CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BOB'S STORY: WILD LIFE AT THE DIGGINGS.

"Well, it all came about like this, Archie: 'England,' I said to myself, says I, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' Your gentry people, most o'

them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. The dog couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have a bite. Your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their land as the dog got his manger. They took it, and though they can't live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it."

"You're rather hard on the gentry, Bob."

"Well, maybe, Archie; but they ain't many o' them like Squire Broadbent.

Never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in England, and I couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and the freest, and kindest, were men like your Uncle Ramsay, who had been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses squeezed out of them. So when I left you, after cutting that bit o' stick, I made tracks for London. I hadn't much money, so I tramped all the way to York, and then took train. When I got to London, why I felt worse off than ever. Not a soul to speak to; not a face I knew; even the bobbies looking sour when I asked them a civil question; and starvation staring me in the face."

"Starvation, Bob?"

"Ay, Archie, and money in my pocket. Plenty o' shilling dinners; but, lo! what was _one_ London shilling dinner to the like o' me? Why, I could have bolted three! Then I thought of Harry here, and made tracks for whitechapel. I found the youngster--I'd known him at Burley--and he was glad to see me again. His granny was dead, or somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. But he made me welcome--downright happy and welcome. I'll tell you what it is, Archie lad, Harry is a little gentleman, c.o.c.kney here or c.o.c.kney there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three years and over of Australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, Harry carries a heart, look, see!

that wouldn't disgrace an English Squire."

"Bravo, Bob! I like to hear you speak in that way about our friend."

"Well, that night I said to Harry, 'Isn't it hard, Harry.' I says, 'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he snares a rabbit?'

"'Free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was Harry's words. 'I tell ye what it is, Bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. But I knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.'

"'Where's that?' I says.

"'Australia O!' says Harry.

"'Harry,' says I, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of rabbits--for Australia O!'

"'Right you are,' says Harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have we, Harry?"

"Only one," said Harry; "and one's enough between such old, old chums."

"He may well say old, _old_ chums, Archie; he may well put the two olds to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been our motto. We've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of us.

"We got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we stood together in Port Jackson for the first time, the contents of our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, I can a.s.sure you.

"'Cities aren't for the like of us, Harry,' says I.

"'Not now,' says Harry.

"So we joined a gang going west. There was a rush away to some place where somebody had found gold, and Harry and I thought we might do as well as any o' them.

"Ay, Archie, that was a rush. 'Tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.' I declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and I think so still.

"We were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just exactly what to take and what to leave. One thing we _did_ take was steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to leave the mob a bit in the rear.

"Well, we got high up country at long last--"

"Hold!" cried Harry. "He's missing the best of it. Is that fair, Johnnie?"

"No, it isn't fair."

"Why, Johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilisation when, what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, Johnnie, my London legs and my London heart failed me, and down I must lie. We were near a bit of a c.o.c.katoo farmer's shanty."

"Does it pay to breed c.o.c.katoos?" said Archie innocently.

"Don't be the death o' me, Johnnie. A c.o.c.katoo farmer is just a crofter. Well, in there Bob helped me, and I could go no farther. How long was I ill, Bob?"

"The best part o' two mouths, Harry."

"Ay, Johnnie, and all that time Bob there helped the farmer--dug for him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life in my c.o.c.kney skin."

"Well, Harry," said Bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. You hardened down fine after that fever."

Harry turned towards Archie.

"You mustn't believe all Bob says, Johnnie, when he speaks about me.

Bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of him yet."

"Never mind, Bob," said Archie, "even limes and lemons should not be squeezed dry. You and I are country lads, and we would rather retain a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, Bob."

"Well, now," continued Bob, "I don't know that Harry's fever didn't do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. There was no fear of losing the tracks. That was one good thing that came o' Harry's fever. Another was, that it kind o' tightened his const.i.tution. La! he could come through anything after that--get wet to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o' heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire. As for me, you know, Archie, I'm an old bush bird. I was brought up in the woods and wilds; and, faith, I'm never so much at home as I am in the forests.

Not but what we found the march inland wearisome enough. Worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did give us food going up, we were willing to work for it."

"If they'd let us, Bob."

"Which they didn't. Hospitality and religion go hand in hand with the squatter. When I and Harry here set out on that terribly long march, I confess to both of ye now I didn't feel at all certain as to how anything at all would turn out. I was just as bad as the young bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. The bear said, 'All right, mother; but how is it done?' And as the mother only answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and so did we.

"'How is it going to end?' I often said to Harry.

"'We can't lose anything, Bob,' Harry would say, laughing, 'except our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so I'm thinkin' we're safe.'"

Here Bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from that.

He laughed lightly as he proceeded:

"I'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' Harry.

But I'm laughing now because I remember what droll notions I had about what the Bush, as they call it, would be like when we got there."

"But, Johnnie," Harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never did get there, according to the settlers."

"No?"

"No; because they would always say to us, 'You're going Bush way, aren't ye, boys?' And we would answer, 'Why, ain't we there now?' And they would laugh."

"That's true," said Bob. "The country never seemed to be Bush enough for anybody. Soon's they settled down in a place the Bush'd be farther west."

"Then the Bush, when one is going west," said Archie, "must be like to-morrow, always one day ahead."