6 May 1937

BUSHFIRE SETTLES LONG-STANDING FEUD 

Sagacious Dog Retrieves Key Of Situation

O'Regan, proprietor of a Central Eyre Peninsula township hotel, be lied the reputation of the Irish for generosity. He was exceptionally mean, his meanness bordering on parsimony. Anything he coveted, he usually obtained — except of course Donald MacTaggart's dog. 

MacTaggart was a bush Bohemian, typical of those who wander beyond the outer rim of the great outback. He was a good tradesman at most things, and paid his and his dog's way by doing any available odd jobs. Most of this Scot's revenue found its way into O'Regan's till. 

It was during one of his occasional sprees that the publican, who had long coveted the dog, conceived the idea of taking it, while Mac was in his cups. Wallace, for such was the dog's name, was clever. He could do everything except talk, and was, in a sense, more cunning than his master, upon whose prodigal manner of spending his hard-earned money, the dog looked with canine disapproval. 

Not that the dog was of such an intelligence as to unravel mankind's financial code, but he sensed that something was amiss during Mac's bacchanalian bouts, for when these were in progress the dog, instead of dining on succulent bones and sweet morsels of meat at the humpy over the railway line which Mac and his dog called home, used to have to hunt a rabbit for the daily menu.

But MacTaggart, drunk or sober, had a faithful friend in his dog. Wallace never left his side, and when Mac lay in a maudlin heap, the dog mounted guard; greeting with bared teeth anyone who dared approach too near his master. 

The arguments between MacTaggart and O'Regan had been bitter and frequent. The publican was always baiting the Scot with some proposition for the exchange of the dog. Once in his anxiety to get possession of the animal, he went so far as to make a generous offer to its owner of a bottle of whisky, and a 'free house' for a day. Weak in the mode of his prodigality, MacTaggart remained adamant in the fact that nothing would ever part him and his dog.

Came a hot morning in mid-February when O'Regan tried to take possession of Wallace. Mac, on the previous afternoon had just finished a job. The circumstances of the weather — the thermometer touched 116 degrees — together with the fact that he had been a 'dry' for well night six months, weighed in favor of Mac's visiting O'Regan's and going 'wet.'

For ten days a north wind which brought with it sand that gritted in one's eyes, teeth, nose, and ears, had blown. After receiving his cheque Mac made for his humpy home. His course led him past the hotel. It was here he succumbed to fate. The toss of the coin decided him, and into the bar he walked, dog at heel. 

An altercation between the publican and three local farmers was in progress as Mac, throwing his "bluey" on the floor, breasted the bar. 'We're tryin' to get 'im to break the spell and shout,' volunteered one of the men to Mac's unspoken query. 'Ay,' retorted the Scot. 'Yet micht juist as well empty the Atlantic into the Tod River Valley as get O'Regan to turn on the free drinks.'

O'Regan glowered at Mac, but brightened as he saw Mac's cheque, which the Scot had tossed across the counter. 'Fill 'em up, ye mean son of Erin,' he called. By six o'clock MacTaggart and his three newly-made friends, were more than under the weather. 

O'Regan, having got rid of his customers, locked the door, and, turning towards the counter to go inside, was challenged by a low rumbling growl. MacTaggart had left his swag where he had dropped it on entering the hotel, and the dog was faith fully standing guard. Here was a golden opportunity for O'Regan to get possession of the dog; but he had not reckoned with the dog. Each time O'Regan moved towards the swag the dog grew more hostile. The publican tried every wile he knew— cajoling, whistling, coaxing, threatening, blustering— all of no avail. The dog would not have any of him, but repulsed each advance with a snarl.

At last in desperation O'Regan opened the bar door and tried to put the dog out. But Wallace was determined to stay. Finally the man had to slam the door from the outside and enter the hotel through the private entrance. 

Morning dawned with the dog still in possession of the bar, standing sentinel over his master's property. Now and again he would raise his snout and sniff. He appeared restless. 

At 5.30 a.m. O'Regan entered to open up. The dog renewed hosilities with a threatening growl, but let him pass and open the door. Then, rolling the swag forward with his paws, and dragging at the straps, he manoeuvred it out of the bar, and stood watch on the hotel verandah to await the arrival of his master. 

As morning moved forward, the heat increased — a stifling heat, suffocating and choking one as the north wind fanned fine particles of red dust into every nook and cranny of one's anatomy. The heat was so oppressive that it was a labor to breathe. While suffering physical discomfort from the heat, O'Regan was pleased in spirit. Days such as this were good for trade. 

Towards 10 o'clock the bar was crowded. MacTaggart was spending his cheque with an open hand. He had reached the stage in his bibulous course, when he was renewing his feud with the publican. The tension between the two was fast nearing breaking point. When in his cups, MacTaggart was something of a rhymster. He was now regaling an hilarious audience with an extempore ode to the meanness of O'Regan. 

'That's enough from you. MacTaggart,' O'Regan called. 'Any more of that sort of talk and out ye go.' 'Dinna faesh yersel'.' replied Mac. 'Ye know 'tis true, else why do ye cut up so; but dinna forget, if ye lay a hand on me, ye've got ma wee doggy to contend wi. I spose ye'll be turnin' on a wee drappy now for yon lads juist to show there's no illwill.' 'I'll break yer —— ' 

O'Regan didn't finish. The local police officer burst in upon the crowded bar. 'Come on everybody. You, too, O'Regan,' he said. 'It's all hands to the wet bags and tree boughs. The country's alight for miles around, and there's a fire with a three-mile front bearing down on the township.' 

Like magic the bar emptied. The last to leave was O'Regan, who, as he slammed the bar door behind him, locked it and placed the key in the hip pocket of his trousers. Like an approaching storm the fire billowed towards the township. Tongues of flame darted across the sky, now dark and lowering under a pale of blue-black smoke; while sparks, carried on the wind, darted hither and thither like a maelstrom of falling meteorites. The situation looked ugly for the township. A break had been fired, but was not fast enough to lay waste the undergrowth before the fire, which jumped from tree top to tree top as far as half a mile at a time. 

A slight lull in the wind saved the situation. Meanwhile the women had boiled tea in buckets to refresh the fighters, and as the fire was got under control groups of men eagerly drank from the buckets, which by some miracle of womancraft were constantly replenished from kerosene tins. 

At last all danger was passed, and the fighters wearily made back towards the town. Later, the police officer tallied the numbers, and was concerned to discover that Mac Taggart and O 'Regan were missing. As the fire had been extensive, fears were entertained for their safety. The constable was on the point of organising a search party, when a strange and grotesque sight presented itself to the crowd in the shape of a fast-running O'Regan. Clad only in his underpants, and shouting wildly, O'Regan sprinted like an Olympian runner towards the town. In his wake, carrying the publican's trousers in his mouth, was MacTaggart's dog; while trailing behind, whistling as well as his parched mouth would permit, came the Scot. 

Reaching the town, O'Regan's semi nakedness was covered by a wheat bag kindly proffered him by the police officer. The dog, obeying at last his master's call, ran to him and triumphantly dropped the spoils of the chase — O'Regan s trousers. As MacTaggart came up to the puzzled and amused crowd, he grinned and held the publican's pants aloft. A key fell from the pocket. Retrieving it, a mischievous gleam flashed in his eye. He held it up and, running a cross to the hotel, he inserted the key in the lock. Then, turning to the watching crowd, he called, 'Come along, boys, O'Regan's shouted at last.'— T.W.S. 

Land Titles Anomalies 

From the international point of view, Sir Robert Torrens is probably the most famous of all South Australians. 

It is remarkable that a statue has never been erected to him, as real security of tenure was unknown prior to his time, the most careful search through deeds often failing to reveal some defects in a title which might crop up later. 

His legislation on the subject has been copied throughout the English speaking world. Even though South Australia is the home of the Torrens Title, which was introduced here in the third decade of the Colony, incidents still crop up of land that has not been brought under it, particularly amongst the early Wakefield grants. 

Within comparatively recent years a claim was submitted from a resident of the British Isles for an acre of land in King William street and a large block to be selected within a radius of twenty miles of Adelaide! 

Upon investigation, it transpired that the claim was quite in order, as the applicant's great-grandfather had legitimately purchased the necessary possessory title in 1836, but had failed to come out and select his ground. For various reasons, mostly due to the excessive lapse of time before the claim was put in, the case was disallowed, thus avoiding tremendous compensation from the Government, as it would obviously have been both unjust and impossible to turn out the present possessors of any of the sites mentioned. 

Another curious case arose some years ago when two firms in Adelaide simultaneously decided to alter their loading docks, a process which entailed modifications to the lane which ran between their respective buildings. 

The principals were unable to reach an amicable agreement upon a just allotment of the costs, and went to law to ascertain which of them really did own the laneway, as it was included in the titles of both blocks. Before the case reached the courts, however, the lawyers on both sides did a little research work, and hurriedly advised their respective clients to patch up their differences the best way they could, and be quick about it. Both the blocks upon which the warehouses stood had been purchased from the same estate, and there was a fatal flaw in each of the titles which jeopardised them both, and would have enabled the owners of he original estate to repossess them.

Although the matter was smoothed over with efficiency and dispatch, a junior clerk in one of the legal offices concerned saw his way to making a little money, and informed the trustees of the original estate how matters stood. 

They, under the terms of their stewardship, had no option but to take legal action to recover the land, despite their belief that the present holders possessed a moral equity. This, however, was not a legal equity, and the case dragged on until its costs practically bankrupted both sides, and, as far as can be ascertained, is still unsettled. 

The same set of disclosures revealed that a considerable quantity of suburban and rural real estate was involved in flaws of a similar nature, and the trustees successfully brought most of this back to the fold in an endeavor to utilise it to finance the heavy costs of the major matter. 

Only one block escaped them. In some manner that was far from clear it had come into the hands of a retired fettler, who had utilised his life's savings for the purchase and had built his home on it. Old and careworn, he approached the trustees politely, put his case to them and promised that they could do what they liked with the land after his death, so long as they let him end his days in peace. Touched by the appeal, they agreed to do nothing unless they were forced to. 

Twenty years went by, and the old fettler was still alive. He promptly filed an application for a possessory title, as he had lived where he was for twenty years without any alternative claim being raised, and secured a legal title. He celebrated the event by shedding his gentle manner, paying the trustees a call, and telling them just what he thought of them in the fiercest language at his command.— 'Fisher.' 

A Woman On A String

January 1, 1937, was the 90th anniversary of the arrival of the ketch Victoria at the south end of Rivoli Bay, then recently named Greytown. On board were Mr. and Mrs. James Smith, and Duncan Stewart, who was a son of the latter. They were some of the earliest settlers in the Robe district. Mrs. Smith being the first woman to live in the old port. 

The vessel had left Melbourne, then but a village, towards the end of December, 1846, but, because of contrary winds, had had to anchor for some time inside Port Philip heads. Among the passengers was a Melbourne woman, who had become enamored of another woman's husband, and her friends consigned her to the care of the captain of the vessel for delivery to relatives in Adelaide, in the hope that a change of scene would cure her of her infatuation. 

While the ketch was at anchor in Port Philip Bay, this love-sick woman jumped overboard. Fortunately, her clothing was of such a nature that she was buoyed up — she was wearing a crinoline, as was the fashion in those days — and in an upright position was being carried by the ebbing tide towards the heads. 

A boat was lowered and she was rescued, but Captain Underwood, the master of the vessel, took no risks of her repeating the attempt to drown her sorrows. Every night she was locked in her cabin, and the only liberty given her on deck by day was at the end of a stout cord, the other end of which was held by one of the crew. 

Even while the Victoria was at Rivoli Bay, these precautions were not relaxed, and in due course she was handed over to her relatives at Port Adelaide. What became of her afterwards history does not relate, nor is there any information as to whether she was cured of her infatuation for the other woman's husband. — 'Tanta Tyga.'