In Bad Company and other stories

Dulcie. Nonsense! The people who know, don't write books – very seldom at least. The people who write books, don't know. That's the English of it. But I came through the township and I've brought your post. Here's a letter and a newspaper.

Egremont. Heaven be thanked and my Guardian Angel! That's you, my dearest Dulcie. Oh, that I had you always to be near me – to protect me from the ways of this wicked Australian world!

Dulcie. H – m! You want some one, I do believe. I might consider over the contract, but my tender – ahem! – wouldn't be accepted at present. Father's going on like an old 'rager' bullock, all by himself in the strangers' yard. But hadn't you better open your letter?

Egremont. Then you do take an interest in me? After this I fear nothing. Why will you not consent to trust your future welfare to my guidance?

Dulcie (scornfully). A likely thing! Trust a free selector! Not if I know it!!! Why, what would become of us? Perhaps you'd like to see me lifting the top off a camp-oven – on a fire, under that black stump there – whilst you were – chopping – down – a – tree! ha! ha! No! (surveying her well-fitting riding-habit – her thoroughbred horse, and stroking her gloves) I seem to like this sort of thing better. I must drag on for a while with my allowance from poor old dad.

Egremont (with lofty resolve). You are heartless, Dulcie – devoid of natural affection. You laugh at my inexperience, you sneer at my poverty – let us part for ever. Go back to your father's mansion and leave me to my fate. I feel that I shall succeed, perhaps make a fortune, in the end.

Dulcie (Aside– It will be a precious long time first! What a dear, noble fellow he is – I hate to bully him!) Aloud– Come, Cecil (winningly), you mustn't be cross. I am only a poor simple girl brought up in the bush (I wonder what he is then?), but of course I know more about stock and land than you do. If we are not to be married (you see I love you a little) till you make enough to buy the ring out of this calf-paddock of yours, we may wait till we're grey! But why don't you open the letter? It might contain something of importance.

Egremont (partly mollified). I'm afraid not; merely an entreaty to return from this wild country, where there are no people fit for me to associate with, where I may starve, or be killed by blacks or wild beasts – that's the general tone of my letters of late. Ha! What is this? (Reads– Your poor Uncle Humphrey died last week; he was on bad terms with our side of the house, and has not spoken to your father for forty years; but he has left you £20,000, for which you will receive a bank-draft by this mail. Of course you will come home at once!) Of course, of course! Oh! eh! Dulcie dear? Now I shall build a house here, plant a garden, make a lakelet, sow artificial grasses, fence and subdivide, – in fact, make a paradise of these desolate, bare acres. Eventually it will be highly remunerative. But when my house is completed and furnished in accordance with modern art, you will come there to be my queen and its most brilliant ornament? (looks entreatingly at her).

Dulcie (with expression of horror). What! improve a selection? Spend thousands of pounds on it? Build a really good house and ask me to live there! Did you ever hear of Tarban Creek?

Egremont. Not that I can recall – an aboriginal name, I presume. I have caught the name of Curbin, I think. Is that a similar watercourse?

Dulcie (restraining herself). It's hardly worth explaining – a little joke of mine. But to come to business. Suppose I show you a way to invest your money – to get twenty per cent for it in a few years, at the same time to make father think you a clever, rising man – an opinion which, ahem! he does not hold at present – and lastly, to cause him to give his consent to our marriage, (coaxingly) what should you say then? Would you be willing to do what I told you?

Egremont. I always thought you as clever as you were beautiful, my own dearest Dulcie! Take me with all that is mine and do what you will.

Dulcie. Very nice – indeed flattering! How long will it last, I wonder? 'Now you lisdens do me' (as our German gardener used to say) and you will hear something to your advantage. But first promise to do what I ask – you will promise? (looking entreatingly and archly at him).

Egremont. On my honour; on the cross of my ancestor's sword – he was a Crusader.

Dulcie. The first is enough; I am afraid you are inclined to be a Crusader too, as far as romantic enthusiasm goes – still it's a fault on the right side, and will be cured by colonial and other experience. Firstly, you must sell this selection.

Egremont. What! sell my farm – my home – my first venture in this new world?

Dulcie. Stuff and nonsense! It's poor dad's Run, to begin with, and you ought never to have touched it! You wouldn't, either, if you'd known how hard he worked for it before I was born.

Egremont (meditatively). How could it be his; or, if so, how did the Government sell it to me? (Placing his hand to his forehead) I never shall understand the Land Act of this country. But don't ask me to sell my – my – birthright!

Dulcie (decisively). You've promised me, and you must sell it. Of course if you prefer living here by yourself as a 'hatter' – for I'll never come into it – you may keep it.

Egremont. (Aside– A hatter! – is that a legal term in this most perplexing Act? What can she mean? However, I surrender unconditionally.) To whom shall I sell it?

Dulcie. That's a good boy and he shall be rewarded. Go into the township and ask for the office of Mr. Bonus Allround, the lawyer; offer it to him, and he'll give you a cheque for it. How much has it cost you? Thousands by this time, I suppose.

Egremont. Really more than any one would suppose. Firstly, the deposit, five shillings per acre – and seed wheat – and other things.

Dulcie. Oh, of course, I forgot! Well, value all your improvements, loss of time, etc. You have lost plenty of time, you know, talking to me. We won't say yet whether you mightn't have done worse. But put it all down, every shilling; add your own time at a pound a week – you're not quite worth that, but he'll pass it to get the land. He'll pay you the money sharp, and all you have to do is to sign a transfer.

Egremont. Seems simple enough – only turn myself out of house and home. Well, after that little step?

Dulcie. Go to Sydney as soon as you can. I see Banda Plains Run is in the market, with only a few head of cattle – two thousand, I think. I've heard father talk about the place by the hour; he thinks no end of it – says he never saw better fattening country.

Egremont (doubtingly). Am I to go to him?

Dulcie. Not yet, goose! When you're in Sydney, call on Messrs. Drawwell and Backer – get Banda Plains as cheap as you can, but buy at all risks. Give them their price at last; then come back and tell dad what you've done. He can't eat you.

Egremont. He looked as if he would last time, without salt! But I will go straight to Sydney and do your bidding. Drawwell and Backer, Stock Agents, Pitt Street, Sydney, that's the address (notes in pocket-book).

Dulcie. You're getting quite a man of business. If you're so much improved in an hour, what will you be in a year? Really, I'm quite proud of my handiwork. And oh, one thing, dearest! don't forget – it's most important (impressively) – have your hair cut by Adger! You see it is a little long (touches his hair) – thinking of your woes, I suppose? But we respect the fashions in Australia, though you mightn't think it. You'd better not be eccentric.

Egremont (laughs). Anything else, Miss Polyblock? I see the foreshadowing of an oligarchy. But it will be a benevolent despotism, I trust?

Dulcie. Bless me! how late it is! The sun is quite low. I shall have to ride fast. Don't you lose a moment either.

Egremont. Trust me; but – one minute – as a reward for my unquestioning obedience, don't you think —

[Comes close as if to whisper – kisses her, and exit.

ACT V

Mr. Polyblock (discovered walking up and down the library). Well, I don't know as ever I spent a more miserable month. Dulcie don't take no interest in the things as used to amuse her. I don't know what's come to the gal. If I could see my way at all, and thought this young chap was steady and sensible – likely to get on – I might push him; but – a free selector – a half-section, crawling duffer as won't have grass for a milker nor credit for a bag of flour in another year – No! I couldn't think of it. It's enough to make a man turn agin his own flesh and blood. (Knocking heard.) Who's that?

Maid. A gentleman wants to see you, sir.

Mr. Polyblock. Who is it? That chap as was going to buy the Weejoglag store-cattle, p'raps?

Enter Cecil Egremont, dressed in tweeds

Mr. Polyblock. Oh, it's you, Mr. Eggermont! (Aside– How well the feller looks! Holds up his head too! Dashed if he ain't a fine, upstanding, good-looking chap when he's turned out decent! He looked more like a shearer when I seen him last.) Well, sir! what can I do for you? Sheep been trespassing, I suppose?

Egremont. No, Mr. Polyblock, such is not the case. Nor will it matter to me in future. I have sold my land.

Mr. Polyblock. Sold the s'lection! You don't say so! Who to? who to? Mr. Eggermont, why didn't you come to me, if you wanted to part with it? I'd have given you anything in reason.

Egremont. You must pardon me for reminding you, Mr. Polyblock, that your manner was not reassuring at our last interview.

Mr. Polyblock. Perhaps not – rather hasty, I know. Mustn't mind an old man; but who's got the s'lection?

Egremont. I disposed of it to Mr. Allround in the township, from whom I received a cheque, paying me in full for all improvements and loss of time.

Mr. Polyblock. Bonus Allround! Good shot! It's all right – you've sold to me through him – he's my agent. I should have been sold, my word! if any other buyer had come in there. And now what are you a-goin' to do? You're a man of capital now, you know!

Egremont. I was fortunate enough to have a moderate legacy left me by an uncle just before I went to Sydney. While there, under advice, I invested eight thousand pounds in a run called Banda Plains, on the Queensland border. They tell me it's a good purchase. There are two thousand cattle, besides horses.

Mr. Polyblock. Good purchase, sir! It's the best thing in the market. Banda Plains, with only two thousand head of cattle – it's a gift – a reg'lar gift! Your fortune's made.

Egremont. It gratifies me to hear you say so, Mr. Polyblock – most deeply, I assure you. And now, sir, perhaps you will reconsider your rather strongly-expressed refusal to me of your daughter's hand?

Dulcie (who has opened the door softly and stolen into the room). Oh, dad, you don't want to break your poor Dulcie's heart! I do love him so!

Mr. Polyblock (clearing his throat and speaking in a parliamentary tone of voice). Ahem! I am not aware, Mr. President, that there's anything in the Land Act or Regulations against the daughter of a M.L.C. marryin' a squatter – a squatter, you observe, Mr. Eggermont. Had the party been a selector; but I won't dwell on a subject too painful to a parent's feelin's. Take her, my boy! And a better gal, tho' I say it – good, game, and good-lookin' – she's all that and more – never – '

Dulcie (moving up to Egremont and placing her hand on his shoulder). Never gave advice to a struggling free selector. Is that what you were going to say, daddy? Never mind – he had sense enough to take it. Hadn't you, Cecil dear?

Mr. Polyblock. Seems to me he's free selected on a pastoral holding to some purpose, you monkey. Is there any clause about that in the new Land Act, I wonder, as they're makin' such a bother about? Anyway, I'm the happiest lessee in the unsettled districts, now this little matter's settled satisfactory. And tell you what, Dulcie (Gayters comes in here – looks rather blank), I'll send Gayters out to Banda Plains to take delivery and wire into the bullockin' for a bit. It'll do him good – he's been takin' it too easy lately; and as it happens to be Christmas time, we'll get the transfer business put through by the Rev. Mr. Robinson at the township, and, Cecil, my boy! give us your hand (puts Dulcie's into it). There now, you can take up this additional conditional selection. It won't want improvin', that's one thing. Ha! ha! I'm that full of happiness that I can get a joke out of the Land Act – Rum-ty-idity – fol-de-rol (dances round the room).

Cecil puts his arm round Dulcie; they look tenderly into each other's facesCURTAIN FALLS

BUSH HOSPITALITY

In the pioneer period of the pastoral industry, which has since known such phenomenal development and, alas! no less phenomenal declension, the hospitality of the dwellers in the wilderness was proverbially free and unchallenged. But even then there were 'metes and bounds.' Like Colonial society – though apparently 'a free and a fetterless thing' – there were lines of demarcation. These, though unsubstantial and shadowy to superficial observers, were nevertheless discovered by experiment to be strangely hard and fast.

In those Arcadian days the stranger, on arriving at the homestead of a man whom he had never seen, and whose name possibly he had scarcely heard, was warranted by custom, on riding up to the door, in proposing to stay all night. It was the rule of the period. If there was no inn within a dozen miles, it became an unquestioned right.

The owner or manager of the station, if at home, welcomed the stranger with more or less courtesy, according to his disposition, assisting the guest, whom Allah had sent him, to take off his saddle and place it in the verandah of the cottage, to turn out his horse in the paddock, or, in default of that "improvement," to hobble or tether the trusty steed on good pasture.

If the personages referred to were absent, the traveller, unless he happened to be abnormally diffident, informed the cook, hut-keeper, or any station hand whom he might chance to encounter, that he had come to stay all night, turned his horse out, and entering the plainly-furnished abode, made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of.

If his host delayed his coming, supper was served. The stranger foraged about among the books and newspapers, and with the aid of tobacco, managed to spend the evening, retiring to rest in the apartment indicated, with perfect cheerfulness and self-possession.

If, as chiefly happened, the hard-worked colonist returned from the quest of lost sheep or strayed cattle before bedtime, he usually expressed himself much gratified by the unexpected companionship, and after a cheery confab about the latest news, politics, prospects (pastoral), and a parting smoke, both retired to the couches where unbroken slumbers were the rule. It was a mutual benefit. The monotonous life of the squatter was cheered by the advent of a fresh face, fresh news and ideas. The weary traveller found frank entertainment for man and beast, company and a guide, possibly, for the morrow's journey.

In these strictly equestrian days (for gentlefolk) no man could carry more than a limited change of apparel in the leather valise strapped to the fore-part of the saddle. Saddlebags were occasionally used, but they were held to be cumbrous. The journeys were rough and protracted. Clean linen has ever been unwillingly dispensed with by the Briton. In that barbaric epoch, Crimean shirts could not be, the quarrel with the Sultan about the mythical keys not having arisen. Paper collars, much more celluloids, were in the future. The only recognised departure from the full-dress white raiment, the 'biled shirt' of the American humorist to come, was the check or 'regatta' shirt.

Now this was a garment of compromise, not disreputably soiled after a couple of days' use. Still its existence as a respectable article of apparel had a limit. When that was reached, the stranger was permitted to levy on the host's wardrobe, if a bachelor, to the extent of one coloured shirt, leaving his own in lieu. This was held to be fair exchange – the alien vestment, when washed, being, if of ordinary texture and age, of equal average value to the one taken; the host doing likewise when on his travels. The chief and perhaps only undesirable result was, that every proprietor on a frequented line of road had a collection of the most varied and cosmopolitan autographs in marking ink, on his shirts, probably ever noticed in one gentleman's wardrobe.

Now this was all very well in the days when Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were in the free and independent condition of bachelors. They could smoke their pipe unconcernedly with Jackson the cattle-dealer, or Tomkins the working overseer from an out-station, or Binks, who was nobody in particular, or Jinks, who was a cheeky sort of a fellow, but with no harm in him. But all this was changed when Jones or Smith took unto himself a wife. He then desired to have his evenings to himself; and though a gentleman or an agreeable stranger was always welcome, he by no means cared about entertaining half-and-half people, or being bothered with making talk for uncongenial persons all the evening. Yet he did not quite like to send all wayfarers whom he did not know or care about to the 'men's hut.' Some of them doubtless were more at home there, or managed to pass the evening without complaint; still, mistakes were occasionally made. Therefore some kind of intermediate arrangement came to be needed.

When an inn was within a mile or two, the difficulty was removed. No stranger could desire to be entertained at the house of a man he did not know, merely because it was cheaper. If he were mean enough to make the attempt, he received a rebuff – possibly no more than his due. Still, in some instances, the squatter, even if unmarried, dreaded the hotel as the nucleus of a township, and bore the enforced intrusion rather than risk the invasion of his Run.

It became thus one of the unwritten laws of Bushland that, though a bachelor station was fair game, and introductions might be dispensed with, more circumspection must be exercised in the case of the homestead which contained a lady. Even if the hospitality was unrestricted as of yore, the restraint was felt by the more homely of the wayfarers, and a sensible lowering of the average of visitors took place.

And even when there was no such adequate reason, the resident proprietor was occasionally, by nature or on principle, opposed to the indiscriminate entertainment of chance-comers, and cast about for some method of ensuring privacy. The late Mr. Charles Ebden discovered that 'Carlsruhe,' named after a continental reminiscence of travel, was by no means likely to be the 'Charles' Rest' which the name promised. So he made a bold innovation, the fame of which went through the length and breadth of the land: he established a 'visitors' hut.'

There appeared to be no great harm in this – merely a comfortable cottage, wherein the visitor was supplied with an evening meal, bed, and breakfast, all comfortably arranged. His horse would of course be cared for, paddocked, and brought up in the morning. One would fancy this gratuitous entertainment would have been voted sufficient. But the roving pastoralists were dissatisfied. They did not want merely meat and drink – they wanted a welcome: to have speech also with the master of the house. He was suspected of considering himself too good for his surroundings. And so 'Carlsruhe' was gradually avoided – not that the perhaps too fastidious 'Count' Ebden cared a jot.

An amusing contretemps with respect to this novel disposal of guests was that related of the late Sir James Hawthorn. The good old gentleman arrived late one evening at 'Carlsruhe,' naturally concluding that he would receive special consideration. It did not so chance, however, whether from non-recognition – he was not a knight then, but a doctor – or some other cause. Before leaving the visitors' hut in the morning, he left a formal note of thanks for his night's lodging, and enclosed a cheque for a guinea as payment.

But the Colonial Treasurer of the future was equal to the occasion. He made answer by post, in a carefully-worded epistle, acknowledging 'a most extraordinary communication, containing a cheque, for which he was totally unable to conceive any reasonable explanation, and had forwarded to Secretary of the Lunatic Asylum.'

After the changes which turned the homesteads of the larger stations into small villages, the 'big house,' as it came to be called, was no longer expected to accommodate the proprietor, the overseer, and the young gentleman learning Colonial experience, in addition to every wanderer that turned up. The overseer generally had a commodious if, perhaps, plainly-furnished cottage allotted to him. This came to be known as the 'barracks,' and to be used as a convenient abode for strangers and pilgrims, as well as for the storekeeper, the working overseers, and the young gentlemen. Here, in summer, they could sleep on the verandah, smoke and yarn on the same, or, in winter, around the cheerful fire, without danger of disturbing the squatter's domestic arrangements. This of course without prejudice to personal friends or strangers of distinction.

As to the pilgrims, they might be described as 'human warious.' There was first the squatter proper, young, middle-aged, or elderly, on his way from one station to the other, returning from new country or from a journey with fat cattle or sheep. He was of course welcome, being, presumably, ready and willing to repay the accommodation in kind. Then there were overseers and managers, cattle and sheep buyers, agents and drovers. These were pastoral personages, and, of course, to be considered. The dealers, even when roughish in manner, were a power in the land, capable too of drawing cheques to an amount which secured respect. They could not in any case be sent to the men's hut. Tourists, bona-fide travellers, and globe-trotters, having business of some sort, others without any particular aim or destination, – these gentry in the 'barracks' were evidently the 'right men in the right place.'

It must be surmised also that adventurers travelled about among the stations as a pleasant way of seeing the country and spending a few months at free quarters. A man of prepossessing appearance and agreeable manners, 'who wanted to buy a station – a real first-class property, you know,' made his appearance in a certain district just 'after the gold.' He was courteously treated, and shown a variety of stations. He passed a whole summer in the leisurely inspection of sheep and cattle properties, none of which quite suited his taste. He became quite a well-known inhabitant. Many people believed at last that he had so invested, and accepted him as a recognised identity. But he never did buy a station or any stock – eventually contenting himself with a Government billet of a moderate description, under circumstances which proved the presumption of his being a capitalist to have been erroneous.

As a general rule it may be stated that the farther back, the more distant the station, the more liberal and invariable the hospitality. When men went seldom to town, when books and newspapers were scarce, the lonely squatter was well disposed towards any kind of stranger guest above the level of shepherd or stock-rider. He was a change, an animated evening newspaper, and as such intrinsically valuable. His visit, besides, was of a transitory or fleeting nature, so that only his good qualities were apparent.

Even this form of enjoyment was subject to abatement. There was the pilgrim now and then who declined to proceed on his pilgrimage, especially when he fell upon a comfortable bachelor abode, with cuisine, library, and liquor reasonably up to date. Not infrequently the pilgrim's steed would stray, which the owner would search for in such a perfunctory manner that it seemed as if years might roll on before he was run in. One really most agreeable and gifted person – he afterwards became Premier in a neighbouring colony – was celebrated as protracting his visits by this device. One morning there appeared in a provincial paper the startling announcement, 'Mr. Blank's horse is found.' It was the making of him. The laughter was so general that he left that colony, and attained in another to political eminence and material prosperity.