While the Billy Boils Henry Lawson (best ereader for pc TXT) 📖

children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish I was under the turf.”

“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It’s no use frettin’ over what’s done.”

He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at Arvie again.

“You should ha’ tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.

“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”

“He wasn’t very strong.”

“No, he was not, poor boy.”

“I thought he wasn’t. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: they didn’t give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all the time, and he didn’t have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise, lest he’d be sacked. He couldn’t fight, an’ the boys used to tease him; they’d wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I’d like to see ’em do it to me. He couldn’t fight; but then, of course, he wasn’t strong. They don’t bother me while I’m strong enough to heave a rock; but then, of course, it wasn’t Arvie’s fault. I s’pose he had pluck enough, if he hadn’t the strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a fatherly and lenient eye.

“My God!” she cried, “if I’d known this, I’d sooner have starved than have my poor boy’s life tormented out of him in such a place. He never complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poor little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”

“He never told yer?”

“No⁠—never a word.”

“My oath! You don’t say so! P’raps he didn’t want to let you know he couldn’t hold his own; but that wasn’t his fault, I s’pose. Y’see, he wasn’t strong.”

An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he regarded it with critical interest for awhile:

“We’ve got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones’s Alley wunst⁠—in that house over there. How d’yer like livin’ in Jones’s Alley?”

“I don’t like it at all. I don’t like having to bring my children up where there are so many bad houses; but I can’t afford to go somewhere else and pay higher rent.”

“Well, there is a good many night-shops round here. But then,” he added, reflectively, “you’ll find them everywheres. An’, besides, the kids git sharp, an’ pick up a good deal in an alley like this; ’twon’t do ’em no harm; it’s no use kids bein’ green if they wanter get on in a city. You ain’t been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?”

“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”

“I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I’m thinking about gittin’ a billet upcountry, myself, soon. Where’s he goin’ ter be buried?”

“At Rookwood, tomorrow.”

“I carn’t come. I’ve got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin’ to bury him?”

“Yes.”

Bill looked at the body with increased respect. “Kin I do anythin’ for you? Now, don’t be frightened to arsk!”

“No. Thank you very much, all the same.”

“Well, I must be goin’; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum.”

“No trouble, my boy⁠—mind the step.”

“It is gone. I’ll bring a piece of board round some night and mend it for you, if you like; I’m learnin’ the carpenterin’; I kin nearly make a door. Tell yer what, I’ll send the old woman round tonight to fix up Arvie and lend yer a hand.”

“No, thank you. I suppose your mother’s got work and trouble enough; I’ll manage.”

“I’ll send her round, anyway; she’s a bit rough, but she’s got a soft gizzard; an’ there’s nothin’ she enjoys better than fixin’ up a body. Goodbye, mum.”

“Goodbye, my child.”

He paused at the door, and said:

“I’m sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I’m sorry. S’long, an’ thank yer.”

An awestricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great brimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said:⁠—

“Keep yer pecker up, young ’un!”

In a Wet Season

It was raining⁠—“general rain.”

The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which seemed even more dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would be the ghost of a funeral⁠—a city funeral with plain hearse and string of cabs⁠—going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas, save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub indescribably dismal⁠—everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.

Somewhere along here we saw a swagman’s camp⁠—a square of calico stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small, hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary suburb of Byrock.

The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque season, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when the bell rang.

The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling away from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart enough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a low-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life