Squatter Fought A Saw-Mill

IMPOUNDED COWS, BUT WHISTLE DEFIED HIM

Everyone bowed to Jackson, and everything would, and should, he told himself. A sawmill, though, had ways of retaliation, and 'Bogaduck,' with obvious delight tells of the vagaries of a whistle and sawdust fires.

Old Jackson belonged to a type which was once common in Australia, but which is now, happily, growing rarer every year. His grandfather had been one of the pioneers of the district, his father had carried on the property, and at the age of 40, Jackson had found himself the owner of 8,000 acres of unencumbered grazing land, in a fertile district where drought was unknown.

Partly owing to his up bringing, and partly because of that narrow outlook , which unearned wealth brings to some types of mind, he was never able to see any other point of view but his own. He always had all the money he wanted; he could never understand why anyone else should be poor. He had never missed a meal in his life — so regarded those who had to go hungry as fools who had nobody save themselves to blame for it. None of his employes dared to make a suggestion or think for themselves; to give anything was, in Jackson's opinion, an unmitigated folly.

At 50 he was a morose, cross-grained bachelor — for even an outright fortune-hunter would hesitate to marry such a man, in spite of his wealth and the certain fact that he was not immortal and could not take it with him when he died.

One day Jackson noticed signs of activity on the property across the road. Several big trucks had arrived, machinery was being unloaded on the bank of the swamp, and carpenters were busy by a stack of timber. He walked over to investigate. The foreman had already heard of the squatter and his ways; he looked Jackson in the eye.

'We're putting up a sawmill,' he announced. The squatter's face reddened with anger. 'Not with my sanction,' he replied. The big foreman smiled. 'Your sanction is neither necessary nor desirable,' he retorted. 'This spot is handy to the water in that permanent swamp; it's where four main roads meet, there's enough timber around here to keep us cutting for the next ten years, and I've leased this land for as long as I care to be here. I'll have to ask you to excuse me now. I'm busy, if you're not.'

Every day thereafter saw some thing further to madden the squatter. Rows of little wooden cottages were being built by the sawmill — 'Rotten little dog-kennels,' he called them — and right opposite to his own palatial homestead. The mill employes were all married, and all seemed to have swarms of noisy, cheeky youngsters. When the mill s tarted working, the big saws shrieked all day long, as they ripped the giant redgum logs. The fact that he could do nothing to stop it only added fuel to the squatter's wrath. In his folly, he tried to annoy the mill employes by making the station hands impound any of the cows from the camp which they found straying — and the men from the mill declared war in return.

The whistle was their first shot in the campaign. Up to that time the boiler had been fitted with the ordinary shrill type of whistle, but now it was replaced by a raucous, harsh toned one of such power that it would make the windows rattle for half a mile around — and Jackson's house was quite close. The steam-driver noticed that Jackson's men were taking the time from the mill whistle, so he arranged to blow it at odd hours. The mill hands, warned beforehand, took no notice, but Jackson's men would get up half an hour too late and knock off half an hour too soon, until their furiously angry boss ordered them to disregard it and rely on their watches alone in future.

When summer came on, the foreman entered into the joke and then the whistle started blowing its hardest at odd hours during the night — with steam kept up for the purpose. Jackson complained, and was told that the men were being put through fire drill and that the whistle was being used to sound the alarm.

He entered on a fresh campaign of cow impounding— an easy, if unsporting form of revenge, for the mill employes' cows had only the roads to graze on. Again the mill hands hit back. The dump of saw dust, buzzer shavings and scantlings down on the swamp bank was always burning, whenever the wind was blowing towards Jackson's homestead, and it blew that way with every cool change during the summer — someone went down to the dump and flung an old lorry tyre on to it, where it would smoulder and stink for hours. Finally Jackson sought out the owner of the mill and offered to pay all the cost if the mill was shifted. The owner, however, was of the type which values some things above money.

'Nothing doing' was his blunt reply. 'That mill stays put as far as I'm concerned. I've heard all about you from my workmen — and from your neighbors, too, to be candid. If any one in Western Victoria or South Australia has a good word to say for you. I've yet to hear it. Your nickname, I'm told, is 'Bullpig' Jackson, and my only comment is that it seems to be apt.'

There was only one thing for the squatter to do, and he did it. A mile away he built a new homestead; the old one stands deserted opposite the sawmill, with all the fruit trees in the once-splendid garden cut down, so that the mill hands can get none of the fruit— a typical Jackson touch. - Bogaduck

'Blue-Bottle' Made Blackfellows Drunk

Two of us had been on a prospecting trip in the coastal areas of North Queensland, and not finding any of the elusive metal we pitched our camp on the outskirts of a little township, intending to explore the possibilities of making a living out of crocodile skins.

Not far away from us was a blacks' camp, and periodically the row made at nights seemed to indicate that the blacks were celebrating with something stronger than water. As the township did not boast an hotel we naturally thought the blacks were manufacturing some kind of alcohol of their own, but knowing the dislike aboriginals have to whites learning any of their secrets, we refrained from making investigations.

Early one morning a sick and sorry looking old fellow came up to our camp, and in a plaintive voice asked, 'You gottum blue-bottle?' What he meant by 'blue-bottle' we hadn't the remotest idea, but finally Tom, my mate, remembered the color of a bottle containing castor oil. On the bottle being produced the black, after withdrawing the cork and smelling the contents, shook his head, remarking, 'No nother fella.' In his pidgin English the old aboriginal tried to explain what he meant, but seeing we couldn't get his meaning he muttered, 'Me try him.' In a few seconds the three parts of a bottle of castor oil had been tossed off, Tom remarking that the black had taken a dose big enough for a horse. After cadging some tobacco the old fellow ambled off, saying, 'Me show him.'

Soon he was back with a mate, each bringing a couple of empty blue bottles, that from the labels told they had contained chlorodyne. The new arrival, who could yabber a little more fluently than the original visitor, explained that the boys in the camp were very sick, through an over-indulgence on 'blue-bottle.' I knew chlorodyne contained a certain amount of alcohol, but could not vision anyone becoming intoxicated on it. The second black, however, informed us it was very 'strong fella.' On learning that we had nothing that would serve as a pick-me-up, the second blackfellow produced a couple of shillings and asked if one of us would go to the store in the township and buy 'one fella blue bottle.' We weren't having any, so seeing we were determined the two blacks went away.

Later on in the day we rode into the township, and on making guarded enquiries we learnt that a certain party had been supplying the blacks with chlorodyne, which had also been given a more potent kick by the addition of some raw spirit. Our informant told us that the chlorodyne seller had departed hurriedly, evidently having received warning of the coming of a mounted constable from a town nearby.

The blacks evidently knew he'd gone and knowing the storekeeper would not sell chlorodyne to them, there was reason for us being asked to purchase the 'blue-bottle.' As none of the blacks appeared to be employed we wondered how they had secured the money to purchase their dope, but it seems that two in the camp had acted as guides to an overseas party seeking rare orchids, and the money had kept the camp supplied with 'blue -bottle' for several weeks.

Evidently the blacks, too, had received word of the coming of the constable, for next day we saw them moving away through the bush, carrying with them all kinds of bundles. Curiosity took us over to the camp and amongst the rubbish there appeared to be hundreds of 'blue-bottles.' How much money had been spent on the chlorodyne could not be determined, but at the price charged, five shillings a bottle someone must have reaped a big profit, more particularly so with the 'doctoring' of the chlorodyne. We learnt later that the blacks were prohibited from purchasing chlorodyne and that any one caught selling it to them was liable to a heavy fine. No wonder the precautions either, if the row of the blacks at night near our camp was a fair sample of the effects of an over-indulgence on 'blue-bottle.'— 'Up North.'

They Earned Their Ten Shillings

At Port Vincent some steers were to be loaded on to the boat for shipment to Port Adelaide. The animals were penned in the hotel yard, opposite the wharf, and the small herd contained several refractory beasts. One steer was particularly difficult to handle, and the owner, who had tried all methods of shifting it, was almost in despair when two brothers arrived. They guaranteed to get the steer to the wharf for 5/ each.

After some difficulty a rope was looped over each of the steer's horns and the men stood one on either side of the beast. The gate was thrown open; the onlookers barely had time to leap clear as the animal bounded out with the brothers in tow, hanging grimly to their respective ropes. Across the road the steer charged through the wharf gates and straight or over the edge of the wharf into some 20 feet of water 12 feet below.

Fortunately one of the men managed to retain his grip on the rope and kept the animal's head up while the other rowed put in a dinghy and towed it, struggling, to the shore. Some 20 yards of deep black mud had to be traversed at the water's edge, and when the steer was led, finally subdued, to the gangway, a most sorry-looking beast.

Ruefully the owner paid the ten shillings, and vowed that in its present state the steer would bring no more than that in an open market. — F.C.

Shattered His Nerves

About eight years ago a young Englishman, whom we will call Tommie, landed in South Australia and made for a farm a small distance inland, on which two brothers had engaged him as the 'odd job' man. He was terribly afraid of ghosts, and his boss and younger brother told him many hair-raising stories of ghosts.

The consequences were that he decided not to leave the house after dark. His only duty after dark was to fill a small trough with water from a well for their ponies. A windlass was used to raise the water in a five gallon bucket.

The boss's younger brother (Jim) decided to show 'pommy' that such things as spooks abound. He took a pumpkin home, and in Tom's absence hollowed it out and cut an ugly visage upon it. Then drawing up the bucket he tied it over the top of the bucket. Inside the bucket he stood a jam tin and stuck upon this by its own grease a lighted candle. Cautiously lowering it half way down he bound the handle there.

Tom came home at sundown, let his horse go, and went inside to have tea. After tea it was quite dark, and Tom was reluctant to go out till sternly ordered by the boss— who had been told by his brother. Going to the well, he lifted back the cover, and peering down saw a most ghastly face with a spasmodic light from the flickering candle.

With a startled gasp he fell backwards in the half empty water trough. Before the others could do any thing he was out of the trough and screaming for all he was worth, and fled down the track. The others followed and caught up to him, almost exhausted. The young brother blurted out what he had done, but the Englishman had had too great a shock to say anything. Finally, after some coaxing, he came back, but stopped in bed for two days, having caught a fearful cold. The shock almost shattered his nerves, and after that would jump at the slightest sound. He deserted them a week later, and returned to England. — 'Spooks.'