6 February 1936

HOW A BLACKBOY GOT EVEN WITH A BULLY

Let Him Go Hungry When Food Was Plentiful

In the eighties of last century I was working on Thylungra cattle station, Western Queensland. One day I was sent out with a party of men in charge of the head stockman to build mustering yards on a distant part of the run. We travelled in two drays, which held our camping gear and tools. Upon arriving at the chosen spot we unloaded our gear and set to work, while the drays returned to the head station to fetch out enough stores to last us for several weeks.

Three days later heavy clouds gathered to the southward, and all night long the sky was lit by distant lightning, while every now and then there came to our ears the dull roar of falling rain. Next morning the head stockman walked out to a ridge to survey the country beyond. He returned wearing a gloomy expression, and informed us that the country over which the storm had passed was like an inland sea. It was, indeed, serious, as anyone who has been in Queensland will know. The drays had been able to bring very little in the way of supplies on the first trip, as they were loaded with our other gear, and now the storm had made the country between us and the head station impassable.

The one bright spot was the fact that we had a rifle with us, but when the head stockman went to use it he stared in stupefaction at the cartridge packets. They were all Snider cartridges and the rifle was a Martini. That meant that our firearm was as useless as a bit of gaspipe.

Two days later we came to the end of our flour and corned meat, and found ourselves facing slow starvation. All around us we could see little mobs of fat cattle. There were a few kangaroos here and there into the bargain, and thousands of wild ducks had arrived on the floodwaters. But without a rifle or gun they only served to tantalise us. The head stockman was a surly, cross-grained individual at the best of times, but when he began to feel really hungry he became like the proverbial bear with a sore head.

I had Ivo, my blackboy, with me, and for some reason or other which has escaped my memory the head stockman vented some of his ill-humor on the aboriginal lad. I interfered, and the foreman turned on me and smashed one of his big fists into my face, knocking me down. Badly shaken, I got up and appealed to the other stockmen, but they did nothing in the way of taking my part— a quite understandable attitude, for the foreman was almost a giant in stature and as strong as a bull. I was little more than a boy, and stood no earthly chance against him in a fight, so I walked away and sat down under a tree by the creek, feeling very lonely and miserable.

I was aroused from my gloomy misery by a soft whistle from Ivo, and looked up to see him beckoning, 'Get blanket, camp sheet belongem you,' he directed. 'Come longa me. We make camp longa creek. Leave those sulky white fellers.' I obeyed, and he led me half a mile down the creek, where we made a little camp of our own on the bank of a waterhole.

Then Ivo set to work. From some crochet cotton which I carried to make whip crackers, he made a short fishing line, and fashioned a hook from a pin which I found in my 'housewife' mending out fit. Then he procured little white grubs for bait from under the bark of a fallen limb and started to fish. That waterhole was swarming with 'gooyas'— little trout-like fish about the size of a sardine— and in no time we were eating freshly grilled fish. An hour later we lay back on the bank with our pipes alight, fed and contented. During the next two days we lived 'all same blackfeller' on fish, possum and carpet snake— the last by no means bad eating. Previously I had thought that I would never be able to bring myself to eat snake, but it looked just like fish when grilled, and real hunger makes a marvellous difference in one's outlook. And, while Ivo was feeding me and himself on the tucker of his own people, the head stockman who had knocked me down without any justification, and the two other men who had refused to take my part, were starving half a mile away. I derived a lot of satisfaction from that fact.

On the morning of the third day we heard a distant shout, and walked back to the main camp to find that a man with a couple of packhorses had managed to get through the flood waters. The mud which smothered the horses showed how arduous the trip had been; but the pack bags were loaded with supplies, and the three starving men were bolting tinned meat and stale damper like famished dogs. Ivo and I sat down to wait for the billy to boil; presently it dawned upon the head stockman that neither the blackboy or I was eating. 'Not hungry,' I explained. 'Had a big breakfast this morning. Tea's all I want.' 'We bin have 'um plenty tucker,' Ivo put in. 'Pish, possum, ole man snake— plenty tucker all about. Silly white feller go hungry; black feller catch 'um feed allatime, my cripes!'

The head stockman's jaw dropped and he gazed at us in a stunned silence for a full minute; then he sprang to his feet with a bellow. 'You've been catching fish to eat,' he roared. 'And left us here to starve! I'll kill you for this.' But he was too weak to carry out his threats, and I easily kept out of his reach. I also informed him that he had only his unprovoked attack on me to thank for the fact that he had starved, and his two companions could have saved themselves if they had been spirited enough to take my part.

Then the man who had brought out the supplies put in a word. "I'd shut up if I were you," he snapped at the head stockman. "From what I've heard, and from what I know of you in the past, you brought this on yourself. You always pick on the little fellows when anything goes wrong; if you want a scrap, pick on me by way of a change. I'm more your weight." The speaker was an ex-naval men and a good boxer; and in a sulky silence the foreman sat down again and resumed eating.

I worked on Thylungra for a long time after that incident— right up to the time of the great shearers' and stockmen's strike, in fact— but never again did that foreman attempt to lay a finger on me or the blackboy.— 'Larrapinta.'

A Man Of Many Parts

Forty years ago, there lived at Robe a man named Charles Gell. That Mr. Gell took an active part in the affairs of the town is shown by the following humorous sketch by a news paper correspondent writing under the nom-de-plume of 'Casual-Like.' The article was addressed to a popular journalist at that time writing under the pen-name of 'Quiz,' and was as follows:—

'Dear Quiz— Talk about a man playing many parts— how about this for a real live Pooh Bah up-to-date:— When I took up my bit of land in the South East, the chairman of the Land Board who put me through my facings was Charles Gell. Some years afterwards I resolved to take up my quarters in the beautiful town of Robe; the agent who sold me the property was Charles Gell. When I went to pay my rates I found the clerk of the district council was Charles Gell. The same day there was a cricket match. Being fond of the game, I went to the ground and was introduced to the president, Charles Gell. I was now getting used to the name. My favorite dog had to be registered, the registrar signing the receipt was Charles Gell. On Sunday I went to church of course, the person officiating I thought I knew— it was Charles Gell. Hearing of the well kept cemetery with its handsome monuments, I went in the afternoon and found that the superintendent was Charles Gell. Monday was court day; there was excitement about a local case, and entering the court I noticed the presiding magistrate was Charles Gell. I wanted some information about the showground and was referred to Charles Gell, member of the ground committee, and wound up the day by receiving from Charles Gell, secretary of the local board of health, a notice about my pig sty.

I am be ginning to think this is getting serious. A relation left me some shares in the Robe Preserving Company, but I found it was in liquidation, and the liquidator who attended me was Charles Gell. Wishing to join the doctor's medical fund I paid my subscription to Charles Gell, the secretary conducting that business. The local institute is a credit to the town. The treasurer, Charles Gell, who was the first secretary some 37 years ago, gave me interesting particulars of its rise and progress.

The Robe Lodge of Oddfellows is, I think, the oldest in the South-East. I paid it a visit and made my bow to P.P.G.M. Charles Gell, who was presiding. Being an ardent Federalist, I turned up to vote on the referendum. The deputy returning officer was Charles Gell I was now getting desperate, and seeing a wedding party on its way to church I joined them to get this name out of my head, but who should the organist be but Charles Gell?

This is dreadful; is there only one man in Robe? No, I see a number of young men standing at the street corner, doing nothing but smoke. I address them. They assure me they were well brought up, having, when children, been taught in the Sunday school by Mr. Gell. I am in despair, but hearing that the oldest inhabitant is dead I have no doubt this must be Gell, and hurry joyfully to see him buried. But at the grave, in white surplice and book in hand, stands Charles Gell, waiting to bury someone else. This is the last straw! I rush to sell out at a sacrifice, deny myself for ever the joys of Robe, and am seeking a place where Gell is not. —Yours, Casual-Like.'

It is a fact that Mr. Gell actually held all the jobs quoted by 'Casual-Like,' besides several others not mentioned. It would appear that he was not an advocate of the policy, 'One man, one job.'— A.H.B.

Changing Horses

Some years ago we had a jackeroo who showed little promise as a horse man to everyone but himself. Among his duties was the job of bringing in half-a-dozen 'milkers' late in the afternoon for domestic use. He was given an old bay gelding for the purpose, whose only vice was shortsightedness amounting almost to blindness, rendering even a gentle canter a feat no stockman would willingly undertake off the surface of a billiard table. The jackeroo cast longing glances at a bay mare of reputed skittishness, but the boss refused to risk him on her.

One evening it was raining heavily, and 'Black Joe' was sent to saddle up the old horse for the Jackeroo, while the latter changed into a riding oil skin. Without the vestige of a twinkle in his eye Joe said, as he led the horse up, 'Sorry I couldn't find your horse, but the bay mare was handy and I caught her instead.' With precipitate eagerness, the newchum mounted and departed. Over dinner, he dilated on the merits of the mare for the benefit of the boss, and explained how he had enjoyed the ride on a fresh horse, particularly two or three smart gallops after cattle that had strayed a few yards off their well-known track to the bails.

'Wonder you didn't break your neck,' interrupted the boss with a severity that ended in outright laughter as the victim's expression altered. ' You were riding the same old horse with a coat of rain on his hide!'

That tale did not lose sting or savor for many years, but today the jackeroo laughs as heartily as anyone. He made a little pile and bought his own place near Razorback. He made his money horse-dealing, in which he learnt to discriminate much finer points than Black Joe's rude instruction first brought home to him:— 'Bondi.'

Two Of A Kind

Why is it that almost everywhere in the world men are not satisfied with making a living, but are always scheming for some means of supplementing their earnings, even to the detriment of their neighbors? A very striking example of this was furnished some years ago in a northern township.

There were two hotels in the town but as the district was a good one and money plentiful, both did a comparatively good trade. The two publicans, whom we will call A and B, were apparently very good friends, and were both only leasing their hotels. A, however, decided that if he could secure the freehold of B's hotel, his income would be considerably augmented, as he would have his usual profits plus the rent from the other hotel. Accordingly, he began negotiations for the purchase of it, and eventually acquired it.

He then paid a visit to the tenant of his newly acquired property, and said, 'The rent of this hotel has gone up.' 'How do you know?' was the answer he received. 'Because I put it up.' he replied. 'What do you mean? How can you put it up?' 'Well,' replied A, 'you see I bought this hotel last week.' Whereupon B stood back and laughed heartily. 'Well, if that doesn't beat the band,' he said, I've just bought your hotel.' The result of all this was that the two publicans merely changed hotels, and business went on as usual. The public were somewhat surprised at the change over, as the story of the bargaining did not leak out for some time.— 'Argus.'

Real Life Stories of South Australia (1936, February 6). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 15. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92335158