Children of the Bush | Page 9

soft, good-hearted
fellows always end by getting hard and selfish. The world makes 'em so.
It's the thought of the soft fools they've been that finds out sooner or
later and makes 'em repent. Like as not the Giraffe will be the meanest
man out back before he's done."
When Big Billabong cut out, and we got back to Bourke with our dusty
swags and dirty cheques, I spoke to Tom Hall:
"Look here, Tom," I said. "That long fool, the Giraffe, has been
breaking his heart for a little girl in Bendigo ever since he's been out
back, and she's been breaking her heart for him, and the ass didn't know
it till he got a letter from her just before Big Billabong started. He's
going to-morrow morning."
That evening Tom stole the Giraffe's hat. "I s'pose it'll turn up in the
mornin'," said the Giraffe. "I don't mind a lark," he added, "but it does
seem a bit red hot for the chaps to collar a cove's hat and a feller goin'
away for good, p'r'aps, in the mornin'."
Mitchell started the thing going with a quid.
"It's worth it," he said, "to get rid of him. We'll have some peace now.
There won't be so many accidents or women in trouble when the
Giraffe and his blessed hat are gone. Any way, he's an eyesore in the
town, and he's getting on my nerves for one. . . . Come on, you sinners!
Chuck 'em in; we're only taking quids and half-quids."
About daylight next morning Tom Hall slipped into the Giraffe's room
at the Carriers' Arms. The Giraffe was sleeping peacefully. Tom put the
hat on a chair by his side. The collection had been a record one, and,
besides the packet of money in the crown of the hat, there was a
silver-mounted pipe with case--the best that could be bought in Bourke,
a gold brooch, and several trifles--besides an ugly valentine of a long

man in his shirt walking the room with a twin on each arm.
Tom was about to shake the Giraffe by the shoulder, when he noticed a
great foot, with about half a yard of big-boned ankle and shank,
sticking out at the bottom of the bed. The temptation was too great.
Tom took up the hair-brush, and, with the back of it, he gave a smart
rap on the point of an in-growing toe-nail, and slithered.
We heard the Giraffe swearing good-naturedly for a while, and then
there was a pregnant silence. He was staring at the hat we supposed.
We were all up at the station to see him off. It was rather a long wait.
The Giraffe edged me up to the other end of the platform.
He seemed overcome.
"There's--there's some terrible good-hearted fellers in this world," he
said. "You mustn't forgit 'em, Harry, when you make a big name writin'.
I'm--well, I'm blessed if I don't feel as if I was jist goin' to blubber!"
I was glad he didn't. The Giraffe blubberin' would have been a
spectacle. I steered him back to his friends.
"Ain't you going to kiss me, Bob?" said the Great Western's big,
handsome barmaid, as the bell rang.
"Well, I don't mind kissin' you, Alice," he said, wiping his mouth. "But
I'm goin' to be married, yer know." And he kissed her fair on the
mouth.
"There's nothin' like gettin' into practice," he said, grinning round.
We thought he was improving wonderfully; but at the last moment
something troubled him.
"Look here, you chaps," he said, hesitatingly, with his hand in his
pocket, "I don't know what I'm going to do with all this stuff. There's
that there poor washerwoman that scalded her legs liftin' the boiler of
clothes off the fire---"
We shoved him into the carriage. He hung--about half of him--out the
window, wildly waving his hat, till the train disappeared in the scrub.
And, as I sit here writing by lamplight at midday, in the midst of a great
city of shallow social sham, of hopeless, squalid poverty, of ignorant
selfishness, cultured or brutish, and of noble and heroic endeavour
frowned down or callously neglected, I am almost aware of a burst of
sunshine in the room, and a long form leaning over my chair, and:
"Excuse me for troublin' yer; I'm always troublin' yer; but there's that
there poor woman. . . ."

And I wish I could immortalize him!

THAT PRETTY GIRL IN THE ARMY
Now I often sit at Watty's, when the night is very near, With a head
that's full of jingles--and the fumes of bottled beer; For I always have a
fancy that, if I am over there When the Army prays for Watty, I'm
included in the prayer. It would take a