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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
upon the homestead. As it was impossible to guess
when they would come, the place could not be
efficiently guarded unless the whole of the little garrison
always stayed at home—and in that case how was the
work of the station to be done?

“Ah tell thee whet ’tis, Mester Sydney,” said Jawing Jim
(who up in the bush had almost begun to merit his
sobriquet); “if tha wan’t poiason the warmin, tha moost
skeer ’em. Me an’ Boab’ll do it for thee. Boab ain’t
mooch fit for nawthing else nowa, poor lahd!”

This was the stratagem the men contrived: They cut off 212
the head of a dead black fellow, and put it into a full
flour-cask, the top of which was left open. Then leaving
the store door unlocked, and the flour-cask just behind
it, all the pioneers left the buildings; the boys, however,
returning by a roundabout route, and “planting” in some
scrub not far off to witness what might happen. They
had to wait some time, but at last the blacks made their
appearance. Even their keen eyes detecting no trace of
the presence of any whites, they soon swarmed up
boldly to the store. Jooragong, bravest of the brave
when there was nothing to be feared, rolled out the
cask that stood so conveniently near and open, and
began to scoop out the flour with both hands. But
presently they brought up his countryman’s head. The
other blacks raised a wild howl and fled, but Jooragong
stood stock-still, gaping, with eyes starting from his
head at his hideous handful. The firing of the boys’ guns
broke the spell. Off Jooragong bounded also, dropping
the floury head out of his floury hands back into the
cask; and so long as Harry and Donald stayed at Pigeon
Park, the blacks never again ventured within gunshot of
the store.
“THE BLACKS RAISED A WILD HOWL AND FLED.”

213
 XII.
A GOLD RUSH.

Soon after Harry and Donald returned to Wonga-Wonga,

the station was excited by the news that gold had been
found about seventy miles to the north of Jerry’s Town.
At first the news was partially pooh-poohed at Wonga-
Wonga.

“We’ve heard of storekeepers’ rushes before now,

haven’t we?” Mr. Lawson said to the men, who were
getting unsettled by the tidings. “Those fellows would
make out that there was gold in the moon, if people
could get there to buy their damaged goods; and nicely
they’d clap it on for carriage.”

It soon became certain, however, that something more 214

than the mere “colour of gold” had been found at Jim
Crow Creek. Three parts of the population of Jerry’s
Town started for the new diggings, and yet the town
was busier than ever, such a stream of people poured
through it. Nearly every township between Jerry’s Town
and Sydney contributed its quota, and amongst those
who came from Sydney were a good many who had
sailed thither from Melbourne. Perhaps they had been
doing very well on the Victoria diggings, but diggers
have almost always a belief that they could do better
somewhere else than where they are; and so, when
they hear of new diggings, off they flock to them, like
starlings from England in autumn.
Wonga-Wonga and the other stations near Jerry’s Plains 215
soon became very short-handed. Shepherds and
stockmen sloped wholesale for the Creek, sometimes
helping themselves to their masters’ horses to get there.
To make the best of a bad job, Mr. Lawson resolved to
avail himself of the market for meat that had suddenly
been created at Jim Crow Creek; and, accordingly, he
and the boys started thither with some of the sheep and
cattle that had been left with scarcely any one to look
after them.

As they rode into Jerry’s Town, they passed a mob of

Chinamen, in baggy blue breeches, who were preparing
to encamp by the roadside. Most of them still wore their
tails, coiled up like snakes, or dangling down like eels.
The Jerry’s Town youngsters were pelting the
Chinamen, and taking sly pulls at the dangling tails,
whenever they got the chance, meanwhile shouting
“Chow-chow” and singing in chorus—

“Here he was, and there he goes,

Chinaman with the monkey nose.”

As the Chinamen laid down the bamboos they had 216

carried on their shoulders, with bundles hanging from
them like milk-pails from a yoke, and gathered sticks to
boil their rice, their almond eyes glanced very evilly
from under their beehive hats at the young outside
barbarians. I am sorry to say that is not only the young
barbarians who behave very brutally to Chinamen in
Australia.

All the way from Jerry’s Town to Jim Crow Creek the
road, that used to look even more solitary than
Highgate Archway Road looks during the greater part of
the year, was every here and there almost as crowded
as Highgate Archway Road during the time of Barnet
Fair. Men on horseback, with saddle-bags and pistols
peeping from their holsters, were ambling and cantering
along, singly and in couples, and in threes and fours.
Moleskin-trousered pedestrians, who had “humped the
swag,” were toiling along, footsore and perspiring, their
red or blue shirts rolled up and laid upon the top of their
heavy loads. Greenhorn-looking young fellows, fresh
from the counter or the desk, were sitting down, dead
beat. Tarpaulined drays ground along in a long line,
monotonously jingling the pots and pannikins slung
beneath.

“MEN ON HORSEBACK, WITH SADDLE-BAGS AND PISTOLS.”

Here and there a dray had broken down, and the driver 217
was fussing about as angry as a wasp, or smoking in
sulky idleness, because he could not get any one to stop
to help him right his cargo. Every public was crammed
with rowdy-looking, bronzed, bearded fellows, shouting
for nobblers, spiders, and stone-fences. The free
commons which every traveller in Australia used to look
upon as a right rather than a favour, had ceased to be
supplied by either house or hut. If any passenger
wanted food or drink, he had to pay for them, and pay
smartly too. Some of the parties taking their meals
along the road were faring jollily, but some of the
pedestrians who limped past them cast enviously
hungry glances on their commissariat. To say nothing of
brandy, bitter beer, sardines, and potted salmon, they
were speculating anxiously as to how much longer they
could make sure of tea and damper.

Jim Crow Creek was reached at last. A week or two 218

before, it had been so quiet that the shy water-moles
would come up and bask for the half-hour together on
the surface of its gravy-soup-coloured water. There was
nothing to startle them except the sudden scream of a
flock of parrots flashing across, or the lazy rustle of the
long, inky, lanky-tassel-like leaves which the grey-boled
trees upon the banks dipped into the smooth stream.
But now for two or three miles upon both banks there
was bustle. The trees had been cut down, the banks
scarped and honeycombed, and dotted with big boil-like
heaps of dusty earth. The tortured creek, here dammed,
there almost drained, and yonder flowing in a new
channel, seemed to be as puzzled as to its identity as
the old lady who had her petticoats cut all round about.
Steam sent up quick, angry white puffs; windlasses
went round and round at the top of yawning wells of
dirt; the grinding, rattling dash of shovels into soil, the
ticking click of picks on stone resounded everywhere.
Cradles rocked; hip-booted men, who looked as if they
had not washed either face or hands for a twelvemonth,
swished their precious mud round and round in
washing-pans. Scattered along the sloping sides of the
creek, and jostlingly jumbled on the flat it once crept
round, so sleepily quiet, were all kinds of extemporized
stores and dwellings: a house or two of corrugated iron;
more hastily knocked-up ones of slabs; canvas-walled
houses, roofed with asphalte-felt; round tents, square
tents, polygonal tents, and mere bark gunyahs. Some
had their owners’ names roughly painted on the canvas.
Outside one tent hung a brass plate inscribed with “Mr.
So-and-So, Photographer.” Keen-looking gold-buyers
stood at the doors of their wooden “offices.” A
commissioner, swellish in gold lace, cantered
superciliously through the bustling throngs. Policemen
lounged about, striving to look unconscious of the
“Joey!” which the miners found time to shout after them
in scorn. Hanging about the sly grog-shop tents, there
were men who might have been thought to have more
time for such amusement, since smoking and
nobblerizing was all that they seemed to have to do; but
these gentry appeared by no means eager to attract the
attention of the police. The gold-buyers looked anxious
when the rascals’ furtively-ferocious eyes chanced to fall
their way, and they were not the kind of man that a
solitary digger would have liked to see peeping into his
tent at night, or loitering before him in the bush.
Everybody at Jim Crow Creek had guns or pistols of
some kind, and took care to let his neighbours know
that he was armed by firing off his weapons before he
turned in, and then ostentatiously reloading them after
the gun-powdery good night.

Before Mr. Lawson and the boys reached the “township,” 221
as the Jim Crow Flat was already called, their sheep and
cattle were bought up by a butcher who was waiting on
the road. They bought their chops of him for their
evening meal, and when they found what he charged
for them, Mr. Lawson was not quite so satisfied with his
cattle bargain as he had been when he made it. After
tea, the boys strolled out to look about them, and
presently came to a large tent, with the American
colours flying above it. There was a crowd at the
entrance, and it was as much as two money-takers
could do to make sure that they did take the admission-
money from all the boisterous fellows who were rolling
in. Amongst them were a few women, with faces like
brown leather, who were still more boisterous.

“Let’s go in, Donald,” said Harry. “It must be those

Ethiopian chaps that passed us on the road in the
American waggon.”

The boys struggled in at last, and then wished, but in 222

vain, that they could struggle out. They were jammed in
a steaming, smoking, rum-scented mass of miners,
good-tempered enough in the main, but apparently of
opinion that the proper place for a man’s elbows was in
his neighbour’s ribs, and for his feet upon his
neighbour’s toes. Not more than half had seats, and
sometimes they swayed about so, that it seemed certain
the bulging tent must fall. They joined most discordantly
in all the choruses, and when especially pleased,
pitched coppers, and sixpences, and shillings on the
stage. They threw other things that were not so
pleasant. One wag threw a potato, which hit Bones
upon the nose just when he was propounding a
conundrum to Tambourine; and Mr. Bones, in spite of
his fun, being a very irascible little serenader, leaped
down amongst his audience, and made frantic efforts to
get at his assailant. There was very nearly a battle-royal
between house and performers, and Mr. Bones was
pulled up at last by his brethren, with his woolly wig half
off his head, his long-tailed coat split from waist to
collar, and his huge shirt-collar and cravat in a sadly
crumpled condition. Whilst the scrimmage lasted,
Donald had noticed a broad-shouldered mulatto, in red
shirt and ear-rings, who had kept on plunging
backwards and forwards in the crowd, apparently bent
on increasing the confusion.

“Hae ye got anything in your pockets, Harry?” said 223

Donald, when comparative calm had been restored.
“Just spot yon body in the red shirt. He tried my pockets
more than once. I suppose he thocht I’d bring a bundle
of notes in here. I’m nae sae daft.”

It was nearly midnight when the “entertainment”

concluded, and it was Sunday morning before all the
entertained got into the open air again. As the reeking
crowd struggled out, the mulatto recommenced his
plunging manœuvres. When the boys got out, they saw
him hurrying in the moonlight down an alley between
two little rows of tents.

“He’s a nice young man for a small music party,” said 224
Harry, looking after him; “and there seems to be plenty
of his sort. Come along, Donald; we’ve a good step to
go, and I should feel so spoony if I got bailed up by
those fellows; though it isn’t much, is it, they could ease
us of?”

Mr. Lawson had pitched his tent on the other side of the
“township,” some little way down the Jerry’s Town road,
in a place where there were no other tents near.

When the boys had crossed the flat, and were

ascending the steep rough bush track dignified with the
name of Jerry’s Town Road, they were not exactly
pleased to see a man who looked very much like the
mulatto, and two other men, slip out of the bush, and
seat themselves on a log and a stump by the roadside.

“It don’t seem game to turn out of the road for those
fellows, does it, Donald?” said Harry. “But I’ll go bail
they’re up to no good, and they’re hulking big beggars,
and I’ll be bound they’ve barkers, and we haven’t.”

“I dinna think they’re planting for us,” answered Donald; 225

“but, as like as not, they’d gie us a knock on the head if
we went up to them; an’ what’s the use o’ gettin’ a
knock on the head for nae guid, if ye can avoid it?”

“I should uncommonly like to know what they’re

scheming,” said Harry, as the boys turned aside into the
bush. “They’re jabbering fast enough about something.
Let’s creep up behind and listen. P’r’aps it’s the governor
they’ve a down on.”

This is what the boys heard when they had crept like
cats to a listening-place:

“It’s a squatter fellow that sold some bullocks to Wilcox

the butcher,” said one of the mulatto’s companions.
“He’s camped out yonder by himself.”

“Well, but,” objected the mulatto, “Wilcox would pay

him in orders, and what’s the good of them?”

“Ah, but I heard him ask Wilcox for some in cash or 226
notes, if he had it. The fellow said he’d got cleaned out
on the road up, and must have some money to take him
back. So Wilcox gave him some; I can’t say how much it
was, but any’s worth finding. Besides, he’s a gold ticker
—a real handsome one, as big as a frying-pan. And then
there’s the three horses, and first-chop colonial saddles.”
“Is there anybody with him, then?”

“Two young ’uns came with him, but they’ve gone down
into the town, an’ if they’ve come back, it don’t matter
much. I fancy he’s turned in now. I’ve been watching
him this good while, till I come down to hunt up you
and Bill.”

“Well, let’s be off then,” said the mulatto; and the three
began to run. The boys tried to make a short cut for the
tent, but lost ground instead. When they reached the
tent Mr. Lawson was on his back, half-throttling,
however, the mulatto who knelt upon him, whilst the
other two scoundrels were giving him savage blows and
kicks.

“Put—a—ball—in—to—him,” gasped the mulatto.

Before a pistol could be pointed, however, the two boys 227

had leaped on the two men, and by the suddenness of
the onslaught toppled them over, tumbling at the same
time themselves. For a minute a confused heap of
trunks and limbs heaved and wriggled on the floor; but
Mr. Lawson rolled himself out, and, getting uppermost in
turn, brought down his huge Northumbrian fist with a
tremendous thud upon the mulatto’s face. As soon as
the other two men could scramble to their feet, they
took to their heels. The boys had got hold of their
pistols by that time, and Mr. Lawson was reaching out
his hand for his revolver. Three bullets whistled after the
two runaways, but neither was hit. Meantime the
mulatto, save for his stertorous breathing, lay like a log
upon the ground.

“Get your horse, Harry, and ride in for the police,” said
Mr. Lawson. “We’d best tie the scoundrel first, though.”
Harry and Donald went to catch the hobbled horse; Mr. 228
Lawson turned to refasten an up-pulled tent-peg, and to
get a cord, and when he turned round again, the
mulatto was gone.

“The rascal was only shamming,” said Mr. Lawson,

feeling rather silly, when the boys returned. “I turned
my back for a second, and he wriggled off like a snake.
Now, boys, turn in, and I’ll keep watch till the sun
comes up. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get a
snooze, I shouldn’t have been laid on my back by those
mean curs. I must have been sleeping like a top when
they pounced in upon me. I’ve to thank you, boys, and
let us all thank God.”

Mr. Lawson and the boys stayed over the Sunday at Jim 229
Crow Creek, but it was a strange Sunday. The miners
knocked off work, but they economized the Sabbath
hours in fighting out the week’s quarrels, which they
could not spare time to settle on week-days. The only
“service” was one conducted by a tall, gauntly-sinewy
Cornish miner, who shouted at the top of his voice, and
worked himself into a pale perspiration as he flung
about his long limbs as if they were galvanized. A few of
his hearers looked pleased to be reminded anyhow of
what the day was. A few more looked ashamed because
they were ashamed to look pleased too. But most
grinned, and then passed on to find more exciting
amusements.

“Faix, it’s the crathur’s way o’ divartin’ himself,” said the

police-sergeant, who had stopped for a few minutes to
hear his own creed anathematized; “and a mighty queer
kind o’ divarsion it is, to my thinkin’.”

The sergeant, when spoken to about the attempted

robbery, instantly recognized the mulatto.
“It’s that thief o’ the worruld, Baltimor-r-e Ben. That’s 230
who it is entirely. They call him Baltimor-r-e Ben becase
he came from Mel-bour-r-ne. He’ll lie dar-ruk for a bit
afthur this, but we’ll have him, sir-r; an’ if we won’t, the
digger bhoys will string him up if they catch him. An’
was it the young gintlemen settled the other bla’guards?
More power to their elbows! You should have kicked him
on the shins, sir-r. A neegur’s head’s as harrud to crack
as an Irishman’s.”

At Wonga-Wonga, as well as by the Jim Crow Creek

police-sergeant, Harry and Donald were considered
great heroes, when their exploits were told there. If
Mrs. Lawson had had her way, however, neither her
husband nor the boys would ever have gone to Jim
Crow Creek again. Once more, nevertheless, they drove
stock over thither. And then, suddenly, the place was
deserted by all except a few Chinese fossickers, who
mysteriously made a living out of claims which
Europeans had thrown up as not worth a speck. The
tide of diggers rolled back to Sydney, cursing the
storekeepers as they went. Some waves of the tide
crept rather than rolled, and some of the tide never got
back. There was misery, sickness, starvation, at Jim
Crow Creek and along the road; but sundry
storekeepers had balanced their ledgers greatly to their
satisfaction.

“Those miners ought to be ’cute enough by this time to 231

take care of themselves,” said Harry, when he was
talking over the matter; “but still it does seem an
infested shame that they should be done so. I wish
Hargreaves had never come back from California. I
don’t see what gold has done for the colony, except
spoilt the runs and run up shepherds’ wages.”
“Ah, that is how you Boys in the Bush talk,” said Miss
Smith, who had recently returned from Sydney.

“Miss Smith,” replied Harry, majestically, “I no longer

consider myself a Boy in the Bush.”

THE END.
 Transcriber’s Notes

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