RISE AND FALL OF MacGREGORS

Mortgaged Everything, And All Was Well Until . . .

The epic of Sir Sidney Kidman has inspired countless cattlemen in its time, but for each who has followed in Kid man's tracks, dozen hove fallen by the wayside, some after climbing many a rung of the long ladder that leads to success. Such were the MacGregors, says 'Warrigal.'

One of these was an old-time pioneer, whom we shall call MacGregor. My grandfather has often told me tales of his own start, practically alongside MacGregor. Mac. lived in a split-slab, bark-roofed, two roomed shanty, struggling hard all day and every day to clear and burn off his small holding. His wife toiled at home, struggling to cook, clothe and educate their three children amidst great difficulties.

It was a red-letter day for her when grandfather managed to secure two kerosene tins, a great rarity at the time, and passed one on to her. Mrs. MacGregor promptly realised her lifelong ambition to own a copper, instead of boiling up her scanty supply of moleskins and calico in relays in an old iron saucepan. The entire family wash went into that kerosene tin, and it marked the first step in the MacGregor's long and successful career.

As the years went by, the old fellow, though he really couldn't have been so old as he looked with his young family, added to his possession, acre by acre and beast by beast, until he was master of ten thousand acres. Growing venturesome, he mortgaged the lot and plunged on a second place almost as big, anticipating a rise in cattle prices to reimburse him. The venture came off.

After that we began to lose track of the MacGregors, except for occasional news and hearsay. The sons were sent off to a fashionable city school, the daughter travelled abroad, while Mrs. MacGregor sat back to enjoy the evening of her days in an elaborate squatters' mansion upon one of MacGregor's later bought properties. By this time he had a string of stations extending as far as a man could comfortably ride in a fortnight, and was branching out into fresh investments and seeking for agistment in four States.

The War, with its almost unheard of boom prices for cattle, must have practically doubled the family fortunes by the time old MacGregor died. The sons took over, and carried on along the lines their father had followed. Convinced that there was money in cattle, as they had always found, and sure, as most people were at the time, that it was going to last, practically everything they owned was in the hands of one bank or another as security against the enormous overdrafts with which they went on buying in everything they could of suitable size that came on the market.

Then came the post- War slump, and, like a pack of cards, the gigantic fabric the MacGregors had built up collapsed. The banks were too deeply committed to foreclose, but managers were put in on practically all the properties, and the two sons lost their working interest and had to content themselves with a few pounds a week drawn from the wreckage of their fortunes.

Even this was not the worst that Fortune had in store for them, for in the last depression, they lost even the roofs above their heads, and one of them died, undoubtedly having his end hastened by the worries he went through. The survivor came back to live on the last, and only unmortgaged piece of land left to him, the original selection from which his father had started out thirty years before. My grandfather was still a neighbor, and by almost poetic coincidence, the first service he was able to do for them was to lend Mrs. MacGregor junior a kerosene tin to boil her clothes in, while credit was being arranged with the store for the purchase of a copper and other necessities to bring the old homestead back to a serviceable condition. 'Warrigal.'

Drinks On The Slate

In the days when hotels in the little towns outback were rather liberal in allowing both good and doubtful payers to book drinks, I was a weekly visitor into-a two-pub town. I shared my patronage, staying at one hotel over one week-end, and at the other the next.

I'd been staying at the hotel of Mrs. X., and on the Monday morning prior to leaving I walked into the bar to pay my account. The husband was in the bar, and one glance was sufficient to tell me he'd been indulging pretty freely. On other occasions when he broke out Mrs. X. kicked her husband out, refusing to allow him to come near the hotel until he had recovered.

Passing over a pound note, I told the husband to take out what I owed, a matter of about sixteen shillings. Throwing back the pound, Mr. X. be came rather abusive. 'That's no good,' he said, 'What about a cheque for the score you've had in the books for weeks.'

To anyone else the remarks might have been understandable, but as I wouldn't average a drink a month, and then only a soft one, I was a little bit amused, thinking Mr. X. was playing a bit of a joke. But he wasn't; he was in earnest, and, producing a book, told me my account was over eight pounds. Whilst the argument was on— incidentally Mr. X. was doing all the talking—in walked the lady herself and asked what was wrong.

'Nothing much, Mrs. X.,' I said, 'the boss is making a bit of a mistake, that's all; he's taking me for someone else.' 'He ain't the boss,' retorted the lady, snatching the book out of her husband's hand. 'Now, what's the trouble?'

Rather tickled at the turn things had taken, I explained that Mr. X. had me down for drinks amounting to over eight pounds, and as the gentleman himself started to interrupt, I said I'd pay the account, but it would be the last time I'd honor the hotel with my presence. It was then the trouble started. Mrs. X., quick tempered at any time, picked up a stout block of wood lying on the bar and, screaming at her husband to get to the lower regions, hurled the block at his head. Mr. X. couldn't disappear quickly enough, evidently having had plenty of experience of his wife's outbursts.

With the vanishing of her husband, Mrs. X. grew calm again. Turning to the page where I figured as having owed the amount stated, she ripped it out of the book and then explained matters. It appears when he got on the spree Mr. X., in order to balance matters and account for the short age of spirits and the small amount of money in the till, was in the habit of putting drinks down to those he considered good marks each time he helped himself or took a bottle from the shelf and hid it away somewhere.

'It's no good,' concluded Mrs. X., 'I'll have to get rid of him for good. If I don't I'll lose all my good customers and finish up broke.'

I don't know whether the good lady did oust her husband, as I left the district shortly afterwards, but when I told of the incident to a friend of mine he said, 'I'm not surprised at that. When X. is on the booze he only wants to see someone he knows passing in the street, then he helps himself to an other drink, and down it goes to who ever he saw.' Mr. X. probably had caught a good few bush mugs, but he was unlucky in striking a T.T. in me. —'Old Hand.'

Surprise For A Young Thief

A storekeeper in a northern town used to keep a large black cat on his shop counter to look after bigger thieves than rats or mice. 'Tom' seemed to have a special aversion to little boys, and could, indeed, raise serious objections to their being served at all.

Tom was in the habit of walking up and down the counter, generally keeping close to the shopkeeper, with his quick eye on the customer. If the latter paid the money down, he was allowed to take up and pocket the articles. If, however, he put a finger on any little package before paying, Tom's big paw was down on him at once, a hint that never required repeating to the same customer.

One day the storekeeper had gone for a few minutes into the back of the shop, leaving Tom sitting, apparently asleep, beside a large piece of butter, which had just been weighed. An urchin, who happened to be passing, seeing the state of affairs— the coast clear and the sentry asleep— determined not to let slip so golden an opportunity. He had a large piece of bread in his hand. He would butter that at least, he thought. He had just got the knife stuck into the butter, when, quick as lightning, Tom nabbed him. Deeply in, through the skin, went the cat's claws, and the urchin screamed. Tom raised his voice in concert, but held fast, and the duet quickly brought the shop keeper to the spot. Tom appeared to gain great satisfaction in seeing the young rascal reprimanded.— 'Spooks.'