WHEN POMERANIAN MEETS GREEK

Dog Downs Lunatic Ready To Kill Settler's Wife

When dogs go mad they be come dangerous, but they are not as dangerous as men who lose their reason. As dogs, pomeranians are generally regarded more as lap dogs than anything else; but in this story 'T.W.S.' shows they are at times real dogs.

Mrs. Brown had been married several years, and had lived with her husband in the outback sheep country of north-western Eyre Peninsula. Brown, being a sheep man, used to be absent from the homestead for weeks — sometimes months — on end, mustering. The Browns had no children, and Mrs. Brown found the loneliness of the sheep country almost unbearable during her husband's absence.

One day, while having tea with the postmaster's wife, during one of her infrequent visits to the township, the subject of the loneliness of Mrs. Brown was mentioned. Another woman, who was one of the group at the tea party, hearing of Mrs. Brown's terribly lonely life, was suddenly inspired with a brilliant idea. Her Pomeranian bitch had just had a litter of five puppies. Here was an opportunity of getting rid of at least one of them. Mrs. Brown gladly accepted the gift, feeling that in rearing the pup she would have something to keep her mind occupied during the lonely days of her husband's mustering.

The puppy was delivered in due course, and soon made itself thoroughly at home — even though it managed to make a nuisance of itself from time to time by damaging the crockery and the upholstery of the chairs. Brown himself was inclined to be scornful of the puppy's claim to being a dog at all. 'If you wanted a dog,' he would say to his wife, 'why didn't you get a real dog?' 'He's a real pet,' defended his wife. 'Anyway he'll be my little baby and keep me company, while you are away.'

A couple of years later a real baby came to the Brown's homestead. As the months rolled by Pompey, for such was the Pomeranian's name, became greatly attached to young Brown junior. He would lie beside the peram while Brown junior slept on the verandah, and keep guard like a trained and disciplined guardsman; and woe betide anyone who tried to approach the baby, save its mother.

One day while Brown was away mustering, Mrs. Brown, who was in the kitchen baking bread, was startled by hearing Pompey barking and growling. Thinking that it might be a passing swagman, she went to the door and was surprised to see a man, who, if he were a tramp, was not the usual type met with in the Eyre Peninsula sheep country.

Madman At The Door

He wore a faded navy-blue suit, a battered bowler hat; his toes were through his shoes; while on his face there was a growth of beard, at least six weeks old. But it was the stranger's eyes that attracted Mrs. Brown — attracted her while they struck fear into her heart, as they glared at her. The stare was unmistakably that of a madman. Controlling her first impulse to run indoors and barricade herself in, she addressed the man in as calm a tone of voice as she could manage. 'Are you wanting anything'? she asked him. The man's reply was a manical laugh — almost a scream. He brandished an ugly looking knife. 'Yes, I want your blood,' he shrieked.

To this day Mrs. Brown does not know what made her reply to him as she did. But her answer momentarily diverted the lunatic's objective — which was certainly sinister so far as the woman was concerned. 'Well, come and take it,' she said. The man stopped, and looked at her. Perhaps I'll have a cup of tea first to give me an appetite,' he said. 'I always enjoy the sight of blood after a cup of tea.' He put the knife away, and followed Mrs. Brown into the kitchen. As she made the tea Mrs. Brown's mind worked overtime. Finally she decided upon her course of action. Pouring out the tea, she bade the madman be seated, and handed him his tea and a plate of corned beef and some bread.

As he hungrily devoured the food she quietly slipped out of the room, went to her bedroom, and hastily donning a coat, hurried noiselessly to the crib and picked up Brown junior. She left the house by the front door and commenced to walk across country to her nearest neighbor, eight miles away.

An old watercourse wound its tortuous course between the two properties, and Mrs. Brown decided to follow its track. The dog apparently did not hear her leave, as he was still growling and barking at the back of the house as she went.

Five Hours To Reach Neighbor

As she hurried along the bed of the creek for cover, she wondered whether her bush craft would outwit that of the lunatic. She could still hear Pomjey barking and hoped that he would not follow her. It took her five hours to reach the neighboring homestead. Almost exhausted, she walked into the yard to be met by Mrs. Sandow. Quickly she gasped out her story, and as the Sandows were connected with the township by telephone, the police were advised.

They were glad of the information, as it turned out that the man was a homicidal maniac, a Greek laborer who had some weeks previously escaped from the Port Lincoln lock-up whilst on his way under escort to Adelaide. To this day the police can never quite understand how the dog managed to assist them in the way he did; for when they arrived at Brown's homestead they found the lunatic stretched on the floor with an ugly cut in his temple, while Pompey lay upon his chest, his teeth holding the man's throat, not tightly enough to sever any artery, but with a grip that drew blood.

By the maniac's side was his long knife, and it is assumed that the man, after finishing his meal, went in search of Mrs. Brown and was immediately attacked by the dog, which must have accidentally tripped him, and in falling the lunatic must have struck his head on the edge of the solid wooden table and been rendered unconscious. However, the dog was sagacious, and seeing the man down, flew for his throat, and probably imagined that he held him prisoner. It was not until the police administered to the man that he regained consciousness. When he came to he muttered, 'That damn dog!'

Mr. Brown does not now pass any scathing remarks concerning Pompey's claim to being a real dog, but has presented him with a medal on which is inscribed, 'For valor.' — T.W.S.

Free Beer Nearly Meant Disaster

Driving back in a buckboard, after having visited a station manager, I noticed two men waving to me from the small railway goods shed. I recognised both men. They had vans, and were loaded with goods for a small town some 60 miles away from the railway line. Both were more or less inebriated, and, on getting down from the buckboard, I was invited to have a drink. As I rarely touched beer or spirits, I asked if there was any water in their bags.

'Never-mind the water,' said one; 'there's half a cask of beer inside here. Come and have one.' I was told that the cask had arrived leaking, and the stationmaster had advised the men not to take delivery.

At any rate, I had a drink of the luke-warm beer, but refused an invitation to take a kerosene tin full of it along with me. I decided to spend the night with the vanmen, but they did not seem anxious to leave the free beer. We left the station yard one van behind the other, with me in the rear. After going about two miles, I saw the second van leave the road a few yards, and, before I realised it, there was a bumping noise as the van jolted over a deep gully. Almost simultaneously, the driver fell overboard almost on top of the two horses in the pole. I distinctly saw one of the back wheels of the heavily-loaded van pass over the man.

'What Happened?'

The horses bolted and went careering away towards some dense scrub. Driving over to where the man lay, I found him endeavoring to get up. All he could say was, 'What happened?'

I could see it was little use explaining, for within a few seconds the man went out to it. The other vanman ran back, and between us we lifted the injured man into the back of the buckboard. I was told to drive over to where the unattended van was in the scrub. We lifted out our patient, who was semi-conscious and asking for a drink. With the exception of a couple of bruises and a cut or two about the face, the man was uninjured, and he celebrated his escape by bursting open a case of whisky belonging to the hotel for which he was carrying goods. Not a single strap of the harness of the man's team was broken. I don't know whether the man suffered any pain through the night, but possibly the amount of whisky he consumed counteracted any ill-effects of the fall.

In the morning I was reluctant to leave the pair, but one was now perfectly sober. Before leaving, the two men had asked me not to say anything of what had happened in the town to where they were going. None had seen the accident; there was no telephone communication, and no one passed me on the way, but the first words that greeted me on arriving at the hotel were in connection with the accident. It seemed as though the whole town knew. So as not to let the two vanmen think I had failed to keep my promise, I made several enquiries as to how the news had reached the town, but no one seemed to know. Not to this day have I learnt how the news reached the town.— 'Outback.'

Rich Man Without A Home

Trade unionism has never penetrated amongst country workers to the same extent that it has in the cities, except for one or two powerful organisations, such as the Shearers' Union, but in the early days of Fede ration, strong efforts were made to secure combination amongst other country workers. Many men refused to have anything to do with the union organisers, while landowners and employers put the strongest possible pressure upon all those that they could influence not to join.

Old Sandy McFarlane, in one district, was the heart and soul of the opposition. Not only did he discharge instantly any of his own men who fell a prey to the wiles of the organisers, but he preached opposition in season and out of season, actually calling and addressing a number of meetings on the subject. So far as the union organiser was concerned, he fought old Sandy fairly and squarely, calling and addressing his own meetings, as well as twice debating the whole subject in public with the old man. The second of these debates broke up with a free fight between partisans. After this, the ill-feeling was so intense that reconciliation became impossible for years afterwards.

Eventually the organiser left the district, in accordance with his travelling schedule. Had old Sandy let matters drop at this state, probably all would have been well. Instead, he openly proclaimed that he had 'licked the organiser to a frazzle' and starved him out of the district. With his opponent's restraining hand removed, the wilder spirits amongst the young unionists readily responded in the same vein. 'You'll find you'll be the one that won't be able to live in the district,' old Sandy was threatened, 'if you don't keep a quieter tongue in your head!' The old man took no notice, and continued to voice his opinions in the same unbridled way.

House In Flames

One night his home in town went up in names, nothing being saved. The spectators were mostly opponents of Sandy's, who saw that there was no loss of lite, but would not budge to save a stick of furniture from the flames for reward or threat. Bristling with indignation over what he rightly enough took to be deliberate arson, Sandy was compelled to leave town and go back to the homestead on his farm to live.

Inside a month, this, too, was burned down over his head, although the men working on his place managed to save the bulk of his goods. Sandy's next move was into his third and last house, a fine bungalow lying empty on a property he had bought some years before. This, too, failed to last very long, and, homeless but still defiant, Sandy proclaimed that anyone who wished to force him to change his opinion would have to burn him as well as his house.

As his enemies were apparently not prepared to go to such extremes, Sandy was left unconverted, but very much exposed to the winter rains under a tarpaulin. Eventually, he ran himself up a hut with a concrete floor, galvanized iron sides and roof, and angle-iron frame work in place of wooden joists. He issued an open challenge to the incendiarists to go ahead, but it was never taken up.

Years went by and the controversy was forgotten by every one except Sandy. Again and again, he was advised to rebuild one of his homesteads and enjoy a little comfort in his old age, but he refused to do so, as he could never be made to believe that all rancor had died down. Eventually, he passed away in his cheerless hut, leaving behind him a fortune of thousands of pounds, all of which had been unable to secure a real roof over his head for the end of his life.— 'Warrigal.'