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“Nigher I gets to the top of the hill,” he says, “slower I goes; but slow and sure I’m a-making way, and shall be there some time: not to-day, p’raps, nor yet to-morrow, but some time afore long, for I knows well enough how my number’s been took, and my license is about gone. Well, sir, I drove a cab thirty year, and it was never took away afore; and so I ain’t a-going to complain.”
“Going, sir?” he says: “Then I’ll take it as a favour, sir, if you’ll just see that young genelman – the parson as I likes, and ast him to come. He left his card on the chimbley there for me to send for him when I felt to want him, and he seems to be the real doctor for my complaint. I was to send if I wanted him before he came again, and I’d rather not see them others too. That first one helps me on a bit, and somehow, I seem to want to be a-top of the hill now, and he’s first-class company for a pore chap on a dark road. Nothing like a real friend when you’re in trouble, and he seems one as will help.”
“Good bye, sir,” he says, werry softly. “The warnish is all rubbed off, and the paint chipped and showing white and worn; the bottom’s a-falling out, and the head’s going fast; so once more, sir, good bye, for the old keb’ll be broke up afore you comes again. Good bye, sir; you’ll tell him to come here, as told of mercy and hope.”
And then some one stepped softly by me, and went down the creaking stairs, and I got ready to go in; but, not feeling in a bit of a hurry, for there was something seemed to stick in my throat, and I knew I shouldn’t be able to speak like a man when I got into the room, so I stops outside a bit longer; and then, when I made sure as it was all right with me once more, I steps softly in, and then stops short, when I turned worse than ever; for there, kneeling down by his bed, was poor Mrs Sizer sobbing, oh, so bitterly! and then I thought of how he said he’d like to take her on the box with him. And there, you’ll laugh, I know, at calling it a beautiful sight to see them pore, plain, weather-and-time-worn people taking like a last farewell of one another; and it was no good; I daren’t speak, but slowly and softly backed out, thinking about the years them two had been together working up hill, up hill always; and then it didn’t seem so strange that, when one of these old folks dies, the other goes into the long, deep sleep, to be with him. And then a-going down the stairs softly and slowly, I says to myself, “there’s a deal o’ rough crust and hard stuff caked over us, but a pore man’s heart’s made of the real same material as God made those of better folks of;” and Lord bless you, sir! use him well, and you’ll find the way to the heart of a cabby.
Poor Tom! he was a-top of the hill nex’ day, and I never saw him again. But he was a good sort, was Tom. Thanky sir, much obliged; merry Christmas to you!
Chapter Twelve
Drat the Cats
Dumb animals would be all very well, no doubt, and I don’t suppose I should have much objection to keeping one, but then where are you going to get ’em? That’s what I want to know; I never come across anything dumber yet than old Job Cross’s donkey, while that would shout sometimes awful, and rouse up the whole neighbourhood. No; I’ve got no faith in keeping dogs and cats, and birds and things in a house, and sets them all down as nuisances – sets my face against ’em regular, and so would any man who had been bothered as I have with cats.
Pussy – pussy – pussy – pussy; puss – puss – puss. Oh, yes, it’s all very fine. They’re pretty creatures, ain’t they? sleek and smooth, and furry and clean, and they’ll come and rub up against you, and all so affectionate. Bother! why, they never do it unless they want to be fed, or rubbed, or warmed in the nice warm glow of the fire, or in somebody’s lap. Why, see what savage little brutes they are to one another, and how they can spit and claw, and swear and growl, while their fur’s all set up, their tail swelled out like a fox’s, and their eyes round and bright enough to frighten you. No; I know what cats are – pretty dears. Who licks the top of the butter all over, and laps up the milk – eats my bloaters, steals mutton bones off the table, pretending to be asleep till you leave the room for a moment, when she’s up on the table and tearing away like a savage at your dinner or supper?
“Poor thing; it was only because it was hungry,” says my wife. Perhaps it was, but then I didn’t approve of it: so I gave the poor thing away.
Now, I daresay, most men’s wives have got some failings in them. I mean – ain’t quite perfect. You see mine ain’t, and though, I daresay, she’s no worse than other women, yet, she has got one of the most tiresome, aggravating, worrying ways with her that any one could come across. I don’t care whether its spring, summer, autumn, or winter, or whether it’s all on ’em, or none on ’em, it’s allus the same, and she’s no sooner got her head on the pillow, than she’s off like a top – sound as can be. ’Taint no good to speak – not a bit – you may just as well spare your breath, and almost the worst of it is, she mends wrong way, and gets sleepier and sleepier the longer she lives. But that’s only “almost the worst” on it; not the worst of it, for the worst of it is, that she will be so aggravating, and won’t own to it. Say she can’t help it; well, then, why don’t she own it, and tell me so – not go sticking out, as she’d only jest shet her eyes, and was as wide awake as I was.
Now, I’ll jest give you a sample. We live in a part where there’s cats enough to make the fortunes of five hundred millions o’ Dick Whittingtons. The place is alive with ’em; scratching up your bits of gardens; sneaking in at your back doors, and stealing; making Hyde Parks and Kensington Gardens of the tops o’ your wash-houses and tiles of your roof; and howling – howling – why, no mortal pusson would believe how them cats can howl. They seem to give the whole o’ their minds to it, and try it one against another, to see who’s got the loudest voice, and setting up such a concert as makes the old women cry, “Drat the cats.” But that ain’t no good: they don’t mind being dratted, not a bit of it; and if you go out into the back garden, and shy bricks, why, they only swear at you – awful.
Well, you see, we live in a very catty part, and it seems to me as if the beasts warn’t fed enough, and do it out of spite, for no sooner does it get dark, than out they come, tunes their pipes, and then you can hear ’em. No matter where you are, back or front, there they are, a-going it, like hooroar, till I’m blest if it ain’t half enough to drive you mad. Why, there’s one old black Tom, as you can hear a mile off, and I wouldn’t bet as you couldn’t hear him two, for he’s got a werry peculiar voice of his own. I think it’s what musical people calls a tenner, though it might be a hundreder for the noise it makes.
He’s an artful old brute, though, is that Tom; and I’ve tried to come round him scores of times, but it ain’t no use, for he won’t believe in me. I’ve taken out saucers of milk and bits of fish, all got ready on purpose for my gentleman, but do you think he’d come? No, thank you. And as soon as ever he ketches sight of me, he shunts, he does, and goes off like an express train in front of a runaway engine.
But I was going to tell you about my wife. Now, nex’ Monday’s a fortni’t since I come home werry tired and worn out – for porter’s work at a big terminus at Christmas ain’t easy, I can tell you; while, when we are off night dootey, it’s only natural as one should like a quiet night’s rest, which ain’t much to ask for, now is it, even if a man does only get a pound a week, and a sixpence now and then, as swells make a mistake, and give you through not having read the notice up on the walls about instant dismissal, and all that? Well, tired out regularly, and ready to sleep through anything a’most, I goes to bed, and as I lays down I thinks to myself —
You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through anything.
And really I thought I could, but I suppose it was through having a hyster barrel on my mind, that I couldn’t go off directly – for there was one missing, and a fish hamper, both on ’em. No doubt, having been stolen by some one in the crowd on the platform; while I got the blame; and I put it to you, now, could a railway porter, having a pound a week, and Sunday dooty in his turn, have his eyes every wheres at once?
So I didn’t go to sleep right off, but some one else did, and there, just outside the window, if one o’ them cats didn’t begin.
“Wow-w-w, wow-w-w, wow-w-w, meyow-w-w,” and all such a pretty tune, finished off with a long low swear at the end.
I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then another, pulling the clothes over my ear, and at last ramming my head right under, with my fingers stuck in my ears, but there, Lor’ bless you, that was no good, for I’ll warrant the song of one of them pretty, soft, furry nightingales to go through anything, and at last I finds that I was only smothering myself for nowt, and I puts my head out of the clothes again, and give a great sigh.
“Me-ow-ow-ow,” says my friend on the tiles.
“Hear that, Polly?” I says.
No answer.
“Me-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” says my friend outside.
“Hear that, Polly?” I says, for there warn’t no fun in putting up with all the noise yourself, when there was some one else in the room to take half share. “Polly,” I says, giving her a nudge, “hear that?”
“Eh!” she says; “what say?”
“Hear that?” I says.
“Yes,” she says; “what?”
“Why, you were asleep,” I says.
“That I’m sure I warn’t,” she says.
“Well, then, did you hear that?” I says.
“Yes; what was it?” she says.
“What was it?” I says. “There; go to sleep again,” I says; for I felt quite rusty to think anybody else could sleep through such a row, while I couldn’t.
“Meyow – meyow – wow – wow-w-w-w,” goes the music again.
“Two on ’em,” I says, as I lay listening, and there it went on getting louder and louder every moment, both sides and over the way, and up and down the street, till I’m blest if I could stand it any longer.
“Oh, you beauties,” I says; “if I only had a gun.” And then I lay there, listening and wondering whether I mightn’t just as well get up and have a pipe; and at last of all, because I couldn’t stand it any longer, I gets up, goes to the window, opens it softly, and says —
“Ssh!”
Lor’ bless you! you might just as well have said nothing, for there they were a-going it all round to that degree, that it was something awful, and I stood there half dressed, and leaning out of the window, wondering what was best to be done. There was no mistake about it; there they were, cats of all sorts and sizes, and of all kinds of voices – some was very shrill, some very hoarse, and some round and deep-toned, and meller. Now and then some one would open a winder, and cry, “Ssh,” same as I did, but as soon as they smelt what a sharp frost it was, they shut them down again, and at last I did the same, and made up my mind as I crept into bed again, as I’d go where there was no cats.
Yes, that was a capital idea, that was – to move to a place where there was no cats, and on the strength of that determination, I went off fast asleep.
Next morning over my breakfast, I got thinking, and come to the conclusion, that I’d cut myself out a bit of a job. Where was I to get a little house or lodgings where there was no cats, for were not the happy, domestic creatures everywhere? No; that was of no use, but I warn’t going to stand having my rest broken night after night in that way; so I mounted a trap, for I’d made up my mind, that out of revenge, I’d have a full-sized railway rug lined with scarlet cloth, while the rug itself should be of fur.
First night I sets my trap, I baited it with a bit of herring. Goes next morning and found the herring had been dragged out at the side, and the trap warn’t sprung. Sets it next night, baited with two sprats; goes next morning to find ’em gone, but no pussy. And so I went on, week after week, till I got tired out, and tried poison, which hit the wrong game, and killed our neighbour’s tarrier dog. Then I thought I’d try an air-gun, but somehow or another there was a fault in that gun, for it wouldn’t shoot straight, and I never hit one of the nuisances. A regular powder-and-shot gun I couldn’t try, because it would have spoken so loud, that all the neighbours would have heard and known who was killing the cats.
Last of all, one moonlight night I was down at the bottom of our garden, when I happens to look up towards the back door, and see a long-tailed tortoise-shell beauty sneaking into the kitchen.
“All right, my pretty one,” I says, quietly. “You’ll do for the middle of the rug,” and then stealing softly up, I got to the door, slips in, and had it to in a moment, and then getting hold of the copper-stick and lid, just like a sword and shield, I goes forward to the attack.
No mistake, there was Mrs Puss glaring at me like a small tiger, and as I advanced, she made a rush by me, but there was no escape that way, and then I shut the kitchen-door.
Bang – crash went the crockery, for as I made a hit at the brute, she flew on to the dresser, and along one of the shelves, sending jugs and plates down helter-skelter on the floor, where they smashed to bits.
“All down to your credit, my beauty,” I says, and I made another hit at her, when “whoosh,” spitting and swearing, she was up on the chimney-piece in a jiffey, and down came the candlesticks, while Polly puts her head in at the door, and then, seeing what was the matter, slips off again in a moment, bangs the door to, and keeps on shouting to me to drive the thing out. But talking was one thing, and acting another, for you never did see such a beast; she was here, there, and everywhere in the same moment; and though I kept hitting at her with the copper-stick, I could hit anything else but her, as you’d have said, if you’d seen me fetch the vegetable-dish and cover off the dresser with a smash, and then seen the copper lid split in two, when I shied it at her.
Why, she flew about to that degree, that I got frightened of her, for at last she came at me, tore at my legs, and then was over my shoulder in an instant, while feeling quite scared, I just saw her dash up the chimney, and she was gone.
“But you won’t stop there, my lady,” I says, and I was right, for next moment the brute came scrambling down, and we went at it again: she cutting about, and me hitting at her till I got savage, for I never touched her once. Now I hit the table; now it was something off the dresser; now she’d dodge behind the saucepans and kettles, on the black pot-board under the dresser; and now there’d be such a clatter and rattle, that Polly gave quite a scream, for she was wide enough awake then, I can tell you; but the jolly a bit could I touch that precious cat; and at last she stood in one corner of the kitchen, and I stood in the other looking at her, with her tail like a bottle-brush, her fur all up, and her back set up like an arch, and then I thought I’d try coaxing.
“Pussy, pussy, pussy,” I says, but she only swore and spit at me.
“Poor pussy; come then,” I says; but she wouldn’t come near me, and then I turned so savage that I threw the copper-stick at her, but only hit the tea-tray as stood on a little side-table.
“Bang, clang, jangle,” down it come on to the floor, and then there was a rush, and a smash, and a scream from Polly; and I stood skretching my head, and looking at the broken kitchen-window – for the beauty had shot right through it when the tea-tray fell down, and now there was nothing to do but pick up the pieces, and go and ask the glazier to come and put in the broken square.
“Oh, what a kitchen,” says Polly, as she came in, and really it did look a bit upset, and then seeing as she was put out, and going to make a fuss, I says —
“Bad job; ain’t it, my gal; but it warn’t me; it was the cats!”
“Drat the cats!” says Polly; and she looked so scornful and cross, that I give up all thoughts on the instant of ever getting a skin rug; but if there is any one mortal thing as I do hate, it’s a cat.
Chapter Thirteen
An Australian Christmas
No snow, no frosts, no bare trees, but in the daytime glowing, sultry heat, and of a night soft, balmy, dewy, moonlit hours, and yet it was Christmas-time, and the whole of the past day I had been picturing to myself the cold, sharp, bracing weather at home, with the busy shops and the merry Christmas faces, and now on that 24th of December I was dreaming away of the old home, fourteen thousand miles away; going over again the sad hearts with which we come away, and how we gazed till our eyes swam at the fast fading shores; recalling every sigh and sorrowful thought, when all at once there seemed to be a feeling of horror come over me, and I started up on the heath bed and looked about. But all was still; close beside me lay Abel Franks, my mate and companion, sleeping heavily; the moon was shining through the little window right upon the two dogs stretched before the fireplace, and made it light enough for me to see that everything was in its place. There were the skin rugs on the floor, the rough bench, stool, and table; the guns, rods, nets, and oars of our boat; the shelf with its pile of birds’ skins, the brightest hued which fell to our guns; skins of opossum and kangaroo hung against the wall; the burnt-out lamp on the table, with the fragments of our supper, all just as we had left them, while as the surest sign that nothing had disturbed me the dogs were curled up quite motionless, when their quick ears would have heard a step in an instant.
I lay down again and listened attentively for a few minutes, and once heard faintly the howl of a wild dog, but that was all, and there in the stillness of night, in that far-off Australian wild, I was slowly dozing off when I again started up and this time Abel was up too staring at me.
“What is it, Harry?” he cried, as at the same instant I asked him a similar question, and then up leaped both dogs, set up the rough hair round their necks, and ran to the door growling fiercely. The moment after came the cracking of sticks, a rustling through the bushes, and a heavy body fell up against the door, making the rough woodwork creak.
Living as we did in a hut of our own making, furnished by ourselves, our own cooks and managers, we studied dress and toilets but very little; our custom was to throw ourselves down upon our skin-covered bed of heath, so that upon this occasion we were both instantly upon our feet, and, seizing our guns, stood in readiness for action, if defence were needed, for in the days of Australia’s early settlements, before the bursting forth of the gold fever, many were the raids made by the savage, and the worse than savage bushranger, escaped “hand,” or convict, sent over from the mother country as a part of the dregs of her population, to settle in the infant colonies.
To open the door seemed the first thing, but we naturally hesitated, for that meant giving perhaps an enemy admission to our fortress, for the noise at the door might have been but a ruse to get the better of our caution. A heavy groan, however, decided us, and as I stood with my double gun ready cocked, and a couple of ready patched bullets rammed hastily down upon the charges of duck-shot, Abel cautiously undid the fastenings, and the two dogs, no mean aids at such a time, stood ready for a spring.
There was something startling and oppressive there in the stillness of the great wild, quite two miles as we were from the nearest station, and now roused from slumber in so strange a way; but there was no time for thought, for grasping his long knife in one hand, with the other my companion sharply opened the door, and as he did so a figure fell into his arms. The moonbeams, which streamed in at the open door, gave enough light to show us that we had nothing to fear from the new-comer, who lay before us groaning, while the dogs darted out after a momentary pause by his side, and began scouring about the open.
“Shut the door – quick – quick,” groaned the man, “they’re tracking me.”
We quickly acted upon his advice, and then, carefully covering the window and door with rugs, obtained a light and began to examine our visitor. And a ghastly spectacle he presented: a gash on his forehead was bleeding profusely, covering his face with blood; his shirt was torn and dragged half off, while one arm lay doubled under him in a strange unnatural position, as if it were broken.
“Why it’s Jepson,” cried Abel in a whisper, and as he spoke the wounded man started, opened his eyes and stared wildly, but closed them again, groaning heavily.
We lifted the poor fellow on to our bed, all the while listening for the warning we expected momentarily to hear from our dogs, for without explanation we knew well enough what had happened, namely, a night attack upon the little station of our neighbour, Mr Anderson, whose shepherd had made his escape to us.
Abel was, like me, all in a tremble, for we knew not yet what was the extent of the disaster, and though we neither of us spoke, we knew each other’s thoughts; and our trembling was not from fear for ourselves, but for what might be the fate of Mary Anderson, the blue-eyed Scottish girl, whose presence lent a charm to this far-off wild.
Hastily binding up the poor fellow’s head, I looked at and laid in an easier position his arm, which was also bleeding, having evidently been broken by a ball from gun or revolver. A few drops of rum poured between his teeth revived him, and he was able to answer our questions.
“Rangers, sir – six of ’em. They’ve burnt the place down, shot the master and young Harry, and gone off with Miss Mary and the servant gal. I was tracking them, but they were too much for me; two of them hung back and caught me from behind. I did all I could, and then ran on here.”
The exertion of saying this was too much for him, and he fainted away, while half mad with grief and horror, Abel and I stood gazing at one another.
It was evident that the villains would not molest us, for they probably only followed poor Jepson for a short distance, and then hurried after their companions. If they had been in pursuit we should have known of their presence before this from the dogs, which now came whining and scratching at the door for admittance.
We did all we could for the shepherd, and then, following Abel’s example, I drew the shot charge from my gun, replaced the bullets, buckled on an ammunition pouch, and then reloaded and primed my revolver. Seeing these preparations going on, the dogs immediately became uneasy and eager to be off, and though our quarry was to be far different to any to which they were accustomed, it would have been a strong, daring man that could have successfully combatted our four-footed allies.
Our preparations were soon made, and then, after placing the spirit and water beside the wounded man, we started off for Anderson’s Creek through the dense tea-scrub, for in our then excited state we made for the shortest cut. The moon was fast sinking towards a heavy bank of clouds, but she gave us light for best part of our journey, while the remainder was made plain for us by the glowing house and farm buildings in our front.
I couldn’t help it – when I saw the wreck of that house where I had spent so many happy hours, and shudderingly thought of poor Mary, dragged off by the bloodthirsty villains, I stopped short and gave vent to a bitter groan.
This roused Abel, who cried savagely to me to come on; for, faithful and true friends in everything else, there was one rock upon which we split, and that was our admiration for Mary Anderson. He was maddened himself, and scarcely knew how to contain his feelings, but the idea of me grieving for her at such a time seemed to exasperate him, and he almost yelled out —
“Don’t be a woman, Fred; come on, or we shall be too late.”
“Too late!” Too late for what? A shudder ran through me as I asked myself the question, and taking no notice of Abel’s angry manner, I was at his side in an instant, and we dashed on though the bushes.
Just as we got up to the rough fence Abel stumbled and fell over something, and on recovering himself he stooped and raised the head of a man. The ruddy flames shone full upon his countenance, and we saw that it was Harry, one of Mr Anderson’s men. He was quite dead, for the side of his head was battered in. Abel softly laid down the poor fellow’s head, and then we went cautiously round the building, with guns cocked and ready, in case the villains might be lurking about, though we knew enough of such catastrophes to feel assured that directly they had secured all the plunder and ammunition they could carry off they would decamp.
The greater part of the buildings were blazing. The house was nearly level with the ground, but the men’s shed and the wool store still blazed furiously, and on getting round to the back we both raised our pieces to fire, but dropped them again directly, for just in front, squatting round some glowing embers, were a party of black fellows, whom we might have taken for the perpetrators of this foul outrage, had we not known of their peaceable, inoffensive conduct.
In another instant they were running up to us, and a tall fellow, evidently their leader, suddenly threw himself into position, with his long, slender spear held horizontally, as if for throwing, and with the point aimed directly at my breast. Even in the midst of my trouble and anxiety I could not help thinking what an effect such a salute would have upon a stranger, for the unerring aim with which these untutored men can throw a spear is something surprising. But in another instant the spear end touched the ground, and the party closed round us, chattering and begging, and earnest in their efforts to make us aware that they had not been the guilty parties.
“Mine no fire,” said the leader. “No black fellow kill.”
“No, no,” I said; “but who was it?”
“Dat Sam, Sooty Sam,” said the savage, holding up six fingers, and pointing towards the bush.
I nodded, and shuddered, for I knew but too well the character of the mulatto convict known as Sooty Sam.
“You give me tickpence, mine shar,” cried the fellow.
Money was an article I seldom carried then, unless bound for the nearest settlement for stores, but I happened to have a fourpenny piece in my tobacco pouch, and I gave it to him.
“Dat not tickpence, dat fourpenny,” shouted the fellow, indignantly, for constant communion with the settlers had induced a strong desire for the coins that would procure rum or whisky.
A display of my empty pocket, however, satisfied my black ally, and leading us towards one of the sheep pens, he coolly pointed out the body of Mr Anderson, shot through the head, and lying just as he had fallen.
We soon learned from the blacks which way the men had fled, and tried to induce them to go with us to track the marauders, but without avail, night work being their special abomination, and nothing short of a fire like the present sufficing to draw them from their resting-place. We knew that our proper course was to rouse the neighbours at the nearest stations, but in our impatience to pursue the scoundrels prudence and management were forgotten. Unable to gain the assistance of the blacks, we determined to commence the pursuit alone with our dogs, after promising the fellows “much rum” if they would rouse the neighbouring settlers, who, we knew, would soon be on our trail; but in spite of the direction being pointed out, we found, to our disappointment, that the darkness would prove an enemy, and that we must wait for daylight, and reluctantly turned back.
All at once a ray of hope shot through my breast; just before me was old Gyp, my favourite dog, a great half-bred sheep and wolf hound, who was growling and snarling over a heap of what looked like sail cloth, but which inspection showed to be a tattered duck frock, filthily dirty, and stained with blood, evidently having been cut off by some wounded man.
Old Gyp was licking the bloody part, and growling angrily, and on my speaking to him, and encouraging him, he yelped and whined; and then, setting his nose to the ground, ran a few yards, looked back, yelped again, and then would have set off full speed along the trail, had I not called him back and tied a piece of tar band to his neck, holding the other end in my hand.
Abel’s eyes glittered as he saw the great powerful beast strain to be off, and then, without a word, we set off at a trot, and leaving the glowing fire behind, plunged into the darkness before us.
We reckoned that the villains had about two hours start, but encumbered, as we knew they must be, with booty, and the two women, we felt sure that, even with the horses they had doubtless taken, they could not have retreated at a very great rate; why, though we both felt that it was like plunging into the lion’s jaws, and that most likely one, if not both of us, would lose our lives in the impending struggle, there was not a thought in either of our breasts that savoured of fear, for the desire to overtake the villains was intense.
But it was a fearful task. The darkness was now terrible, and the eager beast struggled on, irrespective of bush or thorn, while every now and then some thick tuft in the track would trip me up. Abel had a hard task to keep up with me. But before daylight matters grew better, for we were in the wood, where there was scarcely any undergrowth, and when day broke we were threading our way through the sombre forest, where the tree trunks were all around, apparently endless, and so similar that only the sagacious beast before us, or a native, could have found a way through.
Now and then we could catch a glimpse of a star or two, but directly after the clouds seemed to close up again, and we stumbled on till a faint light announced the coming day, which found us blackened, torn, and bleeding, but as feverishly eager for the fray as ever.
