6 October 1932

WEIGHTED DOWN BY SOVEREIGNS

YOUNG MAN'S STRANGE FIND ON SOUTH-EAST ROAD

What would you do if you were cycling along a country road, and you came upon a hoard of golden sovereigns, almost too heavy to carry? That was the experience of a young man in the South-East many years ago. The story is told below.

Mr. Sutton's Sovereigns.

— Well-known as a grazier and cattle dealer in the South-East thirty years ago. Mr. Frank Sutton one day set off from Portland in his buggy, to drive 70 miles, to Mount Gambler, where he had purchased a mob of cattle.

It was no uncommon occurrence at that time for deals such as this to be settled in gold coins. Either because payment had been requested in gold, or because a few shillings would be saved in exchange. Mr. Sutton paid a visit to his bank, before leaving Portland, and came out with £500 in sovereigns. These he placed in bags under the seat of his vehicle. He was horrified, on arrival at Mount Gambier, to find his gold had disappeared.

Later in the afternoon the late Mr. Sam Helpman was standing at the door of his office in Commercial street, when he noticed a young man get off his bicycle and walk up the steps of the National Bank. Something in his demeanor, perhaps an air of indecision, or unfamiliarity. caused Mr. Helpman to follow him into the bank. There the stranger proceeded to take gold coins from every pocket, and pile them on the counter, while he explained to the manager how he became possessed of them.

It seems he was pushing his bike along the sandy unmade road from Nelson, and when a short distance from the border, about 20 miles from Mount Gambier. he bumped over a dusty parcel, lying in a wheel rut. Imagine his surprise when he found it contained £500.

Now, £500 in gold is no light weight. Being unable to carry such a load on any one part of a bicycle over rough roads and several hills, he had to distribute the coins about his person as best he might to retain an even balance. He decided that the best place to unload would be at the bank.

Mr. Helpman was able to explain matters, and the money was paid to the rightful owners. The stranger refused the monetary reward offered, but later accepted a handsome gold watch which Mr. Sutton insisted had been so well earned. Mr. Sutton's son Harold is at present a highly respected merchant at Portland, and the mayor of that town. — 'Borderite,' Mount Gambier.

Mixed Horses.

— It was the day of the show, about 20 years ago. As was the custom, a dance was held in the local hall at night. They were all horse drawn vehicles in those days, and these were left in the hotel yard. On this night, two lads changed the horses, exchanging a bay for a bay, a black for a black, and so on. They put one sulky on one side of the fence and the horse on the other, taking the traces through the fence. When the owners returned they drove off, not noticing the horses had been changed. It was weeks before the horses were restored to their rightful owners, as some went to other districts. — 'Constant Reader,' Pata.

At the Shearing Shed.

— It was during the 1927-29 droughts. Life at the shearing camp was rough as it could be. The cook often missed his puddings, which he had hung up to cool. He vowed that the men would go with out if the puddings kept disappearing.

One day the horses got into one of the sleeping camps, where the shearers slept. The mattresses were bags of chaff placed side by side. Some of the horses found a hole in the mattress and were helping themselves. When the alarm was given a couple rushed off and the 'offenders' were put in a paddock.

Later, when all were in bed, one man felt something tugging his mattress. Hastily striking a match, he saw a horse head inside the tent, looking at him with big glaring eyes. It had come back to finish its banquet.

When the men heard the tale, they declared that this must have been the 'man' who took the puddings. —'Constant Reader,' Pata

'Boston Island.'

— Boston Island stretches across the mouth of the harbor at Port Lincoln, like a great sheltering arm. This piece of land is some three or four miles in length, vermin-free, and excellent for grazing purposes.

In the early days of the settlement of Port Lincoln, the island was surveyed similarly to Adelaide, and divided into town blocks. It was the Government's intention to give everyone who purchased land on the mainland a block on Boston Island. The island was five miles away, however, and people attached little value to the blocks.

The Government, therefore, reclaimed the island and called for tenders for its lease. Several people put in tenders, but only one arrived in Adelaide before the closing date. The others were posted in ample time, but the small trading steamer which carried the mails to the city encountered some rough weather that it was delayed for two or three days, and arrived upon the scene too late. The successful tenderers, Messrs. [Joseph Kemp] Bishop and Watherstone, had sent their offer privately, by sailing ship, to be posted in Port Adelaide when the vessel arrived there. As theirs was the only tender received the island naturally fell to them.

Later on Mr. [Jas] Watherstone, who resided on the island, was drowned in tragic circumstances. He and his wife were setting out for Port Lincoln in a dinghy, when it capsized, and they were drowned in full view of their [eleven] children. [1 Aug 1896].

Mr. Bishop then became the sole lessee. Only one family resides on the island. They grow their own meat, butter, eggs, vegetables, &c. and very rarely visit the mainland.

The other end of the island falls away into a long, narrow, low-lying point. [In 1928] A sailing ship [MS Minnipa] calling in to pick up wheat, once tried to take a short cut over this without noticing it. The captain saw the moonlight shining on the water on the other side of the island,, and thinking the little black strip was a shadow, went cheerfully ahead. He found himself resting on the sand, waiting for the next tide to float him off. — 'D.K.P.,' Kensington Gardens.

Found On The Track.

— In the boom days of Coolgardie I was running a mail contract between Fowler's Bay and Eucla. The summer of '96 was a hot one, and water was scarce on the road. There were a good many swagmen travelling west, drawn by the lure of gold.

From Fowler's Bay to Nullabor station (120 miles) the water problem was not so bad, as one was travelling in partly settled country. But from Nullarbor to Eucla (130 miles) there was little or no water.

On one of my monthly trips I had a lady passenger and her baby going to Eucla. On the second day out I noticed the tracks of a man. I also noticed that he had great difficulty in walking, as he had staggered about a lot. I also noticed his tracks were fresh. I told the lady to keep a look-out, as we would come on him soon. A moment later the lady saw him. He was lying with his head on his swag, and he seemed to be dead.

I put my hand on his heart. He opened his eyes and very weakly murmured, 'Water!' I gave him a little water and brandy, and stayed with him several hours. Finally I got him up on the back of the coach, strapped him on, and took him along until i met a man who lived in the Bight hut, and who nursed him until my return from Eucla.

I then took him on to Fowler's Bay. from where he was sent to Adelaide in a very weak state. He told me he was six days without water. He kept himself alive by licking the dew on the mallee bark. He did not know how he got off the track and found it again six days later. If I had not come along, that day he would have died. — 'M.J.A., Coorabie.

[M.J.A., the author of this article, and the life-saver, was Daniel Michael Joseph (Mick) Allen - authenticated by his great grandson, Kevin Beinke, on the Facebook Group "Real Life Stories of South Australia".]

Words Could Not Express His Thanks.

—The amusing incident of which I write happened near Gaza, (Klemzig) about 82 years ago. At that tune large tribes of natives used to walk to Adelaide for provisions and blankets for the winter. On their way they used to beg for food from the settlers.

One day my great grandmother, Anne Knuschke, who at that time was about 16 years of age, was alone in the house. A large tribe of natives came begging for food. Great grandmother said she couldn't give them any. As she knew she hadn't enough for all, so she thought it wisest to send all away hungry. They went without doing any harm.

A little later a young natives who had lingered behind came back. He begged her for just a little piece of bread, as he was so hungry. 'All right,' she said, 'but you must not show it to the others.' Imagine her surprise when, as she handed him the bread, he put his arm round her neck, gave her a hearty kiss, and was gone. — 'J.C.R.,' Morgan.

Sinister Story Of The Washpool.

— On the main road from Jamestown to Spalding is the district of Washpool. It derives its name from a waterhole in the Badaloo Creek. In the early days this was supposed to have been a wool washing depot, hence the name.

Legend has it that a bullock driver, his waggon and team, lie at the bottom of the pool. The story is that the driver was murdered by blacks, and that the stampeding bullocks ended their life in the washpool. Some say that the bells on the 'ghosts' of the bullocks can still be heard tolling as they wander along the creek, and that the voice of the driver can be heard moaning, 'Oh don't.' and the grand finale is reached by a pitiful whistle and an unearthly screech.

To the person who is not superstitious these noises are easily explained. The 'tolling of the bells' is but the ping pong frogs putting over their nightly broadcast. The 'Oh Don't' is the voice of a mopoke in a nearby tree, and the whistle and screech are the curlew and screech owl's respective cry. But, nevertheless, it is all very eerie. — 'The Kangaroo,' Spalding.