The Tale of Timber Town

The Bush Robin followed them, and when they paused to rest on the soft couch of ferns beneath a rimu tree, the bird alighted on the ground and hopped close to them.

“I could catch the little beggar with my hand,” said one.

“Don’t hurt him,” said the other, “he’ll bring us luck.”

“Then give me a match – my pipe’s gone out.”

The match was lighted, and the cloud of smoke from the re-lit pipe floated up to the boughs overhead. The Bush Robin watched the miracle, but it was the yellow flame which riveted his attention. The lighted match had been thrown away, and before the smoker could put his foot on it, the little bird darted forward, seized the white stem and, with the burning match in his beak, flitted to the nearest bough.

The men laughed, and watched to see what would happen.

Pleased beyond expression with his new prize, the Bush Robin held it in his beak till a fresh sensation was added to the new things he was experiencing: there was a sudden shake of his little head, the match fell, and went out.

The men undid their swags and began to eat, and the Bush Robin feasted with them on white crumbs which looked, like the match-stick, as if they might be grubs, but tasted quite different.

“Tucker’s good,” said the man with the beard, “but, I reckon, what we want is a drink.”

“The billy’s empty,” said the other – “I spilt it when I came that cropper, and nearly broke my neck.”

“Then there’s nothing for it but to wait till we come to a stream.”

They rose, tied up their swags, and journeyed on; the bearded man continuing to blaze the track, the younger man following him, and the Bush Robin fluttering beside them.

The creek was but a little way off. Soon the noise of its waters greeted the ears of the travellers. The thirsty men hurried in the direction of the sound, which grew louder and louder, till suddenly pushing through a tangled screen of supple-jacks and the soft, green fronds of a small forest of tree-ferns, they stood on the bank of a clear stream, which rushed noisily over a bed of grey boulders.

The bearded man stooped to drink: the other dipped the billy into the water and drank, standing.

The little bird had perched himself on a big rock which stood above the surface of the swirling water.

“Good,” said he with the beard. “There’s no water like bush water.”

“There’s that little beggar again,” said the other, watching the bird upon the rock.

“He’s following us around. This shall be named Bush Robin Creek.”

“Bush Robin Creek it is,” said the other. “Now take a prospect, and see if you can get a colour.”

The older man turned over a few boulders, and exposed the sand that lay beneath them. Half a shovelful of this he placed in a tin dish, which he half-filled with water. Then squatting on his heels, he rotated the dish with a cunning movement, which splashed little laps of water over the side and carried off the lighter particles of sand and dirt. When all the water in the dish was thus disposed of, he added more and renewed the washing process, till but a tablespoonful of the heaviest particles of grit remained at the bottom. This residue he poked over with his forefinger, peering at it nearly.

Apparently he saw nothing. More water was put into the dish, and the washing process was continued till but a teaspoonful of grit remained.

“We’ve got the colour!” he exclaimed, after closely examining this residue.

His comrade knelt beside him, and looked at the “prospect.”

A little more washing, and at the bottom of the dish lay a dozen flakes of gold, with here and there a grain of sand.

“We must go higher up,” said the bearded man. “This light stuff has been carried over a bar, maybe, and the heavier gold has been left behind.”

Slowly and with difficulty they worked their way along the bank of the creek, till at last they came to a gorge whose rocky sides stood like mighty walls on either side.

The gold-seekers were wading up to their waists in water, and the Bush Robin was fluttering round them as they moved slowly up the stream. Expecting to find the water deeper in the gorge, the man in front went carefully. The rocky sides were full of crevices and little ledges, on one of which, low down upon the water, the little Robin perched.

The man reached forward and placed his hand upon the ledge on which the bird was perched; the Bush Robin fluttered overhead, and then the man gave a cry of surprise. His hand had rested on a layer of small nuggets and golden sand.

“We’ve got it, Moonlight! There’s fully a couple of ounces on this ledge alone.”

The bearded man splashed through the water, and looked eagerly at the gold lying just above the water-line.

“My boy, where there’s that much on a ledge there’ll be hundreds of ounces in the creek.”

He rapidly pushed ahead, examining the crevices of the rock, above and below the water-line.

“It’s here in stacks,” he exclaimed, “only waiting to be scraped out with the blade of a knife.”

Drawing his sheath-knife from his belt, he suited the action to the word; and standing in the water, the two men collected gold as children gather shells on the shore.

And the Bush Robin watched the gold-seekers take possession of the treasured things, which he had looked upon as his own especial property; fancying that they glittered merely for his delight.

CHAPTER XIV

The Robbery of the Mails

The night was pitch dark; the wind had gone to rest, and not a ripple stirred the face of the black waters.

“Ahoy! there.”

“Comin’, comin’. I’ve only bin waitin’, this ’arf hour.”

The man standing at the horse’s head ran round to the back of his “express” – a vehicle not unlike a square tray on four wheels – and, letting down the tail-board, pulled out a number of mail-bags.

With two of these under each arm, he made his way to the wooden steps which led down to the water’s edge, and the men in the boat heard the shuffling and scraping of his feet, as he felt with his boot for the topmost step; his hands being fully occupied in holding the bags.

Slowly, step by step, he stumped down to the water, where willing hands took his burden and stowed it in the bottom of the boat.

“Four,” said the carrier. “One more lot, and that lets me out.”

As he reached the top of the wharf, on his return journey, the bright lamps of his express dazzled his eyes, and somebody cannoned against him at the back of the trap.

“Now, then! Who’re yer shovin’ up agin?”

“All right, my man. I’m not stealing any of the bags.”

The express-man recognised the voice.

“Is that you, Mr. Crookenden? Beg pardon, sir.”

“Come, come, get the mail aboard. My men don’t want to be out in the boat all night.”

The man carried down his last load of bags, and returned, panting.

“There’s only the paper to be signed,” he said, “and then they can clear.”

“Give me the form.”

The man handed a piece of paper to the mail-contractor.

“How many bags?”

“Eight.”

By the light of the lamps Crookenden signed the paper, and handed it back to the carrier, who mounted to his seat, and drove away.

The merchant went to the edge of the wharf.

“All right, down there?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a gruff voice.

“Then cast off.”

There was the noise of oars, and a dark object upon the waters vanished into the night.

“Good-night!”

“Good-night,” answered the gruff voice faintly, and Crookenden turned his steps towards home.

“That’s all serene,” said the owner of the gruff voice, whose modulations had suddenly assumed their accustomed timbre – the rather rasping articulation of the goldsmith.

“Couldn’t have fallen out better if I’d arranged it myself. Lay to! belay! you lazy lubbers, forrard – or whatever is the correct nautical expression to make her jump. Put your backs into it, and there’ll be five pounds apiece for you in the morning.”

“Alla right, boss; we ze boys to pulla. Rocka Codda, you asleep zere? – you maka Macaroni do alla ze work.”

“Pull yerself, you lazy Dago. Anyone w’d think you was rowing the bloomin’ boat by yourself. Why, man, I’m pulling you round every dozen strokes. The skipper, aft there, is steerin’ all he knows agin me.”

The truth was that Benjamin’s manipulation of the tiller was extraordinary and erratic, and it was not until the boat was well past the wharves that he mastered its mysteries.

The tide was ebbing, and when the boat was in the stream her speed doubled, and there was no need for using the oars. Swiftly and silently she drifted past the lights on the quay and the ghostly houses which stood beside the water.

The Pilot’s system of beacons was so perfect that with their aid a tyro such as Tresco found no difficulty in steering his course out of the harbour.

Outside in the bay, the lights of two vessels could be seen: those of the plague-ship and of the steamer which, unable to get into the port in the teeth of the tide, was waiting for the mails.

But Tresco pointed his boat’s nose straight for the long beach which fringed the end of the bay.

The rowers had seen the mail-bags put aboard the boat, and they now wondered why they did not go straight to the steamer.

“Hi! boss. The mail-steamer lies to starboard: that’s her lights behind the barque’s.”

“Right, my man,” replied Tresco; “but I have a little business ashore here, before we pull out to her.”

The boat was now nearing the beach. As soon as her keel touched the sand, Tresco jumped into the water and, ordering the fishermen to do the same, the boat was quickly pulled high and dry.

“Take out the bags,” commanded the pseudo-skipper.

The men demurred.

“Why you do this? Santa Maria! is alla these mail go back to town?”

“There’s the steamer —out there!” exclaimed Rock Cod. “A man’d think – ”

But he was cut short.

“You saw Mr. Crookenden put the bags aboard. He’s the contractor – I’m only acting under his instructions. Do you wish to remain fishermen all your lives, or would you rather die rich?”

“We know the value of dollars, you may bet that,” answered Rock Cod.

“Then lend a hand and get these bags ashore. And you, Macaroni, collect driftwood for a fire.”

When the mail-bags were all landed, Benjamin took a lantern from the boat, lit it, and walked up the beach to where the fishermen stood, nonplussed and wondering.

“Your feet must be wet, Macaroni.”

“Si, signor.”

“Wet feet are bad, not to say dangerous. Go down to the boat, and you’ll find a bottle of rum and a pannikin. Bring them here, and we’ll have a dram all round.”

Tresco placed the lantern on the sand, and waited.

“You see, Rock Cod, there are some things in this world that cut both ways. To do a great good we must do a little wrong – that’s not quite my own phrase, though it expresses my sentiments – but in anything you do, never do it by halves.”

“I ain’t ’ad no schoolin’ meself,” answered the fisherman. “I don’t take much account of books; but when there’s a drop o’ rum handy, I’m with you.”

The Italian came up the beach with the liquor.

“Here’s what’ll put us all in good nick,” said Tresco, as he drew the cork of the bottle, and poured some of the spirit into the pannikin. “Here’s luck,” and he drank his dram at a draught.

He generously replenished the cup, and handed it to Rock Cod.

“Well, cap’n,” said that puzzled barnacle, “there’s things I don’t understand, but here’s fun.” He took his liquor at a gulp, and passed the pannikin to his mate.

It took the Italian no time to catch the drift that matters were taking.

“You expecta make me drunk, eh, signor? You steala ze mail an’ carry him away, eh? Alla right, you try.”

“Now, look here,” said Tresco; “it’s this way. These bags want re-sorting – and I’m going to do it. If in the sorting I come across anything of importance, that’s my business. If, on the other hand, you happen across anything that you require, but which seems thrown away on other folks, that’s your business. If you don’t like the bargain, you can both go and sit in the boat.”

Neither man moved. It was evident that Crookenden had chosen his tools circumspectly.

“Very good,” said Tresco, “you have the run of your fingers over this mail when I have re-sorted it, provided you keep your heads shut when you get back to town. Is it a bargain?”

He held out his hand.

Rock Cod was the first to take it. He said: —

“It’s a bargain, boss.”

Macaroni followed suit. “Alla right,” he said. “I reef in alonga you an’ Rocka Codda. I no spik.”

So the compact was made.

Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.

“Now, as I pass them over to you,” said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, “you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn ’em afterwards.”

He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. “Those that don’t interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag.”

His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.

The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.

At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. “I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?” He held a bank-note before his mate’s eyes. “Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right.”

Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It’s envelope bore on its back the printed legend, “Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town.”

So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment. Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.

Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some document which he thrust into his bosom.

In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.

His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.

“Very ’andy with his fingers, ain’t ’e, Macaroni? – even if ’e is a bit un’andy in a boat.” Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.

All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.

“This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was,” remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.

“Hi! stoppa!” cried Macaroni, “Rocka Codda an’ me wanta finish him.”

“And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime.”

Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, “Chuck all the odds and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a scrap unburned: then we will drink to our continued success.”

The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt heavenwards.

His comrades were dividing their spoil.

“I think, boss,” said Rock Cod, “the best of the catch must ha’ fell to your share: me and my mate don’t seem to have mor’n ten pound between us, not countin’ truck worth p’r’aps another five.”

“So far as I am concerned, my man,” – Tresco used the unction of tone and the dignity of manner that he loved so well – “I am but an agent. I take nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even opened.”

The Italian burst out laughing. “You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show, eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an’ Macaroni get ten pound, fifteen pound; an’ you get nuzzing.”

“Information is what I get,” said Tresco. “But, then, information is the soul of business. Information is sometimes more valuable than a gold-mine. Therefore, in getting, get information: it will help you to untold wealth. My object, you see, is knowledge, for which I hunger and thirst. I search for it by night as well as by day. Therefore, gentlemen, before we quit the scene of our midnight labours, let us drink to the acquisition of knowledge.”

Rock Cod and Macaroni did not know what he meant, but they drank rum from the pannikin with the greatest good-will. After which, Benjamin scattered the embers of the fire, which quickly died out, and then the three men shoved the boat off and pulled towards the lights of the steamer.

On board the barque Captain Sartoris paced the poop-deck in solitude. Bored to death with the monotony of life in quarantine, the smallest event was to him a matter of interest. He had marked the fire on the beach, and had even noticed the figures which had moved about it. How many men there were he could not tell, but after the fire went out, and a boat passed to starboard of the barque and made for the steamer which lay outside her, he remarked to himself that it was very late at night for a boat to be pulling from the shore. But at that moment a head was put out of the companion, and a voice called him in pidgin English to go down. He went below, and stood beside the sick captain, whose mind was wandering, and whose spirit was restless in its lodging. He watched the gasping form, and marked the nervous fingers as they clutched at the counterpane as hour after hour went by, till just as the dawn was breaking a quietness stole over the attenuated form, and with a slight tremour the spirit broke from its imprisonment, and death lay before Sartoris in the bunk. Then he went on deck, and breathed the pure air of the morning.

CHAPTER XV

Dealing Mostly with Money

Pilot Summerhayes stood in his garden, with that look on his face which a guilty schoolboy wears when the eye of his master is upon him.

In his hand he held a letter, at which he glanced furtively, as if he feared to be caught in the act of reading, although the only eyes that possibly could have detected him were those of two sparrows that were discussing the purple berries of the Portuguese laurel which grew near by.

“‘I enclose the usual half-yearly allowance of £250.’” The Pilot was reading from the letter. “Damnation take him and his allowance!” ejaculated the irascible old sailor, which was a strange anathema to hurl at the giver of so substantial a sum of money. “I suppose he thinks to make me beholden to him: I suppose he thinks me as poor as a church-rat, and, therefore, I’m to be thankful for mercies received —his mercies – and say what a benefactor he is, what a generous brother. Bah! it makes me sicker than ever to think of him.” He glanced at the letter, and read, “‘Hoping that this small sum is sufficient for yourself and my very dear niece, to whom I ask to be most kindly remembered, I remain your affectionate brother, Silas Summerhayes.’” A most brotherly epistle, containing filial expressions, and indicating a bountiful spirit; and yet upon reading it the Pilot swore deep and dreadful oaths which cannot be recorded.

Every six months, for at least fifteen years, he had received a similar letter, expressing in the same affectionate terms the love of his brother Silas, which was accentuated by a like draft for £250, and yet the Pilot had persistently cursed the receipt of each letter.

There was a footstep on the verandah behind him. With a start the old man thrust the epistle and draft into his pocket, and stood, with a look on his face as black as thunder, confronting almost defiantly his charming daughter.

“Have you got your letters, father? I heard the postman’s knock.” As she spoke, Rose looked rather anxiously at her frowning parent. “Good news, I hope – the English mail arrived last night.”

“I daresay it did, my gal,” growled the Pilot. “But I don’t see what you and me have to do with England, seeing we’ve quit it these fifteen years.”

“But we were born there! Surely people should think affectionately of their native country.”

“But we won’t die there, please God – at least, I won’t, if I can help it. You’ll not need to, I hope. We’re colonials: this is our country.”

The girl turned to go indoors, but, a sudden impulse seizing her, she put her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissed his weather-beaten cheek.

“What’s been troubling you, father? I’ll drive the worry away.” She held his rough hand in hers, and waited for him to speak.

“You’re a good gal, Rosebud; you’re a great comfort. But, Lord bless me, you’re as sensitive as a young fawn. There’s nothing the matter with me, except when now and again I get a fit of the blues; but you’ve drove ’em away, da’rter; you’ve drove ’em clean away. Now, just you run in and attend to your house; and leave me to go into town, where I’ve a bit of business to attend to – there’s a good gal.” He kissed his daughter’s smooth, white forehead, and she ran indoors, smiling and happy.

The Pilot resettled the peaked cap on his head, stumped down the garden-path, and passed out of his gate and along the road. His steps led him to the main street of the town, where he entered the Kangaroo Bank, the glass doors of which swung noiselessly behind him, and he stood in front of the exquisite clerk of Semitic origin, who dealt out and received over the broad counter the enormous wealth of the opulent institution.

“Good morning, Captain Summerhayes.”

“’Mornin’,” said the Pilot, as he fumbled in the inside pocket of his coat.

At length he drew out the draft and handed it to the clerk, who turned it over, and said, “Please endorse it.”

The old sailor took a pen, and with infinite care wrote his name on the back of the document.

When the clerk was satisfied that everything was in order, he said, “Two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. How will you take it, Captain?”

“I don’t want to take it,” answered the Pilot gruffly. “I’ll put it along with the other.”

“You wish to deposit it?” said the clerk. “Certainly. You’ll need a form.”

He drew a printed slip from a box on the counter, and filled it in. “Sign here, please,” he said, indicating with his finger the place of signature.

“No, no,” said the old man, evidently annoyed. “You’ve made it out in my name. It should be in my da’rter’s, like all the rest have been.” The clerk made the necessary alteration, and the Pilot signed.

“If you call in this afternoon, I’ll give you the deposit receipt,” said the clerk.

“Now, really, young man, an’t that a bit slow? D’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than to dodge up and down from the port, waitin’ for your precious receipts?”

The clerk looked surprised that anyone should question his dictum for one moment, but he immediately handed the signed form to a neighbouring clerk for transmission to the manager, or to some functionary only one degree less omnipotent.