Children of the Bush Part 33

There was another man in camp who didn't count and was supposed to be dead. Old Danny Quinn, champion "beer-chewer" of the district, was on his way out, after a spree, to one of Rouse's stations, where, for the sake of past services--long past--and because of old times, he was supposed to be working. He had spent his last penny a week before and had clung to his last-hope hotel until the landlord had taken him in one hand and his swag in the other and lifted them clear of the veranda.

Danny had blundered on, this far, somehow; he was the last in the world who could have told how, and had managed to light a fire; then he lay with his head on his swag and enjoyed nips of whisky in judicious doses and at reasonable intervals, and later on a tot of mutton-broth, which he made in one of the billies.

It was after tea. Peter sat on a log by the fire with Joe and Jack Mitch.e.l.l on one side and Jack Barnes on the other. Jack Mitch.e.l.l sat on the gra.s.s with his back to the log, his knees drawn up, and his arms abroad on them: his most comfortable position and one which seemed to favour the flow of his philosophy. They talked of bush things or reflected, sometimes all three together, sometimes by turns.

From the surveyors' camp:

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn--

The breeze from the west strengthened and the voice was blown away.

"That chap seems a bit sentimental but he's got a good voice," said Mitch.e.l.l. Then presently he remarked, round his pipe:

"I wonder if old Danny remembers?" And presently Peter said quietly, as if the thought had just occurred to him:

"By the way, Mitch.e.l.l, I forgot to ask after your old folk. I knew your father, you know."

"Oh, they're all right, Peter, thank you."

"Heard from them lately?" asked Peter, presently, in a lazy tone.

Mitch.e.l.l straightened himself up. "N--no. To tell the truth, Peter, I haven't written for--I don't know how long."

Peter smoked reflectively.

"I remember your father well, Jack," he said. "He was a big-hearted man."

Old Danny was heard remonstrating loudly with spirits from a warmer clime than Australia, and Peter stepped over to soothe him.

"I thought I'd get it, directly after I opened my mouth," said Mitch.e.l.l.

"I suppose it will be your turn next, Joe."

"I suppose so," said Joe, resignedly.

The wind fell.

I remember, I remember, And it gives me little joy, To think I'm further off from heaven, Than when I was a boy!

When Peter came back another thought seemed to have occurred to him.

"How's your mother getting on, Joe?" he asked. "She shifted to Sydney after your father died, didn't she?"

"Oh, she's getting on all right!" said Joe, without elaboration.

"Keeping a boarding-house, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Joe.

"Hard to make ends meet, I suppose?" said Peter. "It's almost a harder life than it could have been on the old selection, and there's none of the old independence about it. A woman like your mother must feel it, Joe."

"Oh, she's all right," said Joe. "She's used to it by this time. I manage to send her a few pounds now and again. I send her all I can," he added resentfully.

Peter sat corrected for a few moments. Then he seemed to change the subject.

"It's some time since you were in Sydney last, isn't it, Joe?'

"Yes, Peter," said Joe. "I haven't been there for two years. I never did any good there. I'm far better knocking about out back."

There was a pause.

"Some men seem to get on better in one place, some in another,"

reflected Mitch.e.l.l, lazily. "For my part, I seem to get on better in another."

Peter blinked, relit his pipe with a stick from the fire and reflected.

The surveyor's song had been encored:

I remember, I remember--

Perhaps Peter remembered. Joe did, but there were no vines round the house where he was born, only drought and dust, and raspy voices raised in recrimination, and hardship most times.

"I remember," said Peter, quietly, "I remember a young fellow at home in the old country. He had every advantage. He had a first-cla.s.s education, a great deal more money than he needed--almost as much as he asked for, and nearly as much freedom as he wanted. His father was an English gentleman and his mother an English lady. They were t.i.tled people, if I remember rightly. The old man was proud, but fond of his son; he only asked him to pay a little duty or respect now and again. We don't understand these things in Australia--they seem formal and cold to us. The son paid his respects to his father occasionally--a week or so before he'd be wanting money, as a rule. The mother was a dear lady.

She idolized her son. She only asked for a little show of affection from him, a few days or a week of his society at home now and then--say once in three months. But he couldn't spare her even that--his time was taken up so much in fashionable London and Paris and other places. He would give the world to be able to take his proud, soft old father's hand now and look into his eyes as one man who understands another. He would be glad and eager to give his mother twelve months out of the year if he thought it would make her happier. It has been too late for more than twenty years."

Old Danny called for Peter.

Mitch.e.l.l jerked his head approvingly and gave a sound like a sigh and chuckle conjoined, the one qualifying the other.

"I told you you'd get it, Joe," he said.

"I don't see how it hits me," said Joe.

"But it hit all the same, Joe."

"Well, I suppose it did," said Joe, after a short pause.

"He wouldn't have hit you so hard if you hadn't tried to parry,"

reflected Mitch.e.l.l. "It's your turn now, Jack."

Jack Barnes said nothing.

"Now I know that Peter would do anything for a woman or child, or an honest, straight, hard-up chap," said Mitch.e.l.l, straightening out his legs and folding his arms, "but I can't quite understand his being so partial to drunken scamps and vagabonds, black sheep and never-do-wells.

He's got a tremendous sympathy for drunks. He'd do anything to help a drunken man. Ain't it marvellous? It's my private opinion that Peter must have been an awful boozer and scamp in his time."

The other two only thought. Mitch.e.l.l was privileged. He was a young man of freckled, sandy complexion, and quizzical grey eyes. "Sly Joker"

"could take a rise out of anyone on the quiet;" "You could never tell when he was getting at you;" "Face of a born comedian," as bushmen said of Mitch.e.l.l. But he would probably have been a dead and dismal failure on any other stage than that of wide Australia.

Peter came back and they sat and smoked, and maybe they reflected along four very different back-tracks for a while.