22 February 1934

HOW TWO OLD "CHARACTERS" ARGUED AND FOUGHT 

Extraordinary Ending To Long-standing Feud

HERE is a true story— the names are fictitious, though, for obvious reasons — about two old Irish men whose constant quarrelling when drunk led to an extraordinary incident that came to a dire conclusion.

THERE was a time, about 40 years ago, in the — — district, when it was quite a common thing on meeting a neighbor coming or going from the township to ask or be asked, 'Have you seen anything of old Flannagan?' This is how it came about. 

Two old 'characters' of Irishmen, Flannagan and Kelly— those are not their real names, though— who lived in the district, were, when sober, apparently the best of friends; but let them get into the town and have a few drinks, and it was a terrific job to keep them from each other's throats. 

They would hang around the town arguing and fighting, and usually the policeman had to take a hand, separate them, put each in his own buggy, and start them on the track for home— in different directions. 

On one such occasion the quarrel was particularly bitter, and, as the policeman happened to be out of town, the publican, with the help of others, managed to part the two and lock Kelly, who was by far the worse of the two, in a room, while they hoisted old Flannagan into his buggy and turned the quiet old horse homewards. They gave Flannagan a couple of hours' start, then let Kelly out, expecting that he would return to his home as usual.  But not he; he was bent on having it out with his fellow-countryman and enemy. 

Old Flannagan had been home some time, and was sleeping off the effects of his visit to town, when one of his daughters saw Kelly coming up the track muttering and shaking his fist.  Knowing the trouble there would be if he and Flannagan met, the girls shut and bolted the doors. Kelly banged on the door, demanding to be let in. The girls begged him to go away, as their father was sleeping. 'If ye don't opin the door, I'll git me an axe and chop it down,' he yelled.  

The noise, of course, awakened old Flannagan. 'Yell chop me door down, will ye?' he roared, jumping up and grabbing an old military rifle and bayonet which hung in the kitchen. Fixing the bayonet to the rifle, and thrusting his protesting family away, he stood ready to charge should Kelly burst through. 

Kelly rushed down to the woodheap, got the axe, and in a few minutes had chopped through the old wooden door. Flannagan was ready for him. and jabbed him all over with the sharp bayonet before his family could get it away from him. It was a marvel that Kelly was not killed, so badly was he pierced. 

He spent the best part of the next year in hospital, and after a short trial Flannagan was ordered two years' imprisonment, which the neighborhood considered unfair. Old Flannagan came out of prison a sadder but apparently not a wiser man. 

While he had been in prison one of his daughters had taken up with the son of a German settler. Old Flannagan hated Germans, and he threatened dire consequences, if the girl even spoke to the young fellow again. But young love was not to be denied, and they ran away to town and were married. 

Enraged, old Flannagan went to look for his daughter's husband with a gun. The young couple went to live with the boy's people, and for weeks old Flannagan hung around the roads waiting to catch the young German. The neighbors, in sympathy with the couple, kept them informed of the old man's whereabouts. 

Thus it became quite a common greeting for a while, 'Have you seen old Flannagan?' The police got to hear about it at last, and threatened to lock the old man up again if he did not desist. The fiery old Irishman came to a sad end, returning from town after a drinking bout, he fell out of his old buggy and broke his neck.— "M.E.D.," Port Pirie.

A Remarkable Escape 

To fall a clear 120 ft. down a well containing but an inch or two of water without sustaining any serious injury, seems too much to believe, but I can vouch for the truth of it, because I was there. 

The well was 145 ft. deep, and had been timbered for the first hundred feet from the bottom. Then, because we could not get timber when wanted, the well-sinkers left to go to another job, and did not return. 

Later, when we were able to get timber, my brother and I decided to complete the job to the surface. But this was where youth and inexperience nearly cost my brother his life. Instead of working on a hanging stage, he stood on a couple of loose slabs which simply rested on top of the last set of timbers, and had to be moved up as each new set was placed in position. The rope hung from the windlass, with a bucket at each end of it, so that when one was at the surface the other was at the bottom. 

With another youth younger than myself, I was preparing the timbers and lowering them in one of the buckets as required. Thus the work had proceeded until 20 ft. had been completed. We were working near the dump, joggling and trimming the slabs, when I heard an unusual noise, and, rushing to the top of the well, was horror-stricken to see nothing but an open shaft. 

Shouting to my mate, I quickly got into the bucket, and he lowered away. I took the precaution to carry a rope with which to secure the body, and send it to the surface. Judge of my surprise, therefore, when, half-way down, I met my brother coming up on the other bucket. He had fallen the full 120 ft. in company with slabs of timber, a pick, and a tomahawk, and yet, with practically nothing to break the fall, had retained full consciousness, and had not broken a bone. Of course, it was some months before he fully recovered from the shock and from a minor foot injury.— 'Ekwah.' 

A Courtroom Episode 

Many strange and picturesque stories could be told of proceedings in law courts and courts of justice in the early days of the colony. On November 11, 1840, Joseph Stagg, charged with the wilful murder of John Gofton, an escaped prisoner, was brought up for trial at the Supreme Court. 

As there was no Supreme Court building, the trial took place at the residence of his Honor Judge Cooper, in Whitmore square. The room used as a court had two French windows which opened into the garden. The judge's elevated seat was between the two windows. On the judge's left hand, along the side wall, were the jury; on his right, fronting the jury, was the prisoner in the dock, with Mr. Ashton, the governor of the gaol, standing on the left side. 

Opposite the witness box, immediately under the bench, at a large table covered with law books, briefs, &c, sat the sheriff, Mr. Newenham, the offices of the court, the advocate-general, Mr. Charles Mann; the counsel for the prisoner, Sir James Fisher, Messrs. Poulden, Nicholls, and others. On the floor, on the right of the bench, were a number of chairs occupied by women. 

Mr. Tolmer (later Inspector Tolmer) of the police, was the first witness called in the case. Shortly after he commenced giving his evidence there was a sudden sharp report, like that of a pistol or rifle fired at close range. Immediately there were cries of "He's shot at!" Next moment Tolmer had drawn his sword. 

The foreman of the jury, followed by the other eleven good men and true, dashed through one of the open windows into the garden. The judge, lawyers, and women rushed pell-mell through the other window. The governor of the gaol locked the prisoner's left arm within his own, while, with his free hand, he held a loaded pistol to his head. Mr. Tolmer stayed beside the prisoner with drawn sword. 

The general impression was that Mr. Tolmer, being the principal witness in the case, had been fired at by a confederate of the prisoner to prevent him from giving further evidence, and it was thought possible that the prisoner had hoped to make his escape during the confusion. 

However, consternation turned to amusement when, a few minutes later, it was discovered that the report had been made by the breaking of a defective beam in the floor of the courtroom, which was built over a cellar. The beam had snapped owing to the overcrowded state of the room. 

The break was temporarily repaired with supports, and the trial proceeded. It ended in the death sentence being pronounced upon the unhappy Stagg.

— A.H.B., Halton Gardens. 

Breaking In The Thoroughbred 

Bill Mason was one of those mysterious fellows with always some stunt or trick up his sleeve. Consequently, when one bright morning he left the run for Port Lincoln without any clue as to why, we guessed that some new scheme was on the brew. 

Two days later Bill returned, leading a thorough bred racehorse behind the station hack. We stood around and admired the beautiful young stallion. Perfect in all details, bar a slight twist of the off toe. 

'That bumble don't mean nothing to him,' said Bill, when Mr. Cass, the station boss, drew our attention to it 'He'll be a world-beater when I've broken him in.' 'And he'll be the death of someone some day,' replied the boss. 'I've never heard of a bumble, no matter how slight, that didn't bring a man to grief sooner or later.' 

Bill fussed around Monty, as he christened the horse. 'Look here, you young chaps,' he said. 'You've never seen me break in a horse yet, so I'll just let you learn the fine points of the game. Don't ask questions. Just watch and watch. Always keep an eye on my doings, and you'll learn one of the greatest secrets ever known to a horse-breaker.' 

Open-mouthed, we listened. Knowing the vicious nature of most thorough-bred stallions, we knew this one was going to take some breaking. So we determined to learn. For over a week Bill merely played with Monty till he had him as quiet as a cab horse. 

The next week every spare minute was spent saddling and unsaddling, till both horse and man were almost sick of it. Then one Sunday morning the test began. Securing two well-stuffed chaff bags, we stood around and watched Bill, the wonder horse-breaker, tie them to the saddle. Tying the reins up loosely. Monty was let go. And didn't he buck! He whirled, pigged, and pancaked till he was knocked out. 

Next day he had the same treatment, and so for a whole week. At the end of that time Monty would trot around the yard with the bags on board as if he liked it.  Bill was in his glory. 'See, boys, that's the way to do it. Brains, and not bumps, is what makes the horse breaker.' 

Came along the first day when the stallion was to have his trial. He was that tame we boys were told off to saddle him, and take him into the big yard. Full of confidence, Bill mounted and trotted around the yard. He raised his hat to the station girls and smiled, 'Throw down the rails into the paddock,' Bill ordered. 'I'll take him for a canter and maybe try him out for a few furlongs. He looks a goer.' 

Down went the rails, and Monty was trotted up to them. There he stopped. He didn't fancy walking over them, so just to move him Bill whacked him with his hat. Monty took a small, unexpected jump over the rail, and noticing his rider lift in the saddle as he jumped, concluded that he could lift him further. Down went his head, and a minute later we were carrying the unconscious horse-breaking champion into the house. It was left to Charlie, the black boy, to break in Monty. In spite of the good breeding the stallion was no racer. A neighboring station owner's son took a fancy to him and bought him for breeding purposes. 

Twelve months later he fell with his young owner, and one of the finest lads on the West Coast was found dead with a broken neck. The bumble was not to be denied.— 'Camp Fire Comrade,' Ngapala.