Best Australian Short Stories (10 page)

It then dawned on the sergeant that this was no mere case of the horrors—he was dealing with a book-canvasser.

“Ah, sure,” he said, “fwhat’s the use uv tryin’ to sell books at all, at all; folks does be peltin’ them out into the street, and the nanny-goats lives on them these times. Oi send the childer out to pick ’em up, and we have ’em at me place in barrow-loads. Come along with me now, and Oi’ll make you nice and comfortable for the night”, and he laid his hand on the outstretched palm of the figure.

It was a fatal mistake. He had set in motion the machinery which operated the figure’s left arm, and it moved that limb in towards its body, and hugged the sergeant to its breast, with a vice-like grip. Then it started in a faltering and uneven, but dogged, way to walk towards the river.

“Immortial Saints!” gasped the sergeant, “he’s squazin’ the livin’ breath out uv me. Lave go now loike a dacent sowl, lave go. And oh, for the love uv God, don’t be shpakin’ into me ear that way”; for the figure’s mouth was pressed tight against the sergeant’s ear, and its awful voice went through and through the little man’s head, as it held forth about the volume. The sergeant struggled violently, and by so doing set some more springs in motion, and the figure’s right arm made terrific swipes in the air. A following of boys and loafers had collected by this time. “Blimey, how does he lash out!” was the remark they made. But they didn’t interfere, notwithstanding the sergeant’s frantic appeals, and things were going hard with him when his subordinate, Constable Dooley, appeared on the scene.

Dooley, better known as the Wombat because of his sleepy disposition, was a man of great strength. He had originally been quartered at Sydney, and had fought many bitter battles with the notorious “pushes” of Bondi, Surry Hills, and The Rocks. After that, duty at Ninemile was child’s play, and he never ran in fewer than two drunks at a time; it was beneath his dignity to be seen capturing a solitary inebriate. If they wouldn’t come any other way, he would take them by the ankles and drag them after him. When the Wombat saw the sergeant in the grasp of an inebriate he bore down on the fray full of fight.

“I’ll soon make him lave go, sergeant,” he said, and he caught hold of the figure’s right arm, to put on the “police twist”. Unfortunately, at that exact moment the sergeant touched one of the springs in the creature’s breast. With the suddenness and severity of a horse-kick, it lashed out with its right hand, catching the redoubtable Dooley a thud on the jaw, and sending him to grass as if he had been shot.

For a few minutes he “lay as only dead men lie”. Then he got up bit by bit, wandered off home to the police-barracks, and mentioned casually to his wife that John L. Sullivan had come to town, and had taken the sergeant away to drown him. After which, having given orders that anybody who called was to be told that he had gone fifteen miles out of town to serve a summons on a man for not registering a dog, he locked himself up in a cell for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile, the Cast-iron Canvasser, still holding the sergeant tightly clutched to its breast, was marching straight towards the river. Something had disorganized its vocal arrangements, and it was now positively shrieking in the sergeant’s ear, and, as it yelled, the little man yelled still louder.

“Oi don’t want yer accursed book. Lave go uv me, Oi say!” He beat with his fists on its face, and kicked its shins without avail. A short, staggering rush, a wild shriek from the officer, and they both toppled over the steep bank and went souse into the depths of Ninemile Creek.

That was the end of the matter. The Genius and his mate returned to town hurriedly, and lay low, expecting to be indicted for murder. Constable Dooley drew up a report for the Chief of Police, which contained so many strange statements that the Police Department concluded the sergeant must have got drunk and drowned himself, and that Dooley saw him do it, but was too drunk to pull him out.

Anyone unacquainted with Ninemile might expect that a report of the occurrence would have reached the Sydney papers. As a matter of fact the storekeeper did think of writing one, but decided that it was too much trouble. There was some idea of asking the Government to fish the two bodies out of the river; but about that time an agitation was started in Ninemile to have the Federal Capital located there, and nothing else mattered.

The Genius discovered a pub in Sydney that kept the Ninemile brand of whisky, and drank himself to death; the Wombat became a Sub-Inspector of Police; Sloper entered the Christian ministry; Dodge was elected to the Federal Parliament; and a vague tradition about “a bloke who came up here in the horrors, and drowned poor old O’Grady” is the only memory that remains of that wonderful creation, the Cast-iron Canvasser.

WHETHER wharf labourers as a class are more lurid than other casual workers I don’t know, but it is my opinion that the man who lumps cargo can hold his own against any other. Language is not a gift, but he can’t help himself. If you put a padlock on his lips and gave his mind a bath, he’d still think in swearwords. Not that he does think. He talks, but shifting wool and wheat doesn’t give him any exercise in mentality. His brain acts sheep-like, following the lead of others, and in consequence the tongue-noise he puts in is an iteration which is only varied in frills and embroideries of obscenity. This incessant talk is not as foolish as it sounds; it is how he dodges sweating.

But to hear a wharf labourer at his best you require to sleep near a hatch on a passenger boat the night before she leaves port. I’ve done so on various occasions, and it has interested me so much that last night I switched on the light and made a verbatim report of what I heard. Of course, in setting it down here, I’ve left spaces, representing lingua incognita. You can fill them in yourself if you know how, only you must understand that the real language was worse.

First you are awakened by a terrific bumping-down of the hatch-board, and then comes the maddening clatter of the winch being tested, accompanied by the clang of iron bars being thrown about over your head. There is a terrible amount of language also, but the noise of the winch and the bars is so great that it even drowns a wharf labourer’s stentorian voice. Waking from one’s sleep it strikes right into one’s nerves and lifts the roof from your head.

A wharf labourer is so accustomed to shouting so as to be heard above the din of winches that he keeps it up all the time. Immediately the hellish noise subsides, a raucous voice demands, “Where’s my b——”

Then it stops. It seems to remember that there are passengers aboard. There is a little sense of decency behind that voice. It has probably been well brought up—had a mother, or some good female influence. It continued: “— blessed ’ook?”

In Heaven’s Book there must be recorded the noble restraint of that labourer. I am sure St Peter will remember that man and pass him in. It will be recorded that once in his lifetime he put acurb on his tongue and left unsaid the thing that he set out to say. I am glad I heard it. It is the only time I’ve ever heard a wharf labourer use a mild adjective.

“Anybody seen Bill’ — ’ook ?” roared out a man with a voice like a bull and no respect for passengers.

Then a dozen bull voices roared: “Bill’s —— ’ook’s lost!”

And there came a noise of spitting.

Then one voice spoke—one which will never leave my memory—an awful voice: “The ——’s gone an’ lost his—’ook.”

“W’y the——doesn’t ’e look after ’is — ’ook ?” This voice was a commonsense sort of voice. It is the voice of the critic that you will mostly find in every crowd—the Red Page
*
voice.

“Is it Bill’s — ’ook wot’s — well lost?” asked a sympathetic voice.

“— silly —,” said a weak edition of the Red Page voice.

All the time about twenty men were chasing round looking for Bills’ hook, instead of working and getting the ship away up to time. It occurred to me that Bill had lost his hook on purpose. They all talked at once on these occasions.

*
A reference to the literary editor of the
Bulletin.

“Whose — ’ook is this?”

Everybody came forward to identify it, and then the bull voice rang out: “That’s not Bill’s — ’ook. That — ’ook belongs to one of the —s who voted for — overtime. ‘E’s — well asleep behind the — wool-bales.”

“Is this Bill’s — ’ook?” from another part of the hold. Another scuttle of all the wharf labourers to make another identification. And then Bill spoke: “Yes, that’s my — ’ook.”

I felt sorry to notice Bill’s lapse. I am sure that Bill must have loved a good woman at one time or another of his life.

“Now we’d better get to work.” No doubt this came from There was no excited rush to begin sweating, as I expected “Yes, we’d better — well get to — work.”

Everybody began to reiterate “getting to work”, just in the sheep like way of wharf labourers. They might have got to work in a few minutes, only for another voice. It was the First Red Page voice that said:

“Don’t — well know ’ow we’ll — well stow that — barley.” “It’s a — monkey’s puzzle,” said the Second Red Page voice.

“It’s a — — monkey’s — — puzzle,” said the voice of Bill. (Oh, Bill, and the way that you must have been brought up!) You could understand Bill. No doubt, the Second Red Page voice hadn’t expressed the difficulty of stowing the barley sufficiently well.

Then the Second Red Page voice said: “We’ll ’ave to—well get round the — — stack and stow the — stuff down that wing.”

Then all the voices repeated: “We’ll ’ave to — well get round the—— stack and stow the — barley down that — wing.” It took five minutes (more or less) to say it, as they didn’t say it in concert.

I thought they would start work when they had finished saying it, only someone found one of them drinking a bottle of beer behind some cases, and everybody had to comment upon it, and then somebody said, “Well, boys, let’s get to — work,” and when everybody had repeated it as a necessary formula before starting work, an officer-sort of voice said: “Who the h—l stowed this here?”

“Wasn’t me, sir,” replied an awful voice, conciliatingly.

“Nor me, sir,” said the voice of Bill.

“Wasn’t any of us, sir.”

“‘On the — could it be any of us, sir, when it’s — wheat, and we’re stowing — barley, and we’re not started — work yet?”

“It was — well done by the last — shift, sir,” said the Red Page voice.

“It’s got no right here, anyway,” said the officer voice, severely.

Then the Second Red Page voice must have grown sick of the sirring, or the interference of the officer voice. It said with a spit: “Oh, shut yer — nose.”

The First Red Page voice did not seem to think that this was expressed right. It evidently knew that the meaning was, “Oh, shut up, and don’t poke your nose into things,” but it didn’t take time to get it clear. It said with a louder spit:

“Oh, shut yer — nose in yer — mouth and get to — out of this — yer.”

“And now let’s get to — work,” said the voice of Bill.

“’As enny son of a — seen my —— ’ook?” asked the Second Red Page voice.

“Enny one seen Jim’s —— ’ook?”

“Another — —’s lost ’is — ’ook.”

“W’y the —”

“Oh, ’ere’s ’is — ’ook.”

“It’s orright, yer —s. Jim’s got ’is — ’ook.”

“And now let’s get to — work.”

THE system that gets you into one disturbance has the next already in train for you. A state of mind is abroad about you. You are under an evil compulsion to invite its attention to your affairs—and that with every intention of allaying its suspicion and keeping your affairs strictly under cover.

Bill was particularly anxious not to invite any more disturbances just then, because he badly wanted five bob to buy gunpowder. His stock was running low; and life without gunpowder was practically a state of non-existence to Bill. Therefore it was his idea to have no disturbances, so that he could present a shining front to Ma and say that he had joined the Junior Rechabites’ Club; and that five bob was required as entrance fee.

The old Poulter episode had put his financial venture in a very doubtful position. The shining front would have to be deferred until Bill had worked up confidence in it as a moral asset. Suspicions must be allayed and affairs kept strictly under cover. Thus when Waldo whistled for him at the front gate on Monday afternoon, Bill came out in a hurry and wrote some words on a piece of paper, which he held up for Waldo to read. These were the words Waldo read:
I am not to speak to you for a week.