Across the Straits Page #2

"Across the Straits" is a classic work by Australian author Henry Lawson, first published in 1900. The book is a collection of short stories that depict the lives and struggles of Australians, particularly focusing on the experiences of those living in rural and remote areas. Lawson's writing captures the harsh realities and poignant moments of life in the Australian outback, exploring themes of isolation, hardship, and the resilience of the human spirit. Through his vivid storytelling and relatable characters, Lawson offers a compelling glimpse into the cultural landscape of Australia during that era.

• Short story

								

ourselves.

A sailor said that the Moa was a good sea-boat, and, although she was
small and old, he was never afraid of her. He'd sooner travel in her
than in some of those big cheap ocean liners with more sand in them
than iron or steel--You, know the rest. Further on, in a conversation
concerning the age of these coasters, he said that they'd last fully
thirty years if well painted and looked after. He said that this one
was seldom painted, and never painted properly; and then, seemingly
in direct contradiction to his previously expressed confidence in the
safety and seaworthiness of the Moa, he said that he could poke a
stick through her anywhere. We asked him not to do it.

It came on to splash, and we went below to reflect, and search once
more for that half-sovereign. The cabin was small and close, and dimly
lighted, and evil smelling, and shaped like the butt end of a coffin. It
might not have smelt so bad if we hadn't lost that half-sovereign. There
was a party of those gipsy-like Assyrians--two families apparently--the
women and children lying very sick about the lower bunks; and a big,
good-humoured-looking young Maori propped between the end of the table
and the wall, playing a concertina. The sick people were too sick,
and the concertina seemed too much in sympathy with them, and the lost
half-quid haunted us more than ever down there; so we started to climb
out.

The first thing that struck us was the jagged top edge of that iron
hood-like arrangement over the gangway. The top half only of the scuttle
was open. There was nothing to be seen except a fog of spray and a
Newfoundland dog sea-sick under the lee of something. The next thing
that struck us was a tub of salt water, which came like a cannon ball
and broke against the hood affair, and spattered on deck like a crockery
shop. We climbed down again backwards, and sat on the floor with
emphasis, in consequence of stepping down a last step that wasn't there,
and cracked the back of our heads against the edge of the table. The
Maori helped us up, and we had a drink with him at the expense of one
of the half-casers mentioned in the beginning of this sketch. Then the
Maori shouted, then we, then the Maori again, then we again; and then we
thought, “Dash it, what's a half-sovereign? We'll fall on our feet all
right.”

We went up Queen Charlotte's Sound, a long crooked arm of the sea
between big, rugged, black-looking hills. There was a sort of lighthouse
down near the entrance, and they said an old Maori woman kept it. There
were some whitish things on the sides of the hills, which we at first
took for cattle, and then for goats. They were sheep. Someone said that
that country was only fit to carry sheep. It must have been bad, then,
judging from some of the country in Australia which is only fit to carry
sheep. Country that wouldn't carry goats would carry sheep, we think.
Sheep are about the hardiest animals on the face of this planet--barring
crocodiles.

You may rip a sheep open whilst watching for the boss's boots or yarning
to a pen-mate, and then when you have stuffed the works back into the
animal, and put a stitch in the slit, and poked it somewhere with a
tar-stick (it doesn't matter much where) the jumbuck will be all right
and just as lively as ever, and turn up next shearing without the ghost
of a scratch on its skin.

We reached Picton, a small collection of twinkling lights in a dark
pocket, apparently at the top of a sound. We climbed up on to the wharf,
got through between two railway trucks, and asked a policeman where
we were, and where the telegraph office was. There were several pretty
girls in the office, laughing and chyacking the counter clerks, which
jarred upon the feelings of this poor orphan wanderer in strange lands.
We gloomily took a telegram form, and wired to a friend in North Island,
using the following words: “Wire quid; stumped.”

Then we crossed the street to a pub and asked for a roof and they told
us to go up to No. 8. We went up, struck a match, lit the candle, put
our bag in a corner, cleared the looking-glass off the toilet table, got
some paper and a pencil out of our portmanteau, and sat down and wrote
this sketch.

The candle is going out.
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