18 June 1936

A FRIEND IN NEED

Always Turned Up When Required

Jim Day was employed by a Lower North wheat farmer for the harvest, and was carting wheat to the nearest port with a six-horse team. His off side leader was a flighty mare whilst on the road, although at home in the team she was quiet enough. Excellent driver as Jim undoubtedly was, he found it exceedingly hard to manage her. One day the waggon was crawling along, with Jim nodding over the reins, as most drivers occasionally do on long journeys.

Honk! Honk! The raucous sound of a motor horn caused him to jerk his head up and begin to pull over as far as possible to his side of the road, expecting the lorry driver to do the same. But the vehicle in question continued straight on down the middle of the road, at a fast rate, and the noise as it dashed past the waggon threw the mare into a panic. Jim barely had time to roar angrily, 'Dirty road-hog!' before his time was fully occupied in quietening his team. By the time this was accomplished, he noticed that the lorry had stopped, and that a rather belligerent-looking young man was approaching.

'What did you call me just now?' he enquired pugnaciously. 'What I call you now— a dirty road hog!' retorted Jim; 'and I've got a few more, if you'd like to hear them.' 'That settles it. Step off that wheat stack of yours and take your gruel, my lad. That is, if you know anything of fighting.' 'I know something of fighting, all right,' returned Jim grimly. The words were no idle boast, for he had a reputation as a very hard hitter, and the local paper, in describing his contests in the district boxing club, had described him as having a punch like a sledge-hammer. 'Hurry up. Mr. Bragger before my engine gets cold,' scoffed the other, and without more ado, Jim jumped, lightly to the ground, squared up, and in a moment they were fighting fiercely.

A few minutes of combat and the confidant grin on the stranger's face had disappeared to be replaced by a look of anxiety. Anxiety in turn gave way to despair, and in a short time he was on his back from a stinging left that virtually lifted him off his feet. Blinking up at Jim he remarked: — 'Did you say just now that you had a punch like a sledgehammer?' 'Why? Want some more?' asked Jim, turning back. 'No fear!' replied the other, hurriedly sitting up. 'I only wanted to say that it seemed more like a pile driver. Look here!' he added impulsively, 'I apologise for what happened just now. What's your name? I'd like to know a fellow with a punch like that; mine's Ben Manners'.

And so began an acquaintance that eventually developed into a firm friendship. The young fellows found that they possessed the same sporting inclinations and tastes, and before long were always to be seen together.

Years afterwards they parted, both leaving the district for other occupations. Ben did not stay long in his new job and began roving, finally finishing up at a packing shed in one of the River Murray towns. The bachelor life suited him admirably, and the work gave his industry full scope for earning some thing decent in the way of a living. He did not make many acquaintances, but that did not disturb him very greatly, for there was a rough element in camp that year.

One evening at the 'hang-out' the boys were more than usually boisterous, which portended that there was mischief afoot. Ben and a workmate were seated at a small table intent on a game of draughts, the former with his back to the crowd. Suddenly he felt a sharp sting on the back of his neck, accompanied by a roar of laughter. Ben turned good naturedly and discovered the trouble to be a paper pellet sent shanghai fashion from the hands of Buller Rogers, who was a recognised bully. Smilingly Ben requested the mark man to stop it, and then turned and proceeded with his game. Twice again he felt a pellet strike him. He said nothing, but his patience began to desert him. The fourth shot made him angry. He got up swiftly and crossing to the camp bully told him plainly to stop it or step outside. 'Here's some fun boys,' Rogers told his cronies gleefully. 'Watch me eat him alive.'

A rough circle was formed outside and the two were soon at it, hammer and tongs. Ben quickly discovered that his opponent would employ any means, fair or foul, to gain his ends. Consequently he was well on the alert when punch after punch was swung low. The beginning of the end came when Buller mistimed a heavy blow, blundered past, and was knocked flying with a punch to the side of the head. He got up immediately and aimed a savage kick at Ben's shins. The latter, however, skipped adroitly back and then came in again to give the coup d'etat with a smashing left that Jim Day had taught him years ago. The bully's pals muttered among themselves, but not one made a move to stop Ben as he led the way back to finish his game. It was evident which fighter had the sympathy of the crowd.

On the way home to his camp that night Ben was pondering over the evening's happenings and comparing the methods of fighting used by Rogers and Jim Day. Where was Jim now, he wondered. Probably in a good job. Maybe married. Well, good' luck to him, he deserved the very best that life could give.

Something was thrown suddenly over his head and he was forced roughly to the ground, where heavy brutal kicks began to rain on his body. Ben was powerless to move, there being several assailants, judging by the number of kicks he received while on the ground.

'You yellow hounds!' A voice more welcome than were the sound of the pipes at Lucknow came to his ears, and the hands about his throat released their hold as their owner went spinning. Ben was up like lightning to help his friend in need, who, by the way, did not seem to require much aid. The way he set about the four cowards, whom Ben recognised by the light of the moon as Rogers & Co., seemed vaguely familiar. Against two men who could use their fists the louts stood no show, and their rout was complete in about three minutes, Rogers's comrades deserted him, leaving him to retire at length, spitting blood and muttering something about getting his own back.

Ben turned to thank his rescuer; then sprang forward in amazement, pumping his hand up and down like a windmill. 'Jimmy Day, by all that's wonderful!' he shouted. 'What a coincidence that I was thinking of you only a few minutes ago!' 'Not so wonderful, old chap,' replied Jim- 'I was told about your fight at the town, and tried to overtake you before you reached the camp. Good job I did by the look of things. I've been out of work for over six months now, so I thought I would try to trace you.'

Ben saw his boss next day, with the result that Jim was taken on at the shed, where he proved a popular addition. Two old comrades were thus united, and are still together, unmarried, but boys no longer, content to be rovers the State over, picking up jobs where 'they can.— 'Spero.'

Why The Radio Wouldn't Work

Bill was a typically modern young drover, who complained about the monotony of the nights on the road, while his mate, Tom, was an old-timer who dearly prized the silence of the night as he smoked and thought, or didn't think as the fit took him. When Bill started to talk about taking a portable radio on the next trip, those in the know expected trouble between the two. Bill purchased his set, and the two set out. The first evening Bill connected his aerial to the top wire of a fence along the stock route, and hitched up the earth to the bottom one, as a sort of counterpoise. The device worked well, and contrary to expectations, Tom raised no objections.

They repeated the same arrangement at the second camp. Half-way through the programme, the fire started to die down, so Tom tramped off in search of firewood. Presently there was the sound of a scuffle and a muffled blow. About ten minutes later Tom came back. 'Struck a bit of trouble with a black snake,' he remarked. 'Seemed like a six-footer to me!' 'You're not the only one in trouble,' replied Bill, looking up from a maze of disassembled valves and batteries. 'The radio's gone phut!' He struggled with it for half -an-hour, and then agreed with Tom that it must have worn out, as there wasn't another sound to be heard. 'Satisfies me about buying second hand sets,' was Bill's requiem.

A few minutes later a stranger entered the circle of light cast by the fire, and asked, as he dis mounted, if they would mind him joining up for the night, and save lighting another fire, which would mean wood gathering in the dark. 'Make yourselves at home,' was the prompt invitation. 'Oh, there's only me,' said the stranger, and unsaddled. 'What's that you've, got' he asked, pointing to the reassembled radio set, as he stoked up his pipe and relaxed. 'Radio,' replied Bill. 'Going?' 'No, battery's flat,' answered Bill, with a wink to Tom. 'That's nothing. How much would you ask for it?'. 'Well, it cost me six pounds ten, but I'd sell it for four,' said Bill, who had picked it up for a fiver.

The set changed hands at three pounds ten; and early the next morning the stranger rode off with his purchase. Bill went out to bring up the horses. but turned back before he had taken a dozen paces. 'I say, Tom,' he groaned. 'There was nothing the matter with that set. There's a dead snake here, covered in dew, on the fence. He must have short-circuited the earth and aerial.' 'Didn't I tell you' demanded Tom. 'I'm sure I told you about swiping him one while I was out getting wood last night!'— CM.

A Krondorf Mystery

For four days the hayfields of Krondorf had lain neglected while the farmers searched, and searched in vain for the Kauthann baby. It was a beautiful day, in early November, with the sky cloudless, when Mrs. Kauthann went light-heartedly across the hay paddocks, carrying her husband's lunch and the baby. Kauthann looked up as he honed his scythe and watched his wife lay the child, a little tot of eight months, down in a haycock some hundred yards or so away. Hurrying back after leaving the lunch, the mother searched in vain for the child. Hearing her frantic calls, the mowers joined her, and soon the neighbors came. For days the distracted parents searched, and although rumors of giant eaglehawks or wandering blacks were thoroughly investigated, they were result-less, and after sixty years it is still a mystery.— The Padre.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1936, June 18). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92344551