Coming Across Page #4

"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

								

three months that he caught at those oranges.”

“Wot, yer givin' us?” said a shearer. “We don't know anything about yer
bloomin' oranges.... I seen one of the saloon passengers moochin' round
for'ard last night. You'd better search the saloon for your blarsted
oranges, an' don't come round tacklin' the wrong men.”

It was not necessary to search our quarters, for the “offside” steward
was sweeping orange peel out of the steerage for three days thereafter.

And that night, just as we were about to fall asleep, a round,
good-humoured face loomed over the edge of the shelf above and a small,
twinkling, grey eye winked at us. Then a hand came over, gave a jerk,
and something fell on our nose. It was an orange. We sent a “thank you”
 up through the boards and commenced hurriedly and furtively to stow
away the orange. But the comedian had an axe to grind--most people
have--wanted to drop his peel alongside our berth; and it made us uneasy
because we did not want circumstantial evidence lying round us if the
captain chanced to come down to inquire. The next man to us had a barney
with the man above him about the same thing. Then the peel was scattered
round pretty fairly, or thrown into an empty bunk, and no man dared
growl lest he should come to be regarded as a blackleg--a would-be
informer.

The men opposite the door kept a look out; and two Australian jokers
sat in the top end berth with their legs hanging over and swinging
contentedly, and the porthole open ready for a swift and easy disposal
of circumstantial evidence on the first alarm. They were eating a
pineapple which they had sliced and extracted in sections from a crate
up on deck. They looked so chummy, and so school-boyishly happy and
contented, that they reminded us of the days long ago, when we were so
high.

The chaps had talk about those oranges on deck next day. The commercial
traveller said we had a right to the oranges, because the company didn't
give us enough to eat. He said that we were already suffering from
insufficient proper nourishment, and he'd tell the doctor so if the
doctor came on board at Auckland. Anyway, it was no sin to rob a
company.

“But then,” said our comedian, “those oranges, perhaps, were sent over
by a poor, struggling orange grower, with a wife and family to keep,
and he'll have to bear the loss, and a few bob might make a lot of
difference to him. It ain't right to rob a poor man.”

This made us feel doubtful and mean, and one or two got uncomfortable
and shifted round uneasily. But presently the traveller came to the
rescue. He said that no doubt the oranges belonged to a middleman, and
the middleman was the curse of the country. We felt better.

Towards the end of the trip the women began to turn up. There were
five grass widows, and every female of them had a baby. The Australian
marries young and poor; and, when he can live no longer in his native
land, he sells the furniture, buys a steerage ticket to New Zealand or
Western Australia, and leaves his wife with her relatives or friends
until he earns enough money to send for her. Four of our women were
girl-wives, and mostly pretty. One little handful of a thing had a fine
baby boy, nearly as big as herself, and she looked so fragile and
pale, and pretty and lonely, and had such an appealing light in her big
shadowed brown eyes, and such a pathetic droop at the corners of her
sweet little mouth, that you longed to take her in your manly arms--baby
and all--and comfort her.

The last afternoon on high seas was spent in looking through glasses
for the Pinnacles, off North Cape. And, as we neared the land, the
commercial traveller remarked that he wouldn't mind if there was a wreck
now--provided we all got saved. “We'd have all our names in the papers,”
 he said. “Gallant conduct of the passengers and crew. Heroic rescue by
Mr So-and-so-climbing the cliffs with a girl under his arm, and all that
sort of thing.”

The chaps smiled a doleful smile, and turned away again to look at the
Promised Land. They had had no anxiety to speak of for the last two
or three days; but now they were again face to face with the cursed
question, “How to make a living.” They were wondering whether or no they
would get work in New Zealand, and feeling more doubtful about it than
when they embarked.

Pity we couldn't go to sea and sail away for ever, and never see land
any more--or, at least, not till better and brighter days--if they ever
come.
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