Steelman's Pupil

"Steelman's Pupil" is a poignant short story by Australian writer Henry Lawson, exploring themes of mentorship, hardship, and the struggles faced by those living in rural Australia. The narrative follows the life of a young apprentice who learns valuable lessons from his master, Steelman, in a harsh and unforgiving environment. Through vivid imagery and relatable characters, Lawson captures the essence of resilience and the complexities of human relationships in the face of adversity. The story reflects the broader social issues of the time while highlighting the transformative power of guidance and education.

• Short story

								
Steelman was a hard case, but some said that Smith was harder. Steelman
was big and good-looking, and good-natured in his way; he was a spieler,
pure and simple, but did things in humorous style. Smith was small
and weedy, of the sneak variety; he had a whining tone and a cringing
manner. He seemed to be always so afraid you were going to hit him that
he would make you want to hit him on that account alone.

Steelman “had” you in a fashion that would make your friends laugh.
Smith would “have” you in a way which made you feel mad at the bare
recollection of having been taken in by so contemptible a little sneak.

They battled round together in the North Island of Maoriland for a
couple of years.

One day Steelman said to Smith:

“Look here, Smithy, you don't know you're born yet. I'm going to take
you in hand and teach you.”

And he did. If Smith wouldn't do as Steelman told him, or wasn't
successful in cadging, or mugged any game they had in hand, Steelman
would threaten to stoush him; and, if the warning proved ineffectual
after the second or third time, he would stoush him.

One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couple
kept a general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, and
Smith was just starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelman
cried:

“Here!--hold on. Now where do you think you're going to?”

“Why, I'm going to try and chew the old party's lug, of course. We'll be
out of tucker in a couple of days,” said Smith.

Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way.

“It's no use,” he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach and
disgust. “It's no use. I might as well give it best. I can see that it's
only waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be able
to knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time and
trouble and pains I've took with your education, you hain't got any
more sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learn
sense? Hey? After all, I--Smith, you're a born mug!”

He always called Smith a “mug” when he was particularly wild at him, for
it hurt Smith more than anything else. “There's only two classes in the
world, spielers and mugs--and you're a mug, Smith.”

“What have I done, anyway?” asked Smith helplessly. “That's all I want
to know.”

Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand.

“That will do, Smith,” he said listlessly; “don't say another word, old
man; it'll only make my head worse; don't talk. You might, at the very
least, have a little consideration for my feelings--even if you haven't
for your own interests.” He paused and regarded Smith sadly. “Well, I'll
give you another show. I'll stage the business for you.”

He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers--and
they were bad enough; they were hopelessly “gone” beyond the extreme
limit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and a
pair of “'lastic-sides” which had fallen off a tramp and lain baking and
rotting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith with
bits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith's eyes, and
burning spots on his cheek-bones with some greasepaints he used when
they travelled as “The Great Steelman and Smith Combination Star
Dramatic Co.” He damped Smith's hair to make it dark and lank, and his
face more corpse-like by comparison--in short, he made him up to look
like a man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, and
had been artificially kept alive in the interests of science.

“Now you're ready,” said Steelman to Smith. “You left your whare the day
before yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at Palmerston. An
old mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and carried
you on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that Providence
had something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that time
and place above all others. Your mate also was hard up; he was going to
a job--the first show for work he'd had in nine months--but he gave it
up to see you through; he'd give up his life rather than desert a mate
in trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker to
help you on to Palmerston. You know you've got to die, and you only want
to live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on a
bed.

“Remember, they're Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotch
barrack pretty well by now--if you don't it ain't my fault. You were
born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about the
town. Your father's dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the
Bobbie Burns to Sydney. Your poor old mother's in Aberdeen now--Bruce
or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now--poor old
soul!--any way, you'll never see her again. You wish you'd never run
away from home. You wish you'd been a better son to your poor old
mother; you wish you'd written to her and answered her last letter. You
only want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness and
a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some sort to
brace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this delicately.)
Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a wheeze--like this;
get up the nearest approach to a deathrattle that you can. Move as
if you were badly hurt in your wind--like this. (If you don't do it
better'n that, I'll stoush you.) Make your face a bit longer and keep
your lips dry--don't lick them, you damned fool!-breathe on them; make
'em dry as chips. That's the only decent pair of breeks you've got, and
the only shoon. You're a Presbyterian--not a U.P., the Auld Kirk. Your
mate would have come up to the house only--well, you'll have to use the
stuffing in your head a bit; you can't expect me to do all the brain
work. Remember it's consumption you've got--galloping consumption; you
know all the symptoms--pain on top of your right lung, bad cough, and
night sweats. Something tells you that you won't see the new year--it's
a week off Christmas now. And if you come back without anything, I'll
blessed soon put you out of your misery.”

Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much various
tucker as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-off
tweeds; a new pair of 'lastic-sides from the store stock; two bottles
of patent medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-made
consumption-cure; also a letter to a hospital-committee man, and three
shillings to help him on his way to Palmerston. He also got about half
a mile of sympathy, religious consolation, and medical advice which he
didn't remember.

“Now,” he said, triumphantly, “am I a mug or not?”

Steelman kindly ignored the question. “I did have a better opinion of
the Scotch,” he said, contemptuously.

Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in six
months he managed that pub. Smith, who'd been away on his own account,
turned up in the town one day clean broke, and in a deplorable state. He

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