CAUGHT IN THEIR OWN TRAP

Sign Shifters Who Paid The Penalty

To judge by the bullet or shot mutilated signposts which one sees on bush tracks, many human beings must be born with a kink which delights in wanton damage or destruction. Many of those signposts give valuable guidance to the traveller, yet they are often rendered illegible or, | worse still, turned to point in the wrong direction.

An example of this kind of thing occurred when a garage proprietor set out to signpost the Wood's Well track between Bordertown and the Coorong. Motorists have been held up for days on that track, waiting for someone to come along and take a message for aid to a garage, for there is not a single inhabited house in the whole sixty-mile stretch of that lonely bush track, and water supplies are far apart. The signs erected by that garage proprietor were free of all advertising, save the name of the garage in one corner. They not only indicated the correct route to follow, but also gave information as to where water could be obtained.

Having completed the job, the garage man turned round to go home, and his feelings can be imagined when he discovered that one of his signs had been pulled down in the few hours which had elapsed since it was erected, and that another had been riddled with a charge of shot.

A week later another signpost was twisted around to point in the wrong direction, with the result that the next traveller, a man accompanied by his wife and baby, drove miles into the scrub on a scorching hot day before he discovered his mistake. On the way back he ran out of petrol, and the baby was in a bad way before he reached the town. As a result of that senseless prank of turning the signpost around, the death of the child might have occurred.

I have often longed to catch some of these vandals in the act, but have I never been lucky enough to do so. nor do I know of anyone who has caught them. But I do know of a case where two would-be humorists were nicely caught in their own trap. I'll tell the story, as nearly as possible, in the words of the station manager who related it to me.

'Every Christmas we have a lot of trouble with inconsiderate motorists who leave our boundary gates open, letting our sheep out and the rabbits in,' the manager said. 'So nearly every day I have to drive to the gates to see that they are closed. One day I took an aboriginal lad with me, and as we drove along I saw where some fool had smashed a beer bottle right on the track. I pulled up to gather up and bury the glass. While I was doing so the blackboy had a good look at the tyre tracks of the last car to pass that way.

'When we reached the first gate we found that it had been left open. The blackboy took a careful note of the tracks of the man who had opened it. We also found that the vermin gate on the boundary had been left open.

'Just beyond our boundary the track forks, one branch leading to the main road and the other running out to where some kangaroo shooters had their camp. I had erected a sign post at the branch to save people from taking the wrong turning, and while I was at the gate I thought I would see if the sign had been damaged.

'I found that the sign was in order, but my blackboy, leaning over the side of the car, announced that the man who had been leaving the gates open had been doing something to the sign, for his tracks were all round it. Then the blackboy shouted, 'My cripes, and he bin take wrong track.' Sure enough, the car tracks had taken the wrong turning.

'It was too good a chance to miss, so I set off after him, and found him some six miles farther on, with his car nicely bogged in a creek crossing. He greeted me like a long-lost brother, and so did his companions, but I summed them up as a couple of city larrikins on a holiday. Ignoring their plea for aid, I sat thinking, then the explanation of the way in which they had taken the wrong turning dawned on me.

'I won't tow you out,' I informed them. 'You can stop there till your car rots for all I care. You left two of my gates open; you smashed a bottle right on the track. Don't try to fool me with lies. We know you by your car tracks. You also twisted that signpost around, didn't you? Well, when you did that you caught yourselves, because some other fool had been along before you, and had turned that post around to point to the wrong track. You only put it right again.'

'Their faces were a study,' the manager added, 'and after telling them a few more home truths I left them to get out of their trouble the best way they could.'

What a pity that fate does not mete out a similar punishment to other stupid fools who smash or muti late the signposts which have been erected to guide travellers on bush tracks!— 'Halind.'

Pardonable Errors

The English emigrant on the land has become a rare bird of late years, but in his prime he was a stock figure of humor to both city and country dwellers, not always with justice. Undoubtedly the change of environment and conditions so suddenly thrust upon him made him do things that seemed strange and humorous in Australian eyes; but there was always an element of logic under lying the most outrageous mistakes.

Many of the younger lads suffered severely, because their employers were not sufficiently broad-minded to make allowances in this way. Thinking back over a long line of youngsters who started off on a certain dairy, the majority who come to mind made good, and in many cases now own and manage their own properties, so they probably will not mind a tale or two at their expense in their younger days.

During the lunch-hour siesta which alone makes dairying tolerable, with so much sleep lost at each end of the day, one of the new hands was missing. There seemed nothing in particular to be abroad for, especially as it was a red-hot drought stricken day, and the telescope was brought into play to locate him. Far down the paddock, on the bank of the creek, he was performing mysterious rites with a kerosene tin. Eventually he returned, beaming with pride, to inform the boss that he had voluntarily devoted his lunch-hour to watering the grass before it died right down!

Another lad turned up in a rig that would have graced any prosperous yeoman's fields at home, but could hardly be considered suitable for use on the dairy, as it comprised heavy coarse tweed breeches and coat, cap and leggings. Mercilessly ragged by his more experienced mates, who suppressed the fact that they had arrived with similar equipment not so long before, the unfortunate lad was compelled to wear the loathsome gear until he had a chance to land into town and invest in moleskins, working shirt and bluchers. Then the whole outfit suddenly and mysteriously disappeared.

A few days later, the boss's father was burning off when he came across a bundle of good clothing stuffed up a hollow log, and brought it in, looking for the owner just on supper time. The howl of laughter that went up doubled the victim's former discomfiture, and he promptly burned the lot, much to the disgust of the boss's father, who was of an economical turn of mind, and kept insisting that even if English clothing weren't the most comfortable, it ought to at least be worn out!

A well-known Australian weekly used to make a feature of humorous drawings in which the emigrant lads largely figured as butts, under the general title of 'chooms,' which they employed as a term of address to all and sundry. As a rule, emigrants quietly ignored the paper's existence as much as ribald tormentors would let them. On one occasion, however, the entire dairy was staffed with newcomers, some of whom took a great fancy to the particular paper. With the greatest possible merriment they laughed over every 'choom' joke, cut the blocks out and pasted them all over their bedrooms, and on every available foot of wall space in the mess rooms. Visitors came quietly for miles to see the collection, and voted the lads excellent sports for taking the jokes on themselves in such excellent spirit.

One day, the secret came out. One of the boys asked the boss, 'Why do you call them chooms?' 'Because you fellows call every-body 'choom,' ' replied the boss. 'So we're 'chooms,' are we?' gasped the lad. 'Why, we all thought they were some kind of freak Yankees!'' Every picture disappeared over-night.— 'Fisher's Ghost.'

Could Not Read His Own Writing

A stock firm in the South-East, on receiving an envelope bearing a hills postmark, was unable to read the let ter inside it. No one in the office could decipher either the address at the top of the sheet of paper, the subject matter, or the signature, until, in a moment of inspiration, someone suggested the name of a well-known breeder of stud sheep. The signature was compared with that on a document in the office, and the conclusion arrived at that he was the man.

A few days later he strolled into the office, and in a big, booming voice, wanted to know why his letter had not been answered. One of the principals, picking up the letter which had been the subject of so much discussion, said— 'By the way, would you mind trying to read this for us? We're blessed if we can.'

The successful breeder of stud sheep looked at it, adjusted his glasses, turned the letter round, and, viewing it from first one angle and then an other, frowned and tossed It back across the table. 'You'd better ask the damn fool who wrote it to read it for you,' he roared. 'I can't.'

'That,' said the stock agent, 'is just what I am doing, but he doesn't seem to be able to manage the job any better than we could here in this office.' — 'Woakwine.'

Old Sharper

The man whom I shall refer to as "Sharper'' once had almost a monopoly of the carrying work; he had plenty of initiative, courage and energy, but he also had a psychological kink which made him appear to delight in defrauding people. If he could work a point in any way or make use of a shady trick, he would do so, and at the same time he exhibited a rat-like cunning in avoiding being caught.

One day a young man interviewed Sharper and obtained an estimate for some carting; the verbal quote was one shilling per ton-mile. Sharper sent one of his big lorries out to do the work, but when the bill arrived it was exactly double the estimated price, The young man went into the carrier's office to point out what appeared to be an error. Sharper smiled and shook his head. 'You evidently misunderstood me,' he replied. 'I quoted two shillings per ton for every mile.'

It was typical of the sharp practices of the carrier, and the client heatedly refused to pay it. Sharper's smile broadened. 'Then I shall sue you for it,' he said, 'And if you can prove that my quote was what you claim it was, then I shall lose the case. But I hardly think that will happen.'

The client refused to be browbeaten, but the summons duly arrived, and when the case was heard the verdict was for the carrier for the full amount claimed, plus costs. The client resolved to do what he could to avoid paying what he rightly regarded as an imposition ; then he had a brain wave. There is a saying, and a very true one, to the effect that the man who is his own legal adviser has a fool for a client; but this was one of the rare exceptions.

He waited until Sharper was out at lunch, then walked into his office, handed the cashier two pounds, and said, 'I have I come to pay this on account.' The girl took the money, wrote out a receipt, and the young man was walking out when Sharper came in. He saw the receipt in the young man's hand and turned to the cashier.

'What did this man pay?' he snapped. Upon hearing the girl's reply his face crimsoned with rage. The other man kept a straight face. 'I've come to the conclusion that I am in the wrong over this business,' he said, 'and I'm going to pay this off as quickly as I can. As a pledge of good faith I've just paid in a couple of pounds.'

Sharper made a mighty effort to restrain his mounting rage. 'You know as well as I do that it was only a trick.' he spluttered. 'You only paid that money in because it would render my judgment useless. Now I shall have to sue all over again , for the original amount less those two pounds.'

The client registered astonishment, as they say in a cinema studio. 'Fancy that, now,' he replied. 'Isn't the law a queer thing?' He walked out without listening to what the carrier had to say, and in due course another summons arrived, followed by an unsatisfied judgment summons. The client then realised that he could not longer avoid paying up and did so.

Then fate stepped in. Driving home one dark and rainy night, the young man saw a bulky package lying on the roadway. He stopped to see what it was, and found, to his amazement, that it was a huge, brand new tarpaulin with Sharper's name branded across it: it had evidently fallen off one of the carrier's fleet of lorries. The young man, after a hard struggle, managed to get the big roll of canvas into the back seat of his car and took it home. That night he spread it on the lawn at the back of his house, cut out the brand, and burned the incriminating brand.

For some time he did not know what to do with the canvas, but when the summer arrived he took it to a sail maker and had it made into a fine big tent and fly. The tent did good service for years.

One day its owner was having a camping holiday on a bay on the western side of Yorke Peninsula and found that Sharper had also chosen that spot for a holiday. He waited his chance; when Sharper was alone he walked up to him, shook him by the hand, enquired after his health, and then thanked him for the tent.

'What on earth do you mean?' said the carrier. 'Have a look at my tent,' was the reply. The puzzled carrier walked across. 'It's the same sort of canvas that you use in your tarpaulins,' the young man pointed out. 'And it might have been made out of that big tarpaulin which one of your trucks lost on the Magill road about four years ago. Do you know that I think you ordered the driver to drop off that tarpaulin where I was bound to pick it up, because your conscience was reproaching you about the way in when you robbed me over that carting you did for me.'

Sharper's face assumed the color of a pickled beetroot. 'If I was ten years younger, I'd knock your blanky head off,' he roared. 'You're nothing but a thief.'

'Then lay an information against me,' quoted the other. 'And if you can prove that this was made from your canvas, then I shall go to gaol. But I hardly think that will happen.' It didn't.— H.A.L.

Real Life South Of South Australia (1937, April 1). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92486392