15 April 1937

WHERE SHARP PRACTICE DID NOT PAY 

Station Owner Loses £2,000 Through Greed

Sharp practice reaps its own just reward at times, and in the case cited below none felt the loss greater than the one who tried to be too cunning. 

At the height of the cattle boom a few years ago, when 'fats' were at a premium, I accompanied a butcher to inspect a mob of bullocks of which he had the offer. The butcher in question was in a big way, and, apart from his own shops, used to supply carcases to other butchers. 

The bullocks had been rounded up for inspection by the time we arrived at the station, and after a ride through the mob the butcher bought the lot at the price asked — £21 per head, the cattle to be delivered on trucks within a month. 

The butcher had asked for a month, but he had confided in me that in all probability he would need the cattle within a week. The time to deliver was really immaterial to the seller, and, as a trucking depot was only 40 miles away, it was agreed that only a weeks notice would be required. 

The butcher had another mob to inspect further up the river, so we declined an invitation to stay for lunch and started off. Prior to inspecting the second mob we had our midday meal with the manager of a sheep station through which we had to pass, and in the course of conversation the butcher told of having purchased the bullocks belonging to Brown— as I'll call him. 

The manager put the butcher wise to Mr. Brown's reputation, intimating that unless care was taken, inferior bullocks not seen with the mob inspected might be substituted for some of the best bullocks. The butcher thanked the manager for his well intended warning and we went on our way. 

"Now I come to think of it," said the butcher to me as we drove away, "I've heard something of Mr. Brown. I think I had better get you to take delivery at the station instead of on trucks.'' And so it was agreed. Furthermore, the butcher knew that I could be depended upon to see that no funny business was carried out. The second mob was purchased, and it was arranged that I should send my plant out as soon as possible, lift this mob. and pick up Brown's bullocks on the way to the trucking depot. 

On our way back we called in at Brown's, and an agreement was drawn up and signed, whereby Brown was to keep his bullocks in hand and have them ready for me to pick up on or about a certain date. A clause in the agreement read, 'The bullocks inspected &c.' 

In due course I arrived at Brown's, and before taking delivery, rode through the bullocks, looking keenly for some big fellows we had seen in the original mob. After a good look through I estimated that on a conservative basis at least 50 of the best bullocks had been taken out and their places taken by cattle at least 120 lb. lighter. I had my instructions from the butcher and knew how to act. 

"What's happened to the big down horn bullock?"  I asked Brown as I rode up to where he sat on his horse. 

"That must have been the bullock that got through at the creek," said Brown, quite unconcerned. 

But when I enquired alter a couple more Brown became abusive. Pulling out the butchers copy of the agreement I delivered my ultimatum and said that I could refuse to take delivery unless certain bullocks I knew to be missing were back in the mob and the lighter ones taken out. Brown fumed and raged and said he'd 'see me in hell first.' 

Brown however, evidently did not know that beef prices had started to fall and that the original mob purchased at £21 per head was at the moment not worth £16 each. No deposit had been paid, but of course the butcher would have had to honor the sale had everything been all right. Here was an unexpected loophole for the butcher and I remained adamant. I gave Brown one hour to make up his mind. 

I saw him again when the time was up, and he said that I would have to take all in the mob his men were holding, or none at all. I went on that afternoon with Brown still owning his bullocks. 

By the time I had arrived at the town where the butcher conducted his main business, cattle had slumped still more. There were indications of a dry season and cattlemen were getting rid of their 'fats' as quickly as possible. There was almost a beef glut in the central markets and prices tumbled.

Whether Brown had a guilty conscience or knew that his reputation would not bear cross-examination in the court I do not know, but a writ expected by the butcher for breach of contract did not come to hand. Had it, we realised full well that Brown would have lost his case; our evidence would have been taken before Brown's. Both the butcher and I knew of too many bullocks that had been taken out. 

Becoming alarmed at the fall in prices and the manner in which the season was shaping, Brown put his bullocks on the market again through another agent. Knowing what they were and thinking that the big bullocks might be again included, the butcher secured the offer and got a friend of his to inspect, but not at £21. Brown's roguery had served him in poor stead, for five weeks after the first inspection the butcher, through a friend, had acquired the original mob for £14 per head. 

And the big bullocks were all there when the cattle eventually arrived at the butcher's home town, for knowing what Brown might attempt again, the butcher had his friend take delivery on the spot, arranging by telephone for a local drover to be on hand on the day of inspection. On 305 bullocks Brown lost £7 per head through trying to put over a dodge that is donkey's years old. — 'Drover.' 

An Amateur Policeman 

In the early days of Fowler's Bay a black fellow by the name of Tommy Dodd broke the two arms of his lubra. He was a wild sort of a man, and, though the police wanted him for some time, they were not able to catch him, partly because the local constable was rather afraid of him. 

On each occasion that the sergeant saw him, he enquired a little maliciously whether he had caught Tommy Dodd yet. This galled the constable until he could not put up with it any longer, though he did not fancy the task of getting Tommy himself. 

One day, in Fowler's Bay, he met Johnnie Freeman, a young man, who was helping his father with some building contracts. 'Would you like to see your old friend, Mr. Roberts?' the constable asked. 'Yes, I would,' replied Freeman. 

'Well, he's out at Penong, making a kangaroo yard. I'm going down to Penong, and he is five miles out from the township. There's a black fellow down there by the name of Tommy Dodd. If you could catch him for me, I'd pay you well for it.' 'I'll have a go at him,' replied Freeman. 

They started early, for Penong was 50 miles away, and there was another stage of five miles after that. The yard was made of logs and boughs, which the natives dragged in from the surrounding scrub. Into this the kangaroos were driven and killed. There were well over 200 natives engaged in the work. Mr. Roberts was in charge. With the constable and Freeman was a lad about 15 years of age, whom the former was taking to Streaky Bay. 

When they had almost reached the yard the constable stopped. 'I'd better not go right up with you,' he said. 'They might guess that there is something doing. But you'd better take my revolver in case you need it. Do you feel afraid?' 'No, not at all,' replied Freeman. He was not a big man, but was exceptionally strong for his size. Besides that he did not seem to know what fear was. 

'Well, I'll stop here in these sandalwoods, and if you get him fire three shots in succession and I'll come up.' With that the constable gave Freeman his revolver, who also had one of his own. The boy went on with him. They approached Mr. Roberts. 

'Have you got a blackfellow here by the name of Tommy Dodd?' Freeman asked. 'Yes,' replied Roberts. 'I want him. I came out to get him.'' 'I think you're putting me in a bit of a fix with this mob of blacks here, and me by myself.' 'They won't interfere with you. You can make up some yarn and come up and want to know what I'm up to.' 

Then they went along to the yard. The first native they met was an old gin, who was dragging a log. They helped her to pull it in, then went on to a couple more and helped them. At last Freeman said to the boy, 'You've got the handcuffs. When I throw the nigger down you give me the twitch, not the handcuffs.'

Freeman had caught sight of a little short fellow whom he recognised as Tommy Dodd. They approached him and helped him to drag his log in. 'What's your name?'' asked Freeman. 'Tommy Dodd,' replied the native. 

'What's the name of that fellow over there?' asked Freeman. As the unsuspecting native turned, Freeman grabbed him and threw him to the ground. The lad handed him the twitch and before the black fellow knew what was happening he was securely tied and handcuffed. All the other natives came running up. Freeman fired three shots in the air. 

The constable then rode up, and they put a rope round the neck of Tommy Dodd and hitched it to the horse. He trotted all the way into Penong behind the horse, and not much time was lost on the way. 

In due course, Johnnie Freeman got his reward — one solitary pound! He wonders to this day whether the risk he took to get Tommy Dodd was worth while for such a paltry reward. — C.Y.A. 

The Homing Bullock 

Old Andrews used to breed a distinctive type of baldy Hereford bullock which could be recognised anywhere, quite apart from its brand. He was immensely proud of them, and backed them against all-comers for intelligence, as well as weight, fat and beauty. 

One morning we were loitering round the stockyard, when Andrews came tearing up in a state of great excitement. He lit his pipe and did a bit of quiet gloating before he sprang his announcement. 

'Have a look down in my far paddock,' he said. We looked hard and long, but could only see one of his beloved Herefords 'What are you going to do with it?' we asked. 'Shoot the brute and poison a dingo with it?' 

'No,' he chuckled, faking the aspersion in better part than usual. 'I'm going to cross it with a homing pigeon, and see, what happens!' 

With that, he strode off towards the far paddock and we followed. When we came up to the Hereford we saw that it had a great seven-letter brand sprawled across its rump, and half-way up to the dewlap along the flank. 

'What the devil's that?' we asked. 'A gadget for the Chief Inspector of Brands to teach his kids to read and write with?' 

'No,' Andrews answered, 'That's not my brand. It's a Queensland one. They're all like that up there, I believe. I sold this beast twelve months ago, and have never set eyes on it since. It's got to Queensland some how, escaped from the owner and made its way back here all by itself. Now, did you ever hear tell of any thing like that?' We hadn't, and had to hand it to Andrews that his bullocks were the most intelligent that we had ever heard of. 

Next morning, however, a drover same along the stock route with a fair-sized mob in poor condition. He dropped in for a drink of water, and explained that he was taking them through for agistment, after buying the mob up north months before, and working his way down ahead of the worst of the dry weather. 'You didn't happen to see a baldy Hereford bullock round here?' he asked. 'One got away from me the night before last in a bit of a stampede a strange dog started.'

'The only Hereford that's new round here,' we explained, 'is one of old Andrews's that strayed home from Queensland. 'I'll have a look at it,' he answered and rode off. When he saw the bullock he claimed it at once. Andrews didn't dispute his claim, and handed the animal over. 

'It's nice to see a beast you've bred yourself,' he remarked. 'Too right; I bred that one,' replied the stranger. That started an argument, and to settle it they went over to look at the brands. Andrews was so confident that he knew all his own beasts by sight that he had never troubled to look for it before, and he used no ear mark. To their surprise, they found that the beast was a complete stranger; it didn't have Andrews's brand on it, and the Queensland brand wasn't the one the drover used on his stock. The incident became the mystery of the season, and neither Andrews or the drover ever got to the bottom of it. 

Years afterwards, a neighbor owned up to the joke. One of Andrews's bullocks had strayed on to his property, after having been sold to a man who lost it on the way. He had deliberately faked a Queensland brand right over the old one, and had turned it in on Andrews's paddock in the hope that the old fellow would start wondering, how anyone in Queensland could breed bullocks as good as his.— CMP. 

Another Trick That Failed 

Travelling boxing troupes always provide plenty of amusement for country residents. I remember one that came to Peterborough several years ago. 

Prior to its arrival no expense had been spared to inform the residents that an array of 'champions' was coming into their midst. Outside the boxing tent was erected a small stage on which 'champions' paraded, and the manager would invite anyone in the audience to 'take a glove' with this boy or that. There were always posted among the spectators two or three men paid to accept a glove in order to keep the business moving. 

For the first few nights the show men provided plenty of thrills, but one holiday a well-known boxer from Adelaide appeared on the scene. When he heard the announcer remark that there was a 'tenner' for anybody who could stop the boy from Rockhampton in five rounds, he promptly came forward. 

A large audience flocked into the tent to witness the contest, because the Adelaide man had said that he would make mincemeat of them all — a statement that was literally true in at least two instances. 

After his opponent had been carried from the ring none of the others were same enough to face him. The victor then asked the manager for his ten pounds. While the fight was in progress, however, the bag of money had been 'stolen.' The proprietor informed the winner of this, but he refused to believe it. 

'All right,' he 'said, 'I'll take it out of your hide,' and with that he swung a straight left at the manager's chin. He, too, took the count and was carried to the dressing-room. The patrons of the show went home that night satisfied that they had had their moneys' worth. 

The money was 'stolen' by a confederate, whose custom it was to return it next day. The trick worked all right in other towns, but it failed in the railway town that night.— A.D.