systems; at last one rallied and had a final try.
“It's a wonder then, Billy,” he said, “that your mate didn't come after you and give you a hand to steady the cattle.
” “Well, perhaps it was,” said Billy, “only that there was a bigger wonder than that at the back of it.
” “What was that?
” “My mate never woke up all through it.
” Then the men knocked the ashes out of their pipes and went to bed.
DONE FOR THE DOUBLE
by Knott Gold Author of “Flogged for a Furlong”, “Won by a Winker”, etc. , etc. Chapter I. --WANTED, A PONY
Algernon de Montgomery Smythers was a merchant, wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice.
Other merchants might dress more lavishly, and wear larger watch chains; but the bank balance is the true test of mercantile superiority, and in a trial of bank balances Algernon de Montgomery Smythers represented Tyson at seven stone.
He was unbeatable.
He lived in comfort, not to say luxury.
He had champagne for breakfast every morning, and his wife always slept with a pair of diamond earrings worth a small fortune in her ears.
It is things like these that show true gentility.
Though they had been married many years, the A. de M. Smythers had but one child--a son and heir.
No Christmas Day was allowed to pass by his doting parents without a gift to young Algy of some trifle worth about 150 pounds, less the discount for cash.
He had six play-rooms, all filled with the most expensive toys and ingenious mechanical devices.
He had a phonograph that could hail a ship out at the South Head, and a mechanical parrot that sang “The Wearing of the Green”.
And still he was not happy.
Sometimes, in spite of the vigilance of his four nurses and six under-nurses, he would escape into the street, and run about with the little boys he met there.
One day he gave one of them a sovereign for a locust.
Certainly the locust was a “double-drummer”, and could deafen the German Band when shaken up judiciously; still, it was dear at a sovereign.
It is ever thus.
What we have we do not value, and what other people have we are not strong enough to take from them.
Such is life.
Christmas was approaching, and the question of Algy's Christmas present agitated the bosom of his parents.
He already had nearly everything a child could want; but one morning a bright inspiration struck Algy's father.
Algy should have a pony.
With Mr. Smythers to think was to act.
He was not a man who believed in allowing grass to grow under his feet.
His motto was, “Up and be doing--somebody.
” So he put an advertisement in the paper that same day.
“Wanted, a boy's pony.
Must be guaranteed sound, strong, handsome, intelligent.
Used to trains, trams, motors, fire engines, and motor 'buses.
Any failure in above respects will disqualify.
Certificate of birth required as well as references from last place.
Price no object.
” Chapter II. --BLINKY BILL'S SACRIFICE
Down in a poverty-stricken part of the city lived Blinky Bill, the horse-dealer.
His yard was surrounded by loose-boxes made of any old timber, galvanized iron, sheets of roofing-felt, and bark he could gather together.
He kept all sorts of horses, except good sorts.
There were harness horses, that wouldn't pull, and saddle horses that wouldn't go--or, if they went, used to fall down.
Nearly every animal about the place had something the matter with it.
When the bailiff dropped in, as he did every two or three weeks, Bill and he would go out together, and “have a punt” on some of Bill's ponies, or on somebody else's ponies--the latter for choice.
But periodical punts and occasional sales of horses would not keep the wolf from the door.
Ponies keep on eating whether they are winning or not and Blinky Bill had got down to the very last pitch of desperation when he saw the advertisement mentioned at the end of last chapter.
It was like a ray of hope to him.
At once there flashed upon him what he must do.
He must make a great sacrifice; he must sell Sausage II.
Sausage II.
was the greatest thirteen-two pony of the day.
Time and again he had gone out to race when, to use William's own words, it was a blue duck for Bill's chance of keeping afloat; and every time did the gallant race pony pull his owner through.
Bill owed more to Sausage II.
than he owed to his creditors.
Brought up as a pet, the little animal was absolutely trustworthy.
He would carry a lady or a child, or pull a sulky; in fact, it was quite a common thing for Blinky Bill to drive him in a sulky to a country meeting and look about him for a likely “mark”.
If he could find a fleet youth with a reputedly fast pony, Bill would offer to “pull the little cuddy out of the sulky and run yer for a fiver.
” Sometimes he got beaten; but as he never paid, that didn't matter.
He did not believe in fighting; but he would always sooner fight than pay.
But all these devices had left him on his uppers in the end.
He had no feed for his ponies, and no money to buy it; the corn merchant had written his account off as bad, and had no desire to make it worse.
Under the circumstances, what was he to do?
Sausage II.
must be sold.
With heavy heart Bill led the pony down to be inspected.
He saw Mr. Algernon de Montgomery Smythers, and measured him with his eye.
He saw it would be no use to talk about racing to him, so he went on the other track.
He told him that the pony belonged to a Methodist clergyman, who used to drive him in a “shay”.
There are no shays in this country; but Bill had read the word somewhere, and thought it sounded respectable.
“Yus, sir,” he said, “'e goes lovely in a shay,” and he was just starting off at twenty words a second, when he was stopped.
Mr. A.
de M. Smythers was brusque with his inferiors, and in this he made a mistake.
Instead of listening to all that Blinky Bill said, and disbelieving it at his leisure, he stopped his talk.
“If you want to sell this pony, dry up,” he said.
“I don't believe a word you say, and it only worries me to hear you lying.
” Fatal mistake!
You should never stop a horse-dealer's talk.
And call him anything you like, but never say you doubt his word.
Both these things Mr. Smythers did; and, though he bought the pony at a high price, yet the insult sank deep into the heart of Blinky Bill.
As the capitalist departed leading the pony, Blinky Bill muttered to himself, “Ha!
ha!
Little does he know that he is leading Sausage II.
, the greatest 13. 2 pony of the century.
Let him beware how he gets alongside anything.
That's all!
Blinky Bill may yet be revenged!
” Chapter III. --EXIT ALGY
Christmas Day came.
Algy's father gave orders to have the pony saddled, and led round to the front door.
Algy's mother, a lady of forty summers, spent the morning superintending the dinner.
Dinner was the principal event in the day with her.
Alas, poor lady!
Everything she ate agreed with her, and she got fatter and fatter and fatter.
The cold world never fully appreciates the struggles of those who are fat--the efforts at starvation, the detested exercise, the long, miserable walks.
Well has one of our greatest poets written, “Take up the fat man's burden.
” But we digress.
When Algy saw the pony he shouted with delight, and in half a minute was riding him up and down the front drive.
Then he asked for leave to go out in the street--and that was where the trouble began.
Up and down the street the pony cantered, as quietly as possible, till suddenly round a corner came two butcher boys racing their horses.
With a clatter of clumsy hoofs they thundered past.
In half a second there was a rattle, and a sort of comet-like rush through the air.
Sausage II.
was off after them with his precious burden.
The family dog tried to keep up with him, and succeeded in keeping ahead for about three strides.
Then, like the wolves that pursued Mazeppa, he was left yelping far behind.
Through Surry Hills and Redfern swept the flying pony, his rider lying out on his neck in Tod Sloan fashion, while the ground seemed to race beneath him.
The events of the way were just one hopeless blur till the pony ran straight as an arrow into the yard of Blinky Bill.
Chapter IV. --RUNNING THE RULE
As soon as Blinky Bill recognised his visitor, he was delighted.
“You here,” he said, “Ha, ha, revenge is mine!
I'll get a tidy reward for taking you back, my young shaver.
” Then from the unresisting child he took a gold watch and three sovereigns.
These he said he would put in a safe place for him, till he was going home again.
He expected to get at least a tenner ready money for bringing Algy back, and hoped that he might be allowed to keep the watch into the bargain.
With a light heart he went down town with Algy's watch and sovereigns in his pocket.
He did not return till daylight, when he awoke his wife with bad news.
“Can't give the boy up,” he said.
“I moskenoed his block and tackle, and blued it in the school.
” In other words, he had pawned the boy's watch and chain, and had lost the proceeds at pitch and toss.
“Nothing for it but to move,” he said, “and take the kid with us.
” So move they did.
The reader can imagine with what frantic anxiety the father and mother of little Algy sought for their lost one.
They put the matter into the hands of the detective police, and waited for the Sherlock Holmeses of the force to get in their fine work.
There was nothing doing.
Years rolled on, and the mysterious disappearance of little Algy was yet unsolved.
The horse-dealer's revenge was complete.
The boy's mother consulted a clairvoyant, who murmured mystically “What went by the ponies, will come by the ponies;” and with that they had to remain satisfied.
Chapter V. --THE TRICKS OF THE TURF
It was race day at Pulling'em Park, and the ponies were doing their usual performances.
Among the throng the heaviest punter is a fat lady with diamond earrings.
Does the reader recognize her?
It is little Algy's mother.
Her husband is dead, leaving her the whole of his colossal fortune, and, having developed a taste for gambling, she is now engaged in “doing it in on the ponies”.
She is one of the biggest bettors in the game.
When women take to betting they are worse than men.
But it is not for betting alone that she attends the meetings.
She remembers the clairvoyant's “What went by the ponies will come by the ponies.
” And always she searches in the ranks of the talent for her lost Algy.
Here enters another of our dramatis personae--Blinky Bill, prosperous once more.
He has got a string of ponies and punters together.
The first are not much use to a man without the second; but, in spite of all temptations, Bill has always declined to number among his punters the mother of the child he stole.
But the poor lady regularly punts on his ponies, and just as regularly is “sent up”--in other words, loses her money.
To-day she has backed Blinky's pair, Nostrils and Tin Can, for the double.
Nostrils has won his race, and Tin Can, if on the job, can win the second half of the double.
Is he on the job?
The prices are lengthening against him, and the poor lady recognises that once more she is “in the cart”.
Just then she meets Tin Can's jockey, Dodger Smith, face to face.
A
piercing scream rends the atmosphere, as if a thousand school children drew a thousand slate pencils down a thousand slates simultaneously.
“Me cheild!
Me cheild!
Me long-lost Algy!
” It did not take long to convince Algy that he would be better off as a son to a wealthy lady than as a jockey, subject to the fiendish caprices of Blinky Bill.
“All right, mother,” he said.
“Put all you can raise on Tin Can.
I'm going to send Blinky up.
It's time I had a cut on me own, anyway.
” The horses went to the post.
Tons of money were at the last moment hurled on to Tin Can.
The books, knowing he was “dead”, responded gamely, and wrote his name till their wrists gave out.
Blinky Bill had a half-share in all the bookies' winnings, so he chuckled grimly as he went to the rails to watch the race.
They're off.
And what is this that flashes to the front, while the howls of the bookies rise like the yelping of fiends in torment?
It is Dodger Smith on Tin Can, and from the grandstand there is a shrill feminine yell of triumph as the gallant pony sails past the post.
The bookies thought that Blinky Bill had sold them, and they discarded him for ever.
