The Great Crushing at Mount Sugar-Bag | Page 3

against his name on the bar-room slate, Ikey forgave the corpse and debt and buried him (he was the Mount Sugar-bag undertaker) for the trifling sum of ��10- paid by sending round the hat on the day of the funeral. In due course Ikey was made a J.P., and then began to think of Parliament.
About two years after his arrival at Sugar-bag, Ikey had occasion to visit Townsville on business, and on his return was accompanied by his newly-wedded wife, a Brisbane-dressed lady of thirty or so. Somewhat to his surprise, a number of the miners at Sugar-bag who had, during their travels, visited the southern capitals, greeted her as an old friend, and congratulated him on securing such an excellent life-partner; and, as he had married the lady after only a few days' acquaintance, he naturally enough accepted her explanation of having presided over various bars in Melbourne and Sydney, where she had met a great number of Queenslanders. Of course there were not wanting, even at Sugar-bag, evil minded beings to openly assert that Mr. Cohen's expression of surprise at the wide circle of his wife's friends was all bunkum, and that "Greasy face," as the lady was nicknamed, was only another of his cute financial investments.
If this was correct it certainly showed his sound judgment, for her presence in the bar of the Royal proved highly lucrative to him; and showed as well that he was above any feelings of unworthy jealousy. For although the title of "Greasy-face" was not althogether an inappropriate one, the bride was by no means bad-looking and possessed to a very great degree that peculiar charm of manner and freedom from stiff conventionality so noticeable among the fair sex on new rushes to goldfields. Perhaps, however, Mr. Cohen did think that her preference for Rody Minogue was a little too openly shown to the neglect of his other customers and her admirers; but, being a business man, and devoid of sentiment, he said nothing, but charged Rody and his mates stiffer prices for the rations he sold them, and was quite satisfied.
On the morning after the three mates had discussed their precarious condition, Rody, instead of going up to the claim with Durham and Buller, remained in camp to write a letter. It was addressed to "Mr. James Kettle, c/o Postmaster, Adelong, N.S. Wales," and contained an earnest request, for old friendship's sake, to send Mr. Harry Durham a telegram, as per copy enclosed, as quickly as possible.
Then, lighting his pipe, Rody left the hut, and walked up towards the Royal. When about half-way he sat down on a log and waited for the mailman, who he knew would be passing along presently on his way down to Cleveland Bay. He had inteded to go up to Cohen's the previous evening and write and post his letters there, but Ikey being the postmaster, and Rody a particularly cute individual, the latter changed his mind. The mail man usually slept at Cohen's on his way down to the Bay, and being a good-natured an convivial soul, and a fellow-countryman of Rody, the two were on very good terms.
Presently Rody saw him ride out of Cohen's yards, leading a pack-horse, and turn down the track which led past the place where he was waiting.
"How are you, Dick?" said Rody; 'pull up a minute, will you? I've got a letter here I want you to post for me in Townville. It's not good enough leaving a letter in old Ikey's over night."
"Right," said the mailman, taking the letter; "want anything else done, Rody?"
"Yes; would you mind bringing me out as much lead as you can carry when you come back, 40 or 50 lb. Don't bring it to the humpy; just dump it down here behind this log, where I can get it. I'll pay you for it in a week or two; and buy me a horseshoer's rasp as well."
"O.K., old man. I can get it easily enough, and drop it here for you when I come back on Thursday. So long" and Dick the mailman jogged off.
Ten minutes later Rody sauntered up to Mr. Ikey Cohen's store. Mrs. Isaac was there, opening a box of mixed groceries.
"Hallo, Rody! how are you? Here, quick; stick this in your shirt before the little beast comes in;" and "Greasy-face" pushed a bottle of pickles into his hand, just as Ikey entered--in time to see the pickles.
"Not at work this morning, Mr. Minogue?"
"No; I've come up to have a bit of a chat with you. How much are the pickles, Mrs. Cohen?"
"Two shillings, Mr. Minogue," she answered, with a world of sorrow expressed in the quick glance she gave him, knowing that Ikey had detected her.
"How vas the claim shaping?" asked Ikey, presently.
Rody shook his head. "Just