Children of the Bush | Page 4

for me, Giraffe, will yer, till I git
off the booze.
"His real name was Bob Brothers, and his bush names, 'Long-'un,' 'The
Giraffe,' 'Send-round-the-hat,' 'Chuck-in-a-bob,' and 'Ginger-ale.'"
Some years before, camels and Afghan drivers had been imported to
the Bourke district; the camels did very well in the dry country, they
went right across country and carried everything from sardines to
flooring-boards. And the teamsters loved the Afghans nearly as much
as Sydney furniture makers love the cheap Chinese in the same line.
They love 'em even as union shearers on strike love blacklegs brought
up-country to take their places.
Now the Giraffe was a good, straight unionist, but in cases of sickness
or trouble he was as apt to forget his unionism, as all bushmen are, at
all times (and for all time), to forget their creed. So, one evening, the
Giraffe blundered into the Carriers' Arms--of all places in the

world--when it was full of teamsters; he had his hat in his hand and
some small silver and coppers in it.
"I say, you fellers, there's a poor, sick Afghan in the camp down there
along the---"
A big, brawny bullock-driver took him firmly by the shoulders, or,
rather by the elbows, and ran him out before any damage was done.
The Giraffe took it as he took most things, good-humouredly; but,
about dusk, he was seen slipping down towards the Afghan camp with
a billy of soup.
"I believe," remarked Tom Hall, "that when the Giraffe goes to
heaven--and he's the only one of us, as far as I can see, that has a ghost
of a show--I believe that when he goes to heaven, the first thing he'll do
will be to take his infernal hat round amongst the angels--getting up a
collection for this damned world that he left behind."
"Well, I don't think there's so much to his credit, after all," said Jack
Mitchell, shearer. "You see, the Giraffe is ambitious; he likes public
life, and that accounts for him shoving himself forward with his
collections. As for bothering about people in trouble, that's only
common curiosity; he's one of those chaps that are always shoving their
noses into other people's troubles. And, as for looking after sick
men--why! there's nothing the Giraffe likes better than pottering round
a sick man, and watching him and studying him. He's awfully
interested in sick men, and they're pretty scarce out here. I tell you
there's nothing he likes better--except, maybe, it's pottering round a
corpse. I believe he'd ride forty miles to help and sympathize and potter
round a funeral. The fact of the matter is that the Giraffe is only
enjoying himself with other people's troubles--that's all it is. It's only
vulgar curiosity and selfishness. I set it down to his ignorance; the way
he was brought up."
A few days after the Afghan incident the Giraffe and his hat had a run
of luck. A German, one of a party who were building a new wooden
bridge over the Big Billabong, was helping unload some girders from a
truck at the railway station, when a big log slipped on the skids and his
leg was smashed badly. They carried him to the Carriers' Arms, which
was the nearest hotel, and into a bedroom behind the bar, and sent for
the doctor. The Giraffe was in evidence as usual.
"It vas not that at all," said German Charlie, when they asked him if he

was in much pain. "It vas not that at all. I don't cares a damn for der
bain; but dis is der tird year--und I vas going home dis year--after der
gontract--und der gontract yoost commence!"`
That was the burden of his song all through, between his groans. There
were a good few chaps sitting quietly about the bar and veranda when
the doctor arrived. The Giraffe was sitting at the end of the counter, on
which he had laid his hat while he wiped his face, neck, and forehead
with a big speckled "sweatrag." It was a very hot day.
The doctor, a good-hearted young Australian, was heard saying
something. Then German Charlie, in a voice that rung with pain:
"Make that leg right, doctor--quick! Dis is der tird pluddy year--und I
must go home!"
The doctor asked him if he was in great pain. "Neffer mind der pluddy
bain, doctor! Neffer mind der pluddy bain! Dot vas nossing. Make dat
leg well quick, doctor. Dis vas der last gontract, and I vas going home
dis year." Then the words jerked out of him by physical agony: "Der
girl vas vaiting dree year, und--by Got! I must go home."
The publican--Watty Braithwaite, known as "Watty Broadweight," or,
more familiarly, "Watty Bothways"--turned over the Giraffe's hat in a
tired, bored sort of