When Policemen Become Bullockies

Hard- Won Victory Over Court Exhibit

A 'bullocky' knows how to handle his charges, but when a bullock is left with policemen, it is likely to cause trouble. That is what happened in this Real Life Story in which 'H' tells of a mysterious disappearance, and the bullock's revenge, as it were, for his capture and sea voyage. An Irish policeman, O'Neil, must have remembered the incidents for many years.

A noted teamster in the north in 1880 was William R. He had two fine teams of bullocks, and when he went south, he left the teams, drays, and tackling in charge of a man. That was near Port Augusta, and the owner went south. After he had left Stirling North, no one could find out where he had gone. No man, people thought, would leave two valuable bullock teams, and then go into smoke. Foul play was suspected, and although local policemen made intensive searches, there was not a clue to his whereabouts.

The man he had left in charge of the cattle became tired of waiting. He sold some of the beasts, and disappeared with the proceeds, but the police found him, and he was charged with cattle stealing.

Finally, after many weeks, William R. was found in the Parkside lunatic asylum, having become insane soon after leaving Stirling North. He had given a wrong name to the authorities, so that tracing him was almost impossible. The disappearance had been solved, and far more simply than the police had expected, but their troubles were only beginning.

Constable (later sub-inspector) W. J. Whitters went to Tennant's Dam, about 35 miles from Port Augusta to pick up one of the team. The animal seemed tractable, and he had no difficulty in taking him towards Port Augusta. His destination was the Supreme Court in Adelaide. Before he reached Port Augusta, however, the sergeant sent a message for Whitters to take his charge across the gulf, from the west side of the harbor in a barge. This was to save a long journey round the head of the gulf.

'As he is a working bullock, you will doubtless be able to convey him across in a barge,' the sergeant wrote, and sent Constable Jones and O'Neil to help. The three obtained a long rope, and went up to the bullock. 'Any experience with cattle?' Constable Whitters asked Jones. 'Not much,' said Jones, 'my father used to keep a few quiet cows, and when I was a boy, my brother and I used to ride races on the calves, until one day I fell off and almost broke my neck.' 'We might have some trouble with the bullock,' said Whitters. 'He is quiet enough to drive, but getting him across the gulf on that barge won't be so easy.'

'Well, it's not much use thinking about assistance from O'Neil,' said Jones. 'He never saw any cattle in Ireland. The only animals they have there are pigs.' 'Shure. now, Taffy, that's not true,' exclaimed O'Neil, and they argued on the merits of Ireland and Australia until they reached the stockyard. Jones had prepared a running knot on the end of the rope, and entered the enclosure with a confident air, bidding the bullock to 'Whoa, Strawberry.'

He tried in vain to lassoo the animal. He was a 'bit out of practice,' he said. The animal did not trust Jones, and shook his head. 'Look out, Jones,' Whitters yelled; 'mind he doesn't rush you.' Jones again swung the rope, but the bullock, lowering his head, darted savagely at Jones, and the latter was on top of the nearest rails seconds later.

'Bedad, ould Strawberry nearly had ye that time, Jones,' exclaimed O'Neil. 'Yes,' replied Jones, 'that's where smartness counts. Now, if it had been you, O'Neil, there would have been a coroner's inquest.' 'Bad scrant to your conceit, Jones,' retorted O'Neil, 'I'll show you how to put a rope round the horns of that brute,' and he went to the clothesline, and took a prop stick to the yard. With the noose at the forked end of the stick, O'Neil approached the bullock cautiously, and, without more ado, slipped the noose over the horns much more neatly than Jones ever could have done. It was apparent that Strawberry was not enjoying what was going on.

'Now, you fellows, take hold of the rope, and keep at a respectful distance from the business end of the bullock,' Whitters, who seemed to know more about the business than the others, said, as he took down the panels. The animal, after some persuasion, eventually approached the opening cautiously. Finding the way clear, he bounded out, and, with his tail high in the air, went off at top speed. Jones and O'Neil, were still hanging on to the rope to try to check the headlong rush, but O'Neil, in front, tripped and fell. Jones stumbled over him, and, still clinging to the rope, he was towed along the ground.

The animal slackened its pace as it approached the gateway to the road, and two bystanders were able to hold the bullock until O'Neil and Whitters hurried up. Jones retained his grip until the end, and rose painfully with his face and clothing covered with dust, and one knee showing through his trousers. Rubbing his knee he cursed the bullock, everyone else, and everything within sight.

'Hush!' said Whitters, repressing a smile, 'a police officer shouldn't lower his dignity, and curse like that. In your position you should set a good example.' 'Example be damned' — he was vehement — 'it's enough to make a saint swear being hauled along like a sledge behind a sanguinary bullock.'

Eventually the refractory bullock was brought near the barge on which it had to cross the gulf. O'Neil approached with both hands raised in an endeavor to make the animal move. The bullock did, but had not Whitters and Jones kept tight hold on the rope, O'Neil might not have remained in the story. At all events, he established a record for a sprint.

It was fortunate for them that 'Bullocky Bill,' down for a spell, and trying his hardest to knock down his cheque in record time at the Western Hotel, came along. 'Spare me days,' he exclaimed, 'I soon show you fellers 'ow to fix that bally bullock.'' Picking up a long piece of wood he approached the animal, and with a few flourishes, and a few more adjectives, Strawberry was placed on the barge, and a rope was passed round a stanchion on the vessel.

The gulf was only about a quarter of a mile wide at this point, and a man in a rowing boat towed the barge across. O'Neil knew what a close shave he had had previously, but he wanted to become friendly with that bullock. About half way across the gulf he went to the near side of the animal and began to stroke him. 'Poor ould Strawberry, what made ye chase me, ye ould villain?' at the same time giving the bullock a dig in the ribs. Strawberry swung his hind quarters round towards O'Neil, who, sensing danger, jumped back wards, and toppled over the low bulwarks. The boatman stopped rowing when Jones yelled, 'Man overboard.'

Gasping and spluttering, O'Neil appeared, and amid hearty laughter he was hauled on board. 'Ooch! go to the divil, both av yez, if that's all the compassion ye feel for a man who's been nearly drowned.' The bullock glanced round. 'Ye ungrateful, murdtherin' baste. It's the second narrow escape I've had this day, so it is.'

They reached the shore at last, and there a small crowd of men and boys gathered. 'What a savage looking bullock,' one man bantered, 'looks as if he has just come from outback. It takes three valiant policemen to bring him across the harbor.' Just then the gangway was let down, and the rope released, Strawberry was not missing a chance like that. He rushed ashore. Quickly, the policemen grasped the rope, and made it fast again. Strawberry felt the strain, and darted off at right angles. Some of the crowd bolted out of harm's way, but a dozen or more were caught by the rope, and sent sprawling in the sand. Some arose laughing; others, with bumped heads, were wrathful, but the police men did not care. As soon as the bullock was safely in the police yard, they celebrated the victory at the nearest hotel.-- H.

Tramp-Tinker As Settlers' Benefactor

The average tramp is content to ask for his rations, or do a piece of work for them — if the worst comes to the worst — but he employs little artistry. I camped with an artist of the tribe, and here are some of his masterpieces. Given a soldering iron and a small bottle of acid, he could always guarantee himself a living for as long as he liked in any sizeable district a few years ago.

In those days, galvanised iron tanks were few and far between, the majority of settlers' houses employing the square, iron, ship's tank. Durable as they were, they had an uncanny knack of rusting round their taps in a very short time. Soap and rags, as well as other devices, were used as temporary stoppings for years in some cases, but most settlers are helpless with solder for some obscure reason.

When a tramp appeared and offered to repair every tank on the place at a reasonable figure, he was generally rushed by the womenfolk, who dreaded the drought that threatened them when their improvised plugs suddenly gave way some day. Deftly and quickly the tramp set to work, and contrived to finish his job close to lunchtime. Once ingratiated with the menfolk, he not only scored a meal, but an introduction to every other house within a radius of miles round.

By the time the last tank in a district was repaired, the ones at the first place had generally started to go again, although not where they had been repaired. The tramp was a skilled man with his tinkering, and where his iron had touched, the patch stayed on for years. He was asked back to put on just such another mend where the tanks had sprung new leaks.

Strangely enough, the plague of new leaks never ceased until the tinker had moved on for other parts. His method was simplicity itself. While the first hole was being repaired, he slipped round to the back, or up and under through the slits in the tank-stand, and made a deep scratch on the surface of the iron with a cold chisel. Into this a drop of acid was poured and left. It took several weeks to eat its way through after the heavy rust had been started, and left no tell-tale connection with its author in its wake.

Another stunt employed by the same man, when too tired to work, was to approach a strange house with his dog, Bluey, at his heels. He asked for food for himself, his dog, and his sick mate down by the creek. Often the tale came off, especially when the sick mate was mentioned, but others had heard it too often. They turned him down.

'D'ye mind if I have a drop of water, then?' the artful one generally asked. 'And something to carry it in? I'll bring it straight back.' 'Right!' was the usual answer. 'Help yourself.' He then filled two kerosene tins with water. The mugs naturally bit. 'What d'you want all that for?' they asked. The tramp then cast a sorrowful look at Bluey, who seemed to sense things amiss and hung his head. 'I'm not going to let my mate, Jim, starve!' he announced in a determined, but grief-stricken way. 'I want this to boil Bluey up in, and he's a fair-sized dog!'

The simple immediately relented and gave him something to put in his tucker-bags (plus a bit for 'Jim,' who had no existence outside his inventor's imagination). The more astute enjoyed the touch, laughed heartily at the trick, and ended up by filling the tucker bags, just the same. — 'Fisher.'

Scotsman Who Considered His Horses

Many years ago in the upper middle north lived a hardy old Scotch family of pioneers named C—— . The women folk worked unceasingly milking cows, making butter and tending poultry to help to make ends meet. Those were the days when insurance agents started to become common.

A practical joker advised one to take the long track to C—— 's place, as they knew him for a Scotchman, and though it would be a great joke to have this fluent agent wasting his eloquence. The agent greeted C——, and with his wonderful eloquence tried to induce him to take out a policy but without effect. He was looking round to see what he could persuade him to insure, when far down a steep gully, at the bottom of which was a running creek, he saw C—— 's daughter toiling up a narrow path carrying two big buckets of water for household use.

Turning to C——, he said, 'It's a wonder, Mr. C——, you don't have a horse to haul the water instead of your daughter working so hard.' Turning to the agent,' he said, 'Laird, mon, it would kill a horse.' 'Living In Hope.'