Tom Hall rubbed his head and blinked, as if he was worried by an idea that there might be some facts in Mitchell’s theories.
“You’re allers findin’ excuses for blacklegs an’ scabs, Mitchell,” said Barcoo-Rot, who took Mitchell seriously (and who would have taken a laughing jackass seriously). “Why, you’d find a white spot on a squatter. I wouldn’t be surprised if you blacklegged yourself in the end.”
This was an unpardonable insult, from a Union point of view, and the chaps half-unconsciously made room on the floor for Barcoo-Rot to fall after Jack Mitchell hit him. But Mitchell took the insult philosophically.
“Well, Barcoo-Rot,” he said, nursing the other leg, “for the matter of that, I did find a white spot on a squatter once. He lent me a quid when I was hard up. There’s white spots on the blackest characters if you only drop prejudice and look close enough. I suppose even Jack-the-Ripper’s character was speckled. Why, I can even see spots on your character, sometimes, Barcoo-Rot. I’ve known white spots to spread on chaps’ characters until they were little short of saints. Sometimes I even fancy I can feel my own wings sprouting. And as for turning blackleg—well, I suppose I’ve got a bit of the crawler in my composition (most of us have), and a man never knows what might happen to his principles.”
“Well,” said Barcoo-Rot, “I beg yer pardon—ain’t that enough?”
“No,” said Mitchell, “you ought to wear a three-bushel bag and ashes for three months, and drink water; but since the police would send you to an asylum if you did that, I think the best thing we can do is to go out and have a drink.”
Lord Douglas married an Australian girl somewhere, somehow, and brought her to Bourke, and there were two little girls—regular little fairies. She was a gentle, kind-hearted little woman, but she didn’t seem to improve him much, save that he was very good to her.
“It’s mostly that way,” commented Mitchell. “When a boss gets married and has children he thinks he’s got a greater right to grind his fellowmen and rob their wives and children. I’d never work for a boss with a big family—it’s hard enough to keep a single boss nowadays in this country.”
After one stormy election, at the end of a long and bitter shearing strike, One-eyed Bogan, his trusty enemy, Barcoo-Rot, and one or two other enthusiastic reformers were charged with rioting, and got from one to three months’ hard. And they had only smashed three windows of the Imperial Hotel and chased the Chinese cook into the river.
“I used to have some hopes for Democracy,” commented Mitchell, “but I’ve got none now. How can you expect Liberty, Equality or Fraternity—how can you expect Freedom and Universal Brotherhood and Equal Rights in a country where Sons of Light get three months’ hard for breaking windows and bashing a Chinaman? It almost makes me long to sail away in a gallant barque.”