



Produced by Alan R. Light





OVER THE SLIPRAILS

By Henry Lawson

Author of "While the Billy Boils", "When the World was Wide and Other
Verses", "On the Track", "Verses: Popular and Humorous", &c.



[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalised. Some obvious
errors have been corrected.]




Preface



     Of the stories in this volume many have already appeared
     in the columns of [various periodicals], while several
     now appear in print for the first time.


     H. L.
       Sydney, June 9th, 1900.





Contents



     The Shanty-Keeper's Wife
     A Gentleman Sharper and Steelman Sharper
     An Incident at Stiffner's
     The Hero of Redclay
     The Darling River
     A Case for the Oracle
     A Daughter of Maoriland
     New Year's Night
     Black Joe
     They Wait on the Wharf in Black
     Seeing the Last of You
     Two Boys at Grinder Brothers'
     The Selector's Daughter
     Mitchell on the "Sex" and Other "Problems"
     The Master's Mistake
     The Story of the Oracle





OVER THE SLIPRAILS




The Shanty-Keeper's Wife



There were about a dozen of us jammed into the coach, on the box seat
and hanging on to the roof and tailboard as best we could. We were
shearers, bagmen, agents, a squatter, a cockatoo, the usual joker--and
one or two professional spielers, perhaps. We were tired and stiff and
nearly frozen--too cold to talk and too irritable to risk the inevitable
argument which an interchange of ideas would have led up to. We had been
looking forward for hours, it seemed, to the pub where we were to change
horses. For the last hour or two all that our united efforts had been
able to get out of the driver was a grunt to the effect that it was
"'bout a couple o' miles." Then he said, or grunted, "'Tain't fur now,"
a couple of times, and refused to commit himself any further; he seemed
grumpy about having committed himself that far.

He was one of those men who take everything in dead earnest; who regard
any expression of ideas outside their own sphere of life as trivial, or,
indeed, if addressed directly to them, as offensive; who, in fact, are
darkly suspicious of anything in the shape of a joke or laugh on the
part of an outsider in their own particular dust-hole. He seemed to
be always thinking, and thinking a lot; when his hands were not both
engaged, he would tilt his hat forward and scratch the base of his
skull with his little finger, and let his jaw hang. But his intellectual
powers were mostly concentrated on a doubtful swingle-tree, a misfitting
collar, or that there bay or piebald (on the off or near side) with the
sore shoulder.

Casual letters or papers, to be delivered on the road, were matters
which troubled him vaguely, but constantly--like the abstract ideas of
his passengers.

The joker of our party was a humourist of the dry order, and had been
slyly taking rises out of the driver for the last two or three stages.
But the driver only brooded. He wasn't the one to tell you straight if
you offended him, or if he fancied you offended him, and thus gain your
respect, or prevent a misunderstanding which would result in life-long
enmity. He might meet you in after years when you had forgotten all
about your trespass--if indeed you had ever been conscious of it--and
"stoush" you unexpectedly on the ear.

Also you might regard him as your friend, on occasion, and yet he would
stand by and hear a perfect stranger tell you the most outrageous lies,
to your hurt, and know that the stranger was telling lies, and never put
you up to it. It would never enter his head to do so. It wouldn't be any
affair of his--only an abstract question.

It grew darker and colder. The rain came as if the frozen south were
spitting at your face and neck and hands, and our feet grew as big as
camel's, and went dead, and we might as well have stamped the footboards
with wooden legs for all the feeling we got into ours. But they were
more comfortable that way, for the toes didn't curl up and pain so much,
nor did our corns stick out so hard against the leather, and shoot.

We looked out eagerly for some clearing, or fence, or light--some sign
of the shanty where we were to change horses--but there was nothing
save blackness all round. The long, straight, cleared road was no longer
relieved by the ghostly patch of light, far ahead, where the bordering
tree-walls came together in perspective and framed the ether. We were
down in the bed of the bush.

We pictured a haven of rest with a suspended lamp burning in the frosty
air outside and a big log fire in a cosy parlour off the bar, and a
long table set for supper. But this is a land of contradictions; wayside
shanties turn up unexpectedly and in the most unreasonable places, and
are, as likely as not, prepared for a banquet when you are not hungry
and can't wait, and as cold and dark as a bushman's grave when you are
and can.

Suddenly the driver said: "We're there now." He said this as if he had
driven us to the scaffold to be hanged, and was fiercely glad that he'd
got us there safely at last. We looked but saw nothing; then a light
appeared ahead and seemed to come towards us; and presently we saw that
it was a lantern held up by a man in a slouch hat, with a dark bushy
beard, and a three-bushel bag around his shoulders. He held up his other
hand, and said something to the driver in a tone that might have been
used by the leader of a search party who had just found the body. The
driver stopped and then went on slowly.

"What's up?" we asked. "What's the trouble?"

"Oh, it's all right," said the driver.

"The publican's wife is sick," somebody said, "and he wants us to come
quietly."

The usual little slab and bark shanty was suggested in the gloom, with a
big bark stable looming in the background. We climbed down like so many
<DW36>s. As soon as we began to feel our legs and be sure we had the
right ones and the proper allowance of feet, we helped, as quietly as
possible, to take the horses out and round to the stable.

"Is she very bad?" we asked the publican, showing as much concern as we
could.

"Yes," he said, in a subdued voice of a rough man who had spent several
anxious, sleepless nights by the sick bed of a dear one. "But, God
willing, I think we'll pull her through."

Thus encouraged we said, sympathetically: "We're very sorry to trouble
you, but I suppose we could manage to get a drink and a bit to eat?"

"Well," he said, "there's nothing to eat in the house, and I've only got
rum and milk. You can have that if you like."

One of the pilgrims broke out here.

"Well of all the pubs," he began, "that I've ever--"

"Hush-sh-sh!" said the publican.

The pilgrim scowled and retired to the rear. You can't express your
feelings freely when there's a woman dying close handy.

"Well, who says rum and milk?" asked the joker, in a low voice.

"Wait here," said the publican, and disappeared into the little front
passage.

Presently a light showed through a window, with a scratched and
fly-bitten B and A on two panes, and a mutilated R on the third, which
was broken. A door opened, and we sneaked into the bar. It was like
having drinks after hours where the police are strict and independent.

When we came out the driver was scratching his head and looking at the
harness on the verandah floor.

"You fellows 'll have ter put in the time for an hour or so. The horses
is out back somewheres," and he indicated the interior of Australia with
a side jerk of his head, "and the boy ain't back with 'em yet."

"But dash it all," said the Pilgrim, "me and my mate----"

"Hush!" said the publican.

"How long are the horses likely to be?" we asked the driver.

"Dunno," he grunted. "Might be three or four hours. It's all accordin'."

"Now, look here," said the Pilgrim, "me and my mate wanter catch the
train."

"Hush-sh-sh!" from the publican in a fierce whisper.

"Well, boss," said the joker, "can you let us