CHAPTER III
Next day Bill rode to the place where the dead man's tent was still standing. The place had a grim fascination for him. Something about the old man's face and staring eyes held him in thrall. The appealing look of the girl in the photograph enchained him. The dream spoke strangely to his imagination. He felt that something had entered into his life. He did not feel a free man. Compulsion appeared to be laid upon him, and he could not shake off the feeling that a course was being shaped for him, a pattern was being woven which he did not design.
He lingered about the Devil's Punch Bowl all day, and wondered what was being brewed for him. He hoped it was something pleasant: a cup to his liking.
Monday came, and the coroner arrived in a hired buggy. The constable seized upon the publican and one of his men, to serve on the jury. Then he stationed himself at the door of the inn, and impounded every man who passed along the road, until he counted ten upon his fingers, whereupon he doubled up his fists. His hands were full—the jury was complete.
The publican hustled the "good men and true" into the bar, like a flock of sheep, and was ready to "lamb" them down.
"Who stands drinks?" he said.
A man who had just finished painting the house, and was going to be paid that day, spoke up, and said, "I will; for I sees from that placard," pointing his thumb at it, "that drinks is to be redooced to-day from a shillin' to sixpence, so we'll wet the occasion."
"Give your commands, gentlemen!" said the publican; "keep the ball a-rollin'."
"Gin for me, some'at stiff, for I can't stand a corp," said one of the men.
"Brandy for me, as I feel a sinkin'," said another.
"Whisky for me; I've a qualm in the stummick."
"Beer, that's good for a buryin'," said the wag.
The publican and his wife handed out the drinks in a surprisingly short time. In some unaccountable way the news that free drinks were about had run round the place with fleet foot, and seventeen thirsty men and women stood up to receive them; then they drank and smacked their lips, for free drinks are sweet to the taste.
The publican poured out some brandy for himself, and immediately bawled: "Eighteen drinks, painter; hand us over the stiff."
"Here you are," said the painter, putting a sovereign into the publican's hand; at the same time trying to look pleased, but his mouth wouldn't go into the right position. The drawing was all wrong.
"Eighteen drinks, eighteen shillin's," said the publican.
"'Old 'ard," said the painter; "look at your own placard—sixpence each, if you please. I figur' it at nine shillin's, accordin' to Cocker."
"Placard be blowed!" said the publican; "everybody knows that, in legal dociments, the day begins at twelve o'clock. The price of drinks before twelve is a shillin', after twelve they is sixpence. Here's two shillin's change, painter!"
"All right!" said the painter in a whisper, and with a cunning wink to the constable, "Hark you, I'll be even with him! I'll charge him nine shillin's extra in my bill for turpentine and putty."
"The Crowner is sittin', the jury is summoned! Quick; every mother's son av yees!" said the constable.
The inquest was soon over. The local doctor had made a post mortem examination. The verdict of the jury was, "Died from natural causes."
The clock in the bar cuckooed eleven times. Drinks were still a shilling each, so no one would venture his nose within smell of liquor for an hour at least. The jury preferred a draught of fresh air just now, as the room in which they had sat was close and stuffy. Their courage had been uncorked and spilt in the presence of the "corp," and they felt as limp as a wet rag.
Bill was anxious to get away, and he was about to jump on his horse, when the constable rushed out of the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Bill Marlock," he said, "is it running yees are, an' lavin' me wid de corp, stark an' shtiff, to rattle his bones over the logs and boulders to de cimetery. Yees found him above ground, an' de laste yees can do is to see him under de turf."
"I don't mind if I do, seein' you put it in that way," said Bill.
"I thought yees would; shure he'd do the same for you any day!"
The coffin, with the dead man in it, was carried out. When the jurymen saw it they rushed forward to lend a hand, and buzzed about like flies round carrion. They felt they had an interest in the poor body within. They had "sat" upon it, and given their verdict. They had carried out the law's behest, and they would carry out the "remains" on their shoulders. Bill took off his hat, and every man followed his example. Then the coffin was reverently laid on a cart, and covered with old sacks. The constable climbed into the seat, gathered the reins in his left hand, and reminded the horse by a flick on the ear that it must look alive when it was carrying a dead man. The horse awoke with a start, and dashed down the road. Half a dozen horsemen, with Bill at their head, galloped after, enveloped in a cloud of dust—dust before and behind.
The funeral procession passed on at a quick pace, but had not gone many miles when the constable looked back and found that Bill was the only mourner. The other men had dropped out of the ranks, and had silently disappeared, one to his farm, and another to his merchandise.
In about two hours the constable and Bill arrived at the village of Mopoke. The only clergyman in the place was hastily summoned to read the burial service. He was writing his next Sunday's sermon, with a pipe in his mouth. He jumped up immediately, stuck his pen absently behind his ear, pulled his surplice from a peg, and hitched it over his shoulders as he made for the door. The prospect of a fee unstiffened his rheumatic joints. There had been no burial in Mopoke for a year.
Funerals were as rare and far between as white kangaroos. The unwonted strokes of the gravedigger's axe, cutting some saplings, had rung like a knell from the cemetery in the morning, and the whole population had turned out to know the why and the wherefore. Boys and girls had played truant, and hid behind the tombs, until the school bell had ceased to tinkle and trouble their consciences; then they kicked up their heels like a flock of lambs. They had about as little reverence for the dead as hyenas. The boys played leapfrog over the graves, and the girls ran up and down the mounds or had a game of hop-scotch on the weedy paths. Suddenly they were hushed by a solemn voice chanting the words, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord."
The children dashed away, tumbling over each other as they rushed to the grave, and clustered about it like rabbits round a water-hole in a drought. The cart came up slowly, and the horse looked solemn. The clergyman took his stand at the grave, reading the burial service, while the pebbles crunched under his feet and rattled below.
The constable represented the law, the clergyman the gospel.
With the help of Bill, the gravedigger lowered the coffin to its resting-place. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was said, and the earth was shovelled in right merrily. Very soon the old man was covered up, and tucked in his narrow bed. Only a little mound of earth showed the swelling of the puffed-up earth, proud of having swallowed another victim. Insatiable is the grave!
As soon as the gravedigger turned his back, the boys and girls proceeded to attest their presence as witnesses by writing their names, with knives, rusty nails, and pins, on the smooth black mound. Then there was a general exodus, and a fearful looking forward to punishment from the schoolmaster in the morning. The taskmaster was waiting for them. Pharaoh and all his host seemed to be in pursuit.
Bill Marlock heaved a sigh when he stood alone outside the cemetery gate. The old man was buried, but his spirit seemed to haunt him. He felt as if it were floating by his side, and pushing him in the direction of the Devil's Punch Bowl.
Bill stood in the middle of the road uncertain where to go. He took from his pocket the photograph of the girl with the pathetic eyes. Then he looked at the letter, signed "Mary," and at the diagram. He felt bewitched, for the eyes appeared to glance for a moment towards the north-west, where the old man died; the writing of the letter seemed to slope towards the same point; and the arrow on the diagram shot straight for that goal.
Fate was too strong for him, but he would give himself another chance. He would throw his stick in the air and see how it pointed when it fell. If it pointed to the north-west, he would go to the Devil's Punch Bowl; if not, he would go to Melbourne. He threw the stick, with many a twirl, and it fell, aiming at the north-west.
"Double, double toil and trouble," he said; "the dream and the omens are too much for me. To the Devil's Punch Bowl I must go."
He jumped on his horse, which had been cropping the short sweet grass, and rode as fast as he could till he came to the Pretty Sally Inn, where he had some bread and cheese, and bought some chops to carry with him; then he rode slowly up the gulley which led to the Devil's Punch Bowl.