Chapter Seventeen.
Mr Winslow in a Different Light.
“You’ll find him a rough stick,” said Archie.
“What, rougher than me or Harry?” said Bob.
“Well, as you’ve put the question I’ll answer you pat. I don’t consider either you or Harry particularly rough. If you’re rough you’re right, Bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a little more of the rudiments of English grammar, you would pass at a pinch.”
“Thank ye,” said Bob.
“You’ve got a bit of the bur-r-r of Northumbria in your brogue, but I do believe people like it, and Harry isn’t half the Cockney he used to be. But, Bob, this man—I wish I could say gentleman—Winslow never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. He puts me in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among the rocks away down at the point yonder.
“But, oh!” added Archie, “what a little angel the daughter is! Of course she is only a baby. And what a lovely name—Etheldene! Isn’t it sweet, Bob?”
“I don’t know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it, anyhow.”
“Off you go, Bob, and dress. Have you darned those holes in your gloves?”
“No; bought a new pair.”
“Just like your extravagance. Be off!”
Bob Cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he appeared at last before his little wife Sarah, she turned him round and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look at him with genuine pride up and down.
“My eye,” she said at last, “you does look stunning! Not a pin in sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. You’re going to see a young lady, I suppose; but Sarah ain’t jealous of her little man. She likes to see him admired.”
“Yes,” said Bob, laughing; “you’ve hit the nail straight on the head; I am going to see a young lady. She is fourteen year old, I think. But bless your little bobbing bit o’ a heart, lass, it isn’t for her I’m dressed. No; I’m going with t’ young Squire. He may be all the same as us out here, and lets me call him Archie. But what are they out here, after all? Why, only a set o’ whitewashed heathens. No, I must dress for the company I’m in.”
“And the very young lady—?”
“Is a Miss Winslow. I think t’ young Squire is kind o’ gone on her, though she is only a baby. Well, good-bye, lass.”
“Good-bye, little man.”
Etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet Archie, but drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger.
“It’s only Bob,” said Archie. “Is your father in?”
“Yes, and we’re all going to have tea out here under the trees.”
The “all” was not a very large number; only Etheldene’s governess and father, herself, and a girl playmate.
Poor Etheldene’s mother had died in the Bush when she was little more than a baby. The rough life had hardly suited her. And this child had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another of those wonderful puzzles for which Australia is notorious.
Probably Etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects, and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to the wild flowers.
While Etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading big Bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets—animate and inanimate—her ferns and flowers and birds, Winslow himself came upon the scene with the Morning Herald in his hand. He was dressed—if dressing it could be called—in the same careless manner Archie had last seen him. It must be confessed, however, that this semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. Archie wondered if ever he had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress suit. He lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great spade of a hand.
Archie remembered he was Etheldene’s father, and shook it.
“Well, youngster, how are you? Bobbish, eh? Ah, I see Ethie has got in tow with a new chum. Your friend? Is he now? Well, that’s the sort of man I like. He’s bound to do well in this country. You ain’t a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a young turkey is to an emu. Well, sit down.”
Mr Winslow flung himself on the grass. It might be rather damp, but he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair.
“So your friend’s going to the Bush, and going to take you with him, eh?”
Archie’s proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said nothing. It was evident that Mr Winslow looked upon him as a boy.
“Well, I hope you’ll do right both of you. What prospects have you?”
Archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions.
“Them’s your sentiments, eh? Then my advice is this: Pitch ’em all overboard—the whole jing-bang of them. Your high-flown notions sink you English greenhorns. Now, when I all but offered you a position under me—”
“Under your gardener,” said Archie, smiling. “Well, it’s all the same. I didn’t mean to insult your father’s son. I wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you.”
“I think I’ve both, sir. Father—Squire Broadbent—”
“Squire Fiddlestick!”
“Sir!”
“Go on, lad, never mind me. Your father—”
“My father brought me up to work.”
“Tossing hay, I suppose, raking flower-beds and such. Well, you’ll find all this different in Australian Bush-life; it is sink or swim there.”
“Well, I’m going to swim.”
“Bravo, boy!”
“And now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?”
“No,” cried Winslow, “no, lad. Goodness forbid I should give you that impression. If I had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, I’d send stuff to this paper,” (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) “that would show men how I felt, and I’d be a member of the legislature in a year’s time. But this is what I say, lad, Brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here, or very little. We want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. There is many an English youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman’s jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. That’s it, d’ye see?”
“I think I do.”
“That’s right. Now tell me about your uncle. Dear old man! We never had a cross word all the time I sailed with him.”
Archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read.
By-and-by Etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy.
“Sit down, Mr Cooper, on the grass. That’s the style.”
“Well,” cried Archie, laughing, “if everybody is going to squat on the grass, so shall I.”
Even Etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed.
After due introductions, Winslow continued talking to Bob.
“That’s it, you see, Mr Cooper; and I’m right glad you’ve come to me for advice. What I don’t know about settling in Bushland isn’t worth knowing, though I say it myself. There are plenty long-headed fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but I believe, lad, the same men would have made money in their own country. They are the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and that can look two ways at once. But they are the exception, and the ordinary man needn’t expect such luck, because he won’t get it.
“Now there’s yourself, Mr Cooper, and your friend that I haven’t seen; you’ve made a lucky dive at the fields, and you’re tired of gold-digging. I don’t blame you. You want to turn farmer in earnest. On a small scale you are a capitalist. Well, mind, you’re going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you for good or evil.
“Go to Brisbane. Don’t believe the chaps here. Go straight away up, and take time a bit, and look round. Don’t buy a pig in a poke. Hundreds do. There’s a lot of people whose interest is to sell A1 claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. Now listen. Maybe not one of these have any experience. They see speculation in each other’s eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is hoisted. Let me put it in another way. Hang a hook, with a nice piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. Everyone would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. Suddenly a shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. It’s that way with catching capitalists. So I say again, Look before you leap. Don’t run after bargains. They may be good, but— This young fellow here has some knowledge of English farming. Well, that is good in its way, very good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is better. If he were all alone, I’d tell him to go away to the Bush and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months, and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he’d get some insight into business. As it is, you’re all going together, and you’ll all have a look at things. You’ll see what sort of stock the country is suited for—sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed, or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. And you’ll find out if it be healthy for men and stock, and not ‘sour’ for either; and also you’ll consider what markets are open to you. For there’d be small use in rearing stock you couldn’t sell. See?”
“Yes,” said Bob; “I see a lot of difficulties in the way I hadn’t thought of.”
“Go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. I think I’ll go with you to Brisbane,” added Winslow, after a pause. “I’m getting sick already of civilised life.”
Etheldene threw her arms round her father’s neck.
“Well, birdie, what is it? ’Fraid I go and leave you too long?”
“You mustn’t leave me at all, father. I’m sometimes sick of civilised life. I’m going with you wherever you go.”
That same evening after dinner, while Etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend—showing him, I think, how to throw the boomerang—Winslow and Archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee.
Winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke.
“I’m going to ask you a strange question, youngster,” he said.
“Well, sir?” said Archie.
“Suppose I were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?”
“You needn’t ask, sir,” said Archie. “My uncle’s friend.”
“Well, a fifty-pound note would do it.”
Archie had his uncle’s draft still with him. He never said a word till he had handed it to Winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets.
“But,” said Archie, “I would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. In fact, I am doubting the evidence of my senses. You—with all the show of wealth I see around me—to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! Verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties.”
Winslow simply laughed.
“You have a lot to learn yet,” he said, “my young friend; but I admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your business habits.”
Archie and Bob paid many a visit to Wistaria Grove—the name of Winslow’s place—during the three weeks previous to the start from Sydney.
One day, when alone with Archie, Winslow thrust an envelope into his hands.
“That’s your fifty pounds,” he said. “Why, count it, lad; don’t stow it away like that. It ain’t business.”
“Why,” said Archie, “here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!”
“It’s all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don’t put it up I’ll put it in the fire.”
“But explain.”
“Yes, nothing more easy. You mustn’t be angry. No? Well, then, I knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o’ the old block, and there was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money to buy a morsel of claim, so I simply borrowed yours and put it out for you.”
“Put it out for me?”
“Yes, that’s it; and the money is honestly increased. Bless your innocence! I could double it in a week. It is making the first thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of contrarieties, as you call it.”
When Archie told Bob the story that evening, Bob’s answer was:
“Well, lad, I knew Winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first day I saw him. Never you judge a man by his clothes, Archie.”
“First impressions certainly are deceiving,” said Archie; “and I’m learning something new every day of my life.”
“I am going round to Melbourne for a week or two, boys,” said Winslow one day. “Which of you will come with me?”
“I’ll stop here,” said Bob, “and stick to business. You had better go, Archie.”
“I would like to, if—if I could afford it.”
“Now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal English pride of yours in your pocket. I ask you to come with me as a guest, and if you refuse I’ll throw you overboard. And if, during our journey, I catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your pocket, I’ll never speak another word to you as long as I live.”
“All right,” said Archie, laughing; “that settles it. Is Etheldene going too?”
“Yes, the child is going. She won’t stay away from her old dad. She hasn’t a mother, poor thing.”
Regarding Archie’s visit to Victoria, we must let him speak himself another time; for the scene of our story must now shift.