In Bad Company, and other stories

by Rolf Boldrewood

Now this was all very well in the days when Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were in the free and independent condition of bachelors. They could smoke their pipe unconcernedly with Jackson the cattle-dealer, or Tomkins the working overseer from an out-station, or Binks, who was nobody in particular, or Jinks, who was a cheeky sort of a fellow, but with no harm in him. But all this was changed when Jones or Smith took unto himself a wife. He then desired to have his evenings to himself; and though a gentleman or an agreeable stranger was always welcome, he by no means cared about entertaining half-and-half people, or being bothered with making talk for uncongenial persons all the evening. Yet he did not quite like to send all wayfarers whom he did not know or care about to the 'men's hut.' Some of them doubtless were more at home there, or managed to pass the evening without complaint; still, mistakes were occasionally made. Therefore some kind of intermediate arrangement came to be needed.

When an inn was within a mile or two, the difficulty was removed. No stranger could desire to be entertained at the house of a man he did not know, merely because it was cheaper. If he were mean enough to make the attempt, he received a rebuff—possibly no more than his due. Still, in some instances, the squatter, even if unmarried, dreaded the hotel as the nucleus of a township, and bore the enforced intrusion rather than risk the invasion of his Run.

It became thus one of the unwritten laws of Bushland that, though a bachelor station was fair game, and introductions might be dispensed with, more circumspection must be exercised in the case of the homestead which contained a lady. Even if the hospitality was unrestricted as of yore, the restraint was felt by the more homely of the wayfarers, and a sensible lowering of the average of visitors took place.

And even when there was no such adequate reason, the resident proprietor was occasionally, by nature or on principle, opposed to the indiscriminate entertainment of chance-comers, and cast about for some method of ensuring privacy. The late Mr. Charles Ebden discovered that 'Carlsruhe,' named after a continental reminiscence of travel, was by no means likely to be the 'Charles' Rest' which the name promised. So he made a bold innovation, the fame of which went through the length and breadth of the land: he established a 'visitors' hut.'

There appeared to be no great harm in this—merely a comfortable cottage, wherein the visitor was supplied with an evening meal, bed, and breakfast, all comfortably arranged. His horse would of course be cared for, paddocked, and brought up in the morning. One would fancy this gratuitous entertainment would have been voted sufficient. But the roving pastoralists were dissatisfied. They did not want merely meat and drink—they wanted a welcome: to have speech also with the master of the house. He was suspected of considering himself too good for his surroundings. And so 'Carlsruhe' was gradually avoided—not that the perhaps too fastidious 'Count' Ebden cared a jot.

An amusing contretemps with respect to this novel disposal of guests was that related of the late Sir James Hawthorn. The good old gentleman arrived late one evening at 'Carlsruhe,' naturally concluding that he would receive special consideration. It did not so chance, however, whether from non-recognition—he was not a knight then, but a doctor—or some other cause. Before leaving the visitors' hut in the morning, he left a formal note of thanks for his night's lodging, and enclosed a cheque for a guinea as payment.

But the Colonial Treasurer of the future was equal to the occasion. He made answer by post, in a carefully-worded epistle, acknowledging 'a most extraordinary communication, containing a cheque, for which he was totally unable to conceive any reasonable explanation, and had forwarded to Secretary of the Lunatic Asylum.'

After the changes which turned the homesteads of the larger stations into small villages, the 'big house,' as it came to be called, was no longer expected to accommodate the proprietor, the overseer, and the young gentleman learning Colonial experience, in addition to every wanderer that turned up. The overseer generally had a commodious if, perhaps, plainly-furnished cottage allotted to him. This came to be known as the 'barracks,' and to be used as a convenient abode for strangers and pilgrims, as well as for the storekeeper, the working overseers, and the young gentlemen. Here, in summer, they could sleep on the verandah, smoke and yarn on the same, or, in winter, around the cheerful fire, without danger of disturbing the squatter's domestic arrangements. This of course without prejudice to personal friends or strangers of distinction.

As to the pilgrims, they might be described as 'human warious.' There was first the squatter proper, young, middle-aged, or elderly, on his way from one station to the other, returning from new country or from a journey with fat cattle or sheep. He was of course welcome, being, presumably, ready and willing to repay the accommodation in kind. Then there were overseers and managers, cattle and sheep buyers, agents and drovers. These were pastoral personages, and, of course, to be considered. The dealers, even when roughish in manner, were a power in the land, capable too of drawing cheques to an amount which secured respect. They could not in any case be sent to the men's hut. Tourists, bona-fide travellers, and globe-trotters, having business of some sort, others without any particular aim or destination,—these gentry in the 'barracks' were evidently the 'right men in the right place.'

It must be surmised also that adventurers travelled about among the stations as a pleasant way of seeing the country and spending a few months at free quarters. A man of prepossessing appearance and agreeable manners, 'who wanted to buy a station—a real first-class property, you know,' made his appearance in a certain district just 'after the gold.' He was courteously treated, and shown a variety of stations. He passed a whole summer in the leisurely inspection of sheep and cattle properties, none of which quite suited his taste. He became quite a well-known inhabitant. Many people believed at last that he had so invested, and accepted him as a recognised identity. But he never did buy a station or any stock—eventually contenting himself with a Government billet of a moderate description, under circumstances which proved the presumption of his being a capitalist to have been erroneous.