Part 5 (1/2)
CHAPTER VIII.
I START AS A LANDHOLDER.
I went straight to the Land Commissioner in Cairns, and entered his office waving a map. ”Look here, sir,” says I, ”I want 48. How do I get it?”
He laughed. Having got over the shock of my unceremonious entrance, he seemed inclined to enjoy me, setting to work to draw me out, not a hard task in those enthusiastic days. Toil, and long, close acquaintance with Cow, have soured me these times. He asked me what I intended doing with the land, and I at once plunged into a stream of talk which kept his eyes twinkling, and sent his hand to his mouth now and then.
”All right, Mr. Senex,” he said at last. ”There's n.o.body in for that block, so you won't have to ballot. I'll wire to Brisbane to-day. Come in again first thing to-morrow.”
I paid my 5 deposit, thanked him, and withdrew. Next morning, bright and early, I was back, and shortly afterwards the return wire arrived from Brisbane that 48 was allotted to me. With a mind at ease, I spent the day wandering round town, got a skiff and pulled up the Inlet, and otherwise enjoyed myself in my own way. A night spent in slapping myself and swearing at the mosquitoes, then breakfast, the Atherton train again, and so back to what I was beginning to regard as home.
I stopped overnight at the pub and made arrangements for my mult.i.tudinous baggage to go out by six-horse buckboard next day. What a load of useless gear I had, to be sure! It cost me about 8 first and last to bring the stuff up from Newcastle, and not half of it was any good. Next day it took us half an hour to load it all up, including a dozen ten-foot sheets of iron for a house sometime by and bye.
I enjoyed the trip in the forest country, but when we hit the scrub--oh, Lord! The panting prads dragged us up innumerable hills, and slid on their haunches down the succeeding pinch, with the buckboard skidding from side to side of the road after them. On the infrequent levels we went at a slow walk, half-way to the axles in sticky mud, numberless roots and half-submerged stumps, jarring and b.u.mping, occasionally tilting our vehicle at an uncomfortable angle. Heavy going, all right!
We reached Braun's just before dark--it seemed to be at the end of the world after our journey--and found O'Gorman and a mate there, who were to commence falling scrub on the former's place next day. The stranger was introduced to me as Len Vincent, a fine young fellow about twenty years of age, tall, slimly built, active; all wire and whipcord; curly black hair, thoughtful, dark brown eyes, and a full direct glance. An attractive young fellow and an excellent specimen of young Australia.
The two of them had cleaned out the old shack, and, with a roaring fire going, billies boiling, whips of tucker, and a fine bright young moon silvering the clearing outside, the place looked cheerful--even comfortable; and I felt the old romantic feeling return in full force as we sat yarning and smoking round the comfortable blaze after tea. The night was just chilly enough to make the fire acceptable. The dense walls of heavy timber close at hand, the light breeze rustling through the treetops; the sound of the brawling creek, with its legions of croaking frogs; the call of a pair of mopokes, which sounded anything but dismal to me, and the wailing note of some other unknown night-bird in the depths of the scrub--all combined to make up a picture very strange and enchanting to me, who had been used to nothing but sea and sky for thirteen years. I had actually had only about four months ash.o.r.e, in spells of a few days at a time, in all that period.
We were just thinking of turning in, when I nearly jumped out of my skin at a sudden grating, ear-splitting screech right overhead--to be repeated a moment later at the end of the clearing.
”What the devil's that?” I asked.
”Oh,” said Len, ”it's only an ol' fig-'awk. Bird, you know.”
Which rea.s.sured me. But it sounded like a mad woman being tortured. I lay some time looking at the flickering firelight, and finally drifted off to sleep. About five minutes later I was roused by a clattering of plates, and, looking drowsily round, saw the fire blazing up, my two friends dressed and busy cooking. The buckboard driver was still snoring over in his corner.
”Hullo, chaps,” said I, with some hazy idea that supper was on. ”Aren't you turning-in to-night?”
”Turn in!” laughed Terry. ”Why, it's 5.30. Time to turn out.”
I jumped up. ”Cripes! I thought I'd only been asleep five minutes.”
Breakfast of cold salt beef, pickles, bacon, ”puftaloons” (a species of fried scone), and unlimited tea was despatched with gusto, and the chorus of birds then warning us of impending daylight, off we set.
Those birds! I wonder now if there is any other country on earth with such a truly cheerful lot. First is the chowchilla--thousands of him in the scrub--with a rich musical note something like water dropping rapidly down a deep well--”Plop! ... plop! ... perloplop.” He starts in the dark. Pewee is next; then the jacka.s.s heartily laughs the sleep out of his eyes, closely followed by the sweet-toned magpie. Presently another bird says ”Gitterwoork!” in a tone of good-humoured reproach; don't know what his proper name is. We always call him the get-to-work bird. Finally the big pigeons, with their deep cooing notes, join in, and for an hour or more this choir keeps its chorus going, to greet the sun as he slowly rises. There isn't a note in it that isn't cheerful, but as the district opens up, and the idiot with the gun gets his fine work in, I suppose most of them will depart. I have actually seen fools shooting ibises, on suspicion of their eating fruit and corn and distributing weeds, no less! not having the sense to see that the bird's long thin curved beak is incapable of negotiating anything but caterpillars, slugs and such-like. The old Egyptians knew how many beans made five when they declared this bird sacred, with the death penalty for killing one. Pity we didn't have some such law now to check the a.s.s with the yard of gas-pipe.
We three, leaving the buckboard bloke putting his horses in, went across the clearing and through my scrub to Terry's place, getting soaked to the waist en route in the dew-laden gra.s.s. It was broad daylight by this time, and Terry was soon swinging ”Douglas” (pet name for axe), and, on Len's introducing me to a brush-hook, we got to work on the undergrowth.
I don't know what malign imp presides over the brus.h.i.+ng department, but no matter where or how you hit anything it invariably falls on top of you, and every d.a.m.n thing has spikes on it. Well, the hooks were sharp, work went with a swing, a fresh breeze fanned our heated faces, and when Terry had the billy boiling at noon, his cheery shout of ”She's off, boys!” ringing out through the trees, I ate the salt beef and damper, and jam and damper, with an appet.i.te I hadn't enjoyed for years.
A short spell, then work again, and by the time the setting sun said ”knock-off,” Len and I had chewed through a couple of acres, and Terry's splintery array of stumps showed that he hadn't been idle. Back to the barn, we rebuilt the fire, shook out our blankets to see no snakes were camped in them, had tea, yarned and smoked a bit, and, my heavy eyelids being quite incapable of being kept up longer, we tumbled into our ”naps,” and by nine o'clock were enjoying the untroubled sleep of healthily tired manhood.
CHAPTER IX.
CAMP LIFE.