Coming Across Page #3

"Coming Across" is a collection of short stories by Australian author Henry Lawson, capturing the rugged spirit and diverse landscapes of early 20th-century Australia. Through vivid characters and authentic dialogue, Lawson explores themes of isolation, the challenges of rural life, and the bonds of friendship and community. His keen observations and lyrical prose offer readers a poignant glimpse into the struggles and resilience of ordinary Australians, making it a significant work in the country's literary canon.

• Short story

								

had dark hair, lay asleep alongside; and in the next berth a long
consumptive-looking new chum sat in his pyjamas, with his legs hanging
over the edge, and his hands grasping the sideboard, to which, on his
right hand, a sort of tin-can arrangement was hooked. He was staring
intently at nothing, and seemed to be thinking very hard.

We dozed off again, and woke suddenly to find our eyes wide open, and
the young Swiss still studying, and the jackaroo still sitting in the
same position, but with a kind of waiting expression on his face--a sort
of expectant light in his eyes. Suddenly he lurched for the can, and
after awhile he lay back looking like a corpse.

We slept again, and finally awoke to daylight and the clatter of
plates. All the bunks were vacated except two, which contained corpses,
apparently.

Wet decks, and a round, stiff, morning breeze, blowing strongly across
the deck, abeam, and gustily through the open portholes. There was a
dull grey sky, and the sea at first sight seemed to be of a dark blue
or green, but on closer inspection it took a dirty slate colour, with
splashes as of indigo in the hollows. There was one of those near, yet
far-away horizons.

About two-thirds of the men were on deck, but the women had not shown up
yet--nor did they show up until towards the end of the trip.

Some of the men were smoking in a sheltered corner, some walking up and
down, two or three trying to play quoits, one looking at the poultry,
one standing abaft the purser's cabin with hands in the pockets of
his long ragged overcoat, watching the engines, and two
more--carpenters--were discussing a big cedar log, about five feet in
diameter, which was lashed on deck alongside the hatch.

While we were waiting for the Oroya some of the ship's officers came
and had a consultation over this log and called up part of the crew, who
got some more ropes and a chain on to it. It struck us at the time that
that log would make a sensation if it fetched loose in rough weather.
But there wasn't any rough weather.

The fore-cabin was kept clean; the assistant steward was good-humoured
and obliging; his chief was civil enough to freeze the Never-Never
country; but the bill of fare was monotonous.

During the afternoon a first-salooner made himself obnoxious by swelling
round for'ard. He was a big bull-necked “Britisher” (that word covers
it) with a bloated face, prominent gooseberry eyes, fore 'n' aft cap,
and long tan shoes. He seemed as if he'd come to see a “zoo,” and was
dissatisfied with it--had a fine contempt for it, in fact, because it
did not come up to other zoological gardens that he had seen in London,
and on the aw--continong and in the--aw-er--aw--the States,
dontcherknow. The fellows reckoned that he ought to be “took down a peg”
 (dontcherknow) and the sandy-complexioned comedian said he'd do it. So
he stepped softly up to the swell, tapped him lightly on the shoulder,
and pointed aft--holding his arm out like a pump handle and his
forefinger rigid.

The Britisher's face was a study; it was blank at first and then it went
all colours, and wore, in succession, every possible expression except
a pleasant one. He seemed bursting with indignation, but he did not
speak--could not, perhaps; and, as soon as he could detach his feet
from the spot to which they had been nailed in the first place by
astonishment, he stalked aft. He did not come to see the zoo any more.

The fellows in the fore-cabin that evening were growling about the bad
quality of the grub supplied.

Then the shearer's volcano showed signs of activity. He shifted round,
spat impatiently, and said:

“You chaps don't know what yer talkin' about. You want something to
grumble about. You should have been out with me last year on the Paroo
in Noo South Wales. The meat we got there was so bad that it uster
travel!”

“What?”

“Yes! travel! take the track! go on the wallaby! The cockies over there
used to hang the meat up on the branches of the trees, and just shake
it whenever they wanted to feed the fowls. And the water was so bad
that half a pound of tea in the billy wouldn't make no impression on the
colour--nor the taste. The further west we went the worse our meat got,
till at last we had to carry a dog-chain to chain it up at night. Then
it got worse and broke the chain, and then we had to train the blessed
dogs to shepherd it and bring it back. But we fell in with another chap
with a bad old dog--a downright knowing, thieving, old hard-case of
a dog; and this dog led our dogs astray---demoralized them--corrupted
their morals--and so one morning they came home with the blooming meat
inside them, instead of outside--and we had to go hungry for breakfast.”

“You'd better turn in, gentlemen. I'm going to turn off the light,” said
the steward.

The yarn reminded the Sydney man of a dog he had, and he started some
dog lies.

“This dog of mine,” he said, “knowed the way into the best
public-houses. If I came to a strange town and wanted a good drink, I'd
only have to say, 'Jack, I'm dry,' and he'd lead me all right. He always
knew the side entrances and private doors after hours, and I--”

But the yarn did not go very well--it fell flat in fact. Then the
commercial traveller was taken bad with an anecdote. “That's nothing,”
 he said, “I had a black bag once that knew the way into public-houses.”

“A what?”

“Yes. A black bag. A long black bag like that one I've got there in my
bunk. I was staying at a boarding-house in Sydney, and one of us used to
go out every night for a couple of bottles of beer, and we carried the
bottles in the bag; and when we got opposite the pub the front end of
the bag would begin to swing round towards the door. It was wonderful.
It was just as if there was a lump of steel in the end of the bag and a
magnet in the bar. We tried it with ever so many people, but it always
acted the same. We couldn't use that bag for any other purpose, for if
we carried it along the street it would make our wrists ache trying
to go into pubs. It twisted my wrist one time, and it ain't got right
since--I always feel the pain in dull weather. Well, one night we got
yarning and didn't notice how the time was going, and forgot to go for
the beer till it was nearly too late. We looked for the bag and couldn't
find it--we generally kept it under a side-table, but it wasn't there,
and before we were done looking, eleven o'clock went. We sat down round
the fire, feeling pretty thirsty, and were just thinking about turning
in when we heard a thump on the table behind us. We looked round, and
there was that bag with two full bottles of English ale in it.

“Then I remembered that I'd left a bob in the bottom of the bag, and---”

The steward turned off the electric light.

There were some hundreds of cases of oranges stacked on deck, and made
fast with matting and cordage to the bulwarks. That night was very dark,
and next morning there was a row. The captain said he'd “give any man
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