'Now I'm on to the part of the play when the "ante-up" comes in. You mind me, you young fellers, it always does sooner or later. He'd no call to shake that filly. I said so then, and I say so now. And what come'd of it? Listen and I'll tell you—Death in five chapters—and so simple, all along of an unbroke filly!
'Now Jack wa'n't the man to stop inside of prison walls if he could help it. He and another chap make a rush one day, knock over the warder and collar his revolver. Another warder comes out to help; Jack shoots him dead, and they clear. Man's life number one. Big reward offered. They stick up a roadside inn next. Somebody gave 'em away. Police waitin' on 'em as they walk in—dead of night. Soon's they see the police, Jack shoots the innkeeper, poor devil! thought he'd sold 'em. Man's life number two. Jack and his mate and the police bang away at each other at close quarters—trooper wounded—Jack shot dead—mate wounded, dies next day. Men's lives number four.
'Who gave the office to the police and collared the blood-money? Friend of Jack's, a pal. Five hundred quid was too much for him. What became of him? Job leaked out somehow—friends and family dropped him. The money did him no good. Took to drinking straight ahead, and died in the horrors within the year. Men's lives number five.
'Yes; he was the fifth man to go down. Two pound apiece their lives fetched! They're in their graves because Jack Danvers was a d—d fool, and when he was young, strong, good-looking and well-liked, must go and duff a man's mare out of sheer foolishness. He didn't see what was to come of it, or he'd 'a cut off his right hand first. But that's the way of it. We don't see them things till it's too late. But mark my words, you young chaps as has got all the world before you—take a fool's advice. It don't pay to "go on the cross"—never did; and there's no one has cause to know it better than old Bill James.'
'By George!' said the overseer, 'that's the best yarn I have heard for a year. And if the parson preaches a better sermon when he holds service in the woolshed next Sunday, I'll be surprised.'
REEDY LAKE STATION
The Post-office clock in Bourke Street, Melbourne, is about to strike six, in the month of June 1858. At this 'everlastingly early hour A.M. in the morning' (as remarked by Mr. Chuckster), I am the box-passenger of Cobb's coach, en route for Bendigo. The team of greys stand motionless, save for a faint attempt to paw on the part of the near-side leader. The first stroke vibrates on high. Mr. Jackson, with an exclamation, tightens his 'lines.' The six greys plunge at their collars, and we are off.
There was no Spencer Street terminus in those days. We were truly thankful to King Cobb. I, for one, was glad to get over a hundred miles of indifferent road in a day—winter weather, too. We did not grumble so comprehensively as latter-day travellers.
Remembered yet, how, when we came to the long hill at Keilorbridge, the driver let his horses out when half-way down. The pace that we went 'was a caution to see.' The wheel-spokes flew round, invisible to the naked eye. The coach rocked in a manner to appal the nervous. The horses lay down to it as if they were starting for a Scurry Stakes. But it was a good piece of macadam, and we were half-way up to the next hill before any one had time to think seriously of the danger.
Nobody, of course, would have dared to have addressed the driver upon the subject. In those flush days, when both day and night coaches loaded well, when fares were high and profits phenomenal, he was an autocrat not to be lightly approached. It almost took two people to manage a communication—one to bear the message from the other. Silent or laconic, master of his work in a marvellous degree, he usually resented light converse, advice infuriated him, and sympathy was outrage.