Street Arabs.

Otago Witness, Issue 1650, 7 July 1883, Page 25

Street Arabs.

( Written for the Otago Wittier.)

By ORA HOPE.

Chapter I. TB-EET Arabs, pure and simple. With no sweet memories of home and parents, no early impressions of truth and ffoodneas, the wonder is that they did not become criminals of the worst type. Their father came to Australia when Billy was two years old and Bobby four. After a couple of years' absence he wrote, enclosing passage warrants and a small sum for their outfit.

" Luck had been against him," he said, " but now things were looking better. He had given up looking for a pile, and gone to work for wages, which he regretted not having done at first."

Mrs Carr lost no time in embarking, but the privation she had endured in her husband's absence trying to win a crust for her little ones had told its tale on a constitution never robust. She died on the passage. Poor soul ! she might have been an affectionate mother under happier circumstances, but the bitter struggle for food had left no time for the emotions, and I fear her little laddies were not her comfort, but her burden.

The children did not seem to miss her ; they were accustomed to being alone in that dreariest of loneliness, a crowded city. The »hip was so much better than the streets, because there was plenty of food to be had, and the half-starved children enjoyed the creature comforts and forgot everything else. They were inseparable. They clung to each other with a wonderful love. Bobby's care of his little brother was touching — Billy, in turn, looking up to him with the greatest admiration. Their father did not meet them on their arrival. Advertisements were inserted in all the Colonial papers, without avail. Robert Oarr was never heard of. * In those lawless days it was not an unusual occurrence for men to disappear, leaving no trace behind.

How the little waifs lived for the next six years God only knows; but they lived, and waxed strong. At twelve Bobby was a wellgrown, sturdy lad, with a bright, intelligent face. Billy, too, had grown, but was not so winning as his brother ; more slightly formed, awkward and shy in manner, and as dependent on his brother as in his babyhood. Melbourne had been hitherto a very paradise for tramps. As Bobby observed — " It's a very fine country. If ye ain't got boots you can go barefoot, an' if ye can't pay for yer bed ye can sleep out." The climate was mild. Under the shelter of a wall or fence, coiled in the ragged blankets some good Samaritan had given them, the little fellows slept soundly. But civilisasation was marching on in the Colony. Although going barefoot was not yet an indictable offence, sleeping out became one. The poor wretch who could not afford to pay for a bed offended the majesty of the law by laying his weary head upon mother earth, and was pounced on' by the police and provided l with lodgings at the expense of. his country and his reputation. Hcfw many a now hardened criminal' owes his first acquaintance with gaols and gaol-birds to the iniquitous surveillance which made poverty a crime. If Bobby and Billy dreaded $aol, it was only because' it meant 'separation. Reputation to lose they had not, and the meaning' of the word c6nscience was not yet unfolded to them ; but they were bound to' each other by a love that would shame children of happy homes. Had Bobby consented to 'part with his brother' he might have done welj.' The youngfer had a peevish, unhappy disposition', which formed so marked a contrast to his bright,' cheerful brother, that it operated agains|; him, and the twap were lef p to pick up a living' in the streets. Society was becoming refined in Melbourne. While tfie upper crust of the Qld Country were shouldering tfye. shoeblapks and billiardmarkers ojj't qf 1 tb,qr legitimate employment, the lpwer orders were advancing proportionately. Garbages with their loud-looking occupants were crowding the fashionable thoroughfares, and gentility, save the mark ! was the order of the day. In the streets of this golden city poverty must not sh»w itself lest it should awaken ugly reminiscences in the breasts of their gaudily-dressed denizens, and the Vagrant Act was for a while more rigorously enforced than in the Old World.

But even in those golden days there existed want and misery, as there ever will be, I fear, despite Messrs Whitaker, Green, and Co. And society, in its endeavour to suppress poverty, only succeeded in driving it out of sight into the back slums — the dens of infamy which have now grown to such enormous dimensions in that fair city. Drifting hopelessly, helplessly, were those two "naebody's bairns," until a gruff, goodnatured bullock-driver, returning to his camp-

ing-ground in the suburbs in the small hours of the morning, found them in his sleeping apartment under hia dray. Lifting the tarpaulin, he perceived, by the unsteady light of the Ballarat lantern he carried, the top of a shaggy, unkevript head, which he not unnaturally mistook for his dog's. With a muttered imprecation on dogs and fleas, he administered a hearty kick to the supposed quadruped, eliciting in response a most unearthly yell. Darting out at the other end, the two brothers stood shivering before him. Bobby found his tongue when he saw that his assailant was not a policeman, and delivered himself of a tirade of unfamiliar street slang interspersed with very familiar oaths, which, as the bullock-driver afterwards observed, " knocked him all of a heap." The sight of the blood which his heavy boot had drawn filled the gruff fellow with remorse, and he hastened to make reparation. A fire was kindled, the head dressed, and the hungry children regaled to satiety on mutton, damper, and tea.

The next day was too wet to yoke up, and the trio spent it in improvina; their acquaintance. Bobby's drollery won on the old : bushman, whose heart had in the first instance been touched by his pitiful story, and he invited them to accompauy him to the station. Shearing time was approaching, labour scaree — they would at least be worth their food ; and with him they turned their backs on the streets of Melbourne for all time.

Chapter 11.

A fortnight later. In the men's quarters on Sunday morning. On the table empty bottles and pannikins. A strong odour of rum and tobacco. Two or three drunken men on the floor, sleeping off the effects of last night's spree. Billy sitting on the floor, sobbing, and digging his knuckles into his eyes ; Bobby standing in front of him, looking savage and determined. " I caught yer at it, Billy, an' I'll hammer ye every time I sees you a-drainin' them bottles or pannikins, an' then I won't hurt ye half a 8 much as the rum's a-hurtin' me."

"Ye usedn't be so greedy, Bob. Ye takes it yourself— lots of it. , I can see you, though you pends me off to bed. Wunßt you'd share everythink with me— now ye grudges me wot I can pick up. "Ye little fool ! can't ye see wot I takes it for ? We ain't worth our grub here — leastwise you're not ;' and the overseer knows it. I'm 'most ready to drop in the shed at times. When the grog comes round I takes my share, an' ses summut droll, jist to make 'em laugh, an' I gammon drunk, jist to get a spell ; then they helps me, an' hides me from the boss. If I gave in I was tired, no one 'ud help me ; we'd both have to clear out. I don't want to go back to Melbourne ; we're better off here. The grub is bully— five times, an' lots of it ! Lord ! Billy, if I get it a bit longer, I'd be as strong as Big Jack 1 I could knock out for both on us easy." " An', Bobby," said the younger, " won't ye drink rum then? "Won't ye buy bottles like the other fellows, an' gi'e me a share ? " " I'm afeard I will, unless ye stops me, Billy. I gets to like it better every time, an' I don't want to. I want to be rich."

And the boy sunk on the floor beside his brother. Clasping his arms around his knees, and dropping his head on his breast, Bobby continued :

" I don't want us to be allus vagabones. I don't want to go back to Melbourne. My oyes is opened since I came here. Hardy, the fellow as owns the next station, came to this very shed, I heard 'em sayin', a runaway sailor, wuss off than us, 'cos he hadn't even a blanket. He got a job, an' stopped ten years, savin' all his wages, wearin' old clothes o^her fellows chucked away, biiyin'cows an' things an' sellin' 'em agin, keepin' the best till he could start for hisself. Now he's a richer man than our master, and hates each other because."

Billy's eyes had been growing rounder as he listened, but, groat though his faith in his brother, he did not believe it possible for him to emulate Hardy's example. " But you couldn't do them things, Bobby, 'cos you ain't a schollard. You couldn't buy and sell ! "

" I know that ; but I means us to work together. You'll never be able for hari work, cos yer allus snivellin'— that's why ye don't grow. If we can stick on here for another year, till I'm worth wages, I'll send you to school. Yes, Billy, I will, s'help me ! But if ever I ketches ye tastin' grog, I'll punch ye, I'll hammer Old Nick out of ye, an' then I won't hurt ye so much as the grog'll hurt me yet. I'm 'most sure to get fond of it — everyone does as once begins tastin' it : an' when I'm gettin' wages you'll have to keep the money, so as I can t knock it down."

" But how the dooce can I keep it from yer in spite of ye ? " " There's ways of doin' it, Billy, an' you'll find 'em out. You was allus a 'cute little kinchin, an' you'll be 'cuter when you get a bit of Bchoolin'.

The voice of the cook calling the boys to assist in preparing the breakfast interrupted the youths in their scheme of wealth, and- for the time being the subject was dropped. However,!the seed had fallen on fertile soil. Billy felt acutely his physical weakness ; he knew that he was helpless without 1 his brother, but he knew also that education would counterbalance his infirmities^ and in contemplation of the time that he would be on*an equality with B.obby he grew* hopeful and healthy, and rum lost for him its incipient attraction. * 'The next decadbwas fraught with disaster to the wool kings of Victoria. ' Duffy's Land Act, which formed the groundwork of Grant's, carried dismay to the paftoral tenants. Like all first measures, it contained many defects b.V means of which wealth and ingenuity contrived, 'to defeas the spjrit of tlfe law, and dummyism became an institution 'which, like ajl unlawful practices, frequently 'injured those it' 'was meant to serve. Many hundreds of pounds entrusted to dujnniies 'were utterly lost |b the squatters who employed, them". Gerald Ambrose, ibjO employer of bur waifs, has not prospered in Yictqna-^ne of thoae easy-going peqple wh,q are cpns.i;antly floundering i^to difficulties., and helplessly stretching fort^ tflejr hands % some one to extricate tqem., in whose vocabulary selt-rei}ance finds no place. He has, allowed the management of his business to drift into the hands of employe's under the nominal supervision of his son — a true chip of the old block, who cannot be bothered with figures or business details. When the run is thrown open for sfileotion he sees that it means ruin, and does not hesitate to take what he can get and seek " fresh fields and pastures new," leaving his father and sister to sink or swim, as fate decides.

Chaptek 111.

The little township of M'lvor presents an unwonted spectacle to-day. Its one street is thronged with people. Around the courthouse the crowd is buzzing like a swarm of bees, each trying to force his way into the building where the ballot decides who shall this day become a landowner. Earth-hunger ia rife in Victoria. Billabong,

which 1 is now in the market, has long been coveted by agriculturists, and attracts many bona fide selectors, 'But it is not of this class alone the crowd consists: The squatter dies hard, and a large proportion of those assembled are " dummies." "" At the gate of the pretty little garden suri rounding his dwelling stands the schoolmaster watching the busy scene, turning occasionally to exchange a word with his wife, who, sewing in hand, is seated on the verandah. " Robert Carr is coming at last. 'Now we will learn if Ambrose is victimised to .the extent rumour saysi He has drawn a 'section, I am sure, he looks «o elated." - „ > , ", " What a fine-looking young man .he has grown," observed Mrs Arden. " It' is .such a pity he lacks education. I wonder if he means to take Willy away this year." | " I think so— in fact, I must advise him to. It is useless spending money on the lad. He is as deficient in intellect as he is slight of ■form. Robert's good intentions, towards him are frustrated by nature." ■ ■„•.. Yes. The difference in the brothers, so apparent in childhood, is deepened in .-maturity. Robert — with his clustering black curls.iuddy cheeks, and bright brown eyes teeming with health and spirits, hi 3 cheerful disposition and even temper— is, as of yore, a general /favourite. Willy is tall and thin, his shdulders droop, and his lacklustre eyes wear an expression of habitual despondence. He is painfully sensitive of his incapacity to learn, j Other lads pass him in his class without effort, .despite his endeavours to keep pace with them; Robert, who is satisfied with so little, imagines he is making rapid progress, praises and encourages him, and Willy winces under his compliments because he knows how deficient he is. Yet ho has had great advantages. . ..••.. j. S) Mr Arden, scholar and gentleman though he is, has had a fair -share of the vicissitudes of Colonial life, and been driven to many;, straits ■to make a living. At the time the Carrs were employed by Mr Ambrose he was .'also engaged on the station stockriding. He ,-there made the lads' acquaintance. When the fgrowing village of M'lvor became possessed Of.» : Bchool" house he was appointed teaoher^and immediately sent home for Mrs Arden. ,So interested was he in the welfare of > the boys that he gave Willy a home gratuitously ; books and clothing were all that Robert; had to .pay for. Mr Arden's best efforts, Mrs Arden'aj gentle sympathy, alike failed in .Willyig easel? They could not endow him with mental, capacity, but they became attached to him/for his truthful, affectionate disposition, and .admired the brotherly love of Robert, whorwas fcontent to work for both for so manyyearsi t. sit ■„">? Mr Arden will wait long I for. Robert this evening. Short is the distance .from tho courthouse, but' between stands « the, Bush Inn. On a fallen tree. in' front/I but off the road, sits Willy, watching for hia, brother, who has entered. . . . ...«/»• Wif At length a hand is laid on his shoulder, and a hearty voice exclaims : > ..v-- ■.• !.''■> ?r " Never thought you were here,- Will., Why didn't you call me ?" . ■ i '.•,"> " On the drink again, Bob?" questions tho youth, without lifting- his head, v .a "No fear 1 I would, .though,\if Jj drank half what has been offered to me. ;.Of* course you heard I drew a section ? The piok of the run. Joins Hardy on two sides, and' takes in a part of the lawn. And here's Hardy after my heels all day, offerin' me a hundred pounds to stand out ! What do you think' of that, lad?" " You'll not take it, Burely ? " " Take it ! Think I'm a fool ? No, indeed. But you should ha' heard him i laying on the blarney. Called me 'Mr Carr,' if you, please. When he found that he was pilin' it .on too thick — that I couldn't swallow the -'Mr' — he dropped to ' Robert,' told me what a fine fellow I was, and how much he always respected me» Ha ! ha 1 And it'B only a couple of , years ago he called us ' Melbourne prigs,' and<wxjndered why the devil Ambrose didn't kick us off the run." . < ' And he laughed excitedly, id . ,■< " Come, and have some * tea," said the younger, rising, and taking his arm. < " Mrs Arden is waiting. I am so glad you didn't listen to Hardy. People say Mr Ambrose is ruined to-day ; everyone has turned Turk on him. I saw Ross and Evans a while ago, quite tipsy." ,: " Yes," said Robert, " they came up in ragged moleskins, with their elbows through their sleeves. Now they're rigged out in tenguinea suits from 'the ' Cheap John's ' yonder { to-morrow they won't have a penny of their deposit-money left." They walked some distance together in silence, when the elder observed : " Wasn't I lucky, old man ? I'll leave yon here another half year, till shearing and harvest's over ; then we'll both take possession, knock up a hut, tackle the fencing,, and—-" " Take possession ! You're not going to keep it, Bob ! You'll hand it over to Mr Ambrose, won't you ? " , " Why the devil wouldn't I keep it ? What a question for you to ask." " Oh, Bob I will you betray trust??' . " Well, I'm blowed ! Here's ag»! Hand over — 320 acres — of the best land in the Colony — level asa bowling-green — every, foot of it fit for the plough— well watered— timber handynear the market— property worth £5 'an acre— gits a charice of it, -an' 1 you want to know if I'm ' goingr to keep it;' "D'ye" think I'm mad, or is it you 1 that's drunk this time?'.' '." ."•' > ' ■" '• But; Bob! he' trusted tfou ! Everybody is swindling him. ' Mr Arden' was just saying ha hdped you would be lucky, becau.Se you' at ll^st could be depended' uponV ' ' ' ' '.! Everybody swindling h.jra 1 Isn't it all a swindle from beginning to end ? Isn't he swindling when he employs dummies ? Aak Mr Arden when you go back what swindHmr means? Am's it breaking the law? Why didn't he tell me last night I was 'dqin,' wrong to dummy ? S,een\s there's. n.o harm in % little sw'inqliu' for a gjentlep^n^but j mu^tn'k do any qn my own accftunt, T?her«, h.old un yer head, an' tym't M* as if • I'd • been robbm* someone 1 You needn't be ashamed of me Billy Carr, I wpnoae yqu'ye gqt religion, but it oi}gh.t to put both, ways, if it's any good : if it dqn.'t it's, no better th.au the bußhman's creed, ' Every man for hisself,, »n4 thS devJT take the hindmost.'" • - r.v »■>• " Vion% B.obr-=don.t pet vexed with me, I did not sayh.e wag dwpg right; oi you were doing wrong, I waa only thinking' low he trusted you, and you are — Splaying him false." l ■ ■ " You'll alwayß be a fool; I believe " said Robert, giving him a rough shake. " Where was the trust, I'd like to know ? He only put me on a par with Ross and Evans, the greatest lushingtons on the station, and as many more as he could got for £1 a day and expenses to work the job for him. Billy, I'm disappointed in ye. If this is what schooling has done for ye, I wished I'd let it rip. I'm not going with you to-night. Give us a.note. I'll stay at the Bush Inn till morning." ' / " I'll have to go home for it, Bob. You know I always put your cheque in the bank If I want money before the next comes, Mrs Arden lends it to me. But do come with me. They are all drunk in the town." You'll get no rest, but perhapa b« led into mischief your»df," ; ' '*•",

•• If I do it's your fault. I want summat atrong to wash down this dose. Fine follow yeu to hear of a brother's success. I'm not goin' with ye. Get me the money sharp ; I'll wait here till you come out." True to their youthful compact, Willy is purse-bearer. True to his premonition, Robert is fond of drink ; but he has a strong will, he 'curba his unlucky weakness, and rarely indulgea in an outbreak. And Willy, too, has fulfilled the prediction that "there's ways of keeping the money, and he'd find 'em out." Behold him now on his teacher s fleet pony, riding paat Robert, who shakes his fist at him in impotent rage, and betakes him to the hotel, where amid'hib drunken confreres he can bor- ' row smffieient to make a fool of himself.

' Chapthr IV.

Fit* -yearn -hare passed— years of unexam- - pled prosperity to the bsothers. The hut has given place to a neat cottage. Their well-tilled r field* are substantially fenced. Barns, out1 houses, all that. mark the prosperous farmer, are theirs, and Robort is an eligible of the first water. This has not been brought about without much toil on the part of the elder, and Willy, slight of form and weak of intellect, has also employed bis time profitably. The defarred-paymeat settlers, who were • scattered over an. area of some thirty miles, found .that going to market with small quantities, of dairy produce absorbed time that might be better employed in fencing, clearing, and ao forth— hence this branch of their busi- . aess languished. Robert's fertile brain conceived the idea of purchasing a horse and ■pring'Cart for Willy, with which he made periodical viaits to his neighbours, buying their butter, eggs, and poultry, which he sold again •ft an advanced figure in Melbourne. The frequent requests from housewives to' bring, inatead of. money,. " a few yards of flannel, a bit of holland,a length of calico, ' and so on, led ' %o the investment of a Bum of money in those fcewnely wtieles, .and in time a remunerative 1 hawkißjf trade was established. ' There waa another Bource of revenue, but a ■reprehensible one, which rumour credited the bfothera or rather Robert with. It was poundage fees. Cursed as an interloper by Hardy, ■f m » awindler by Ambrose, he had an enemy •m e*eh side, and throve on their enmity. Their cattle were constantly trespassing, and eoreljr did he make them pay for it. Gaps 1 were made most mysteriously in boundary - fenoea. Hardy vowed they were the work of ■ h»nd«, not hoofs, but he waß only laughed at, far the feud between squatter and farmer was « bitter, and sympathy was with the young setI'tter, who never interfered with any stock save those bearing the squatters' brand. 1 ■ 'Bebert'B old master had gradually sunk into •beeurity.' ' People were wondering how he and hia daughter lived. Flocks and cattle had . - frown less and less, until at last he had none, meither was he . cultivating. When his horse •iidfa'addle were put into the sale-yards, it was abated by the auctioneer that Mr Ambrose's . failing' health, prevented him riding, but very phortly afterwards Miss Ambrose's were disposed of 'in a similar manner. They were aoon as • completely forgotten as if they had never existed.' ' When the aale of the homestead under mortege was announced in the Argus, gossips gah to 'speculate how.the> proud old man and hia .prouder, daughter, would now earn their htea'd ; and tales were told of how long they had lived on the price of. the piano, and how • the silver withiwhichthey were wont to dazzle their plebeian guests had. gone, piece by piece, i.im exchange for the necessaries of life. Others again asserted that the. truaht son had turned ■ orer a new leaf, and was saving from his earnings sufficient to support bis relatives. .rroßperity too .frequently hardens the heart. •It waa with a feeling nearly akin to pleasure Robert listened to Willy reading the advertisement of the sale. 11 Only to think," he said, looking, proudly »ro«ud him, " of "the changes a few years c<ui make. What ragged little vagabones we were the day we came to Billabong, begging to be let work, for our grub, and what a big man Ambrose was then. Now we've a good house, loka of cattle and horses, and a few hundreds , eared, and he hasn't a roof to cover him. And a mortal proud lot they were ; thought no more of their workmen than they did of the sheep dogs— leas, I beliave. , Remember one day Miss ■ Agnes dropped her whip. .1 ran and, picked it up for her. She wouldn't take it from me — i afraid of 'filing her fingers ; tossed me half-a-orown, and said I could keep the whip. She won't throw away many -half-crowns now, I reckon." *.' It will come awfully hard on them," paid ' Willy, thoughtfully. " Poverty in • hard enough on those who were never used to anything else. I" think one week of the old life in Melbourne' would kill me now. Hardy buying their home will be a bitter blow to them. As you say, they were very proud. I 1-tflard in to*n that they did not expect a foreclosure ; they are. Quito unprepared to leave. Snddld-ia -stranger buy them out, they might make arrangements to stay in the house' for a while ; r but .they would never condescend to ask a favour from Hardy, nor would he grant . it if they did.'? ■ . <i"> Is Hardy going in for it ? " ' " Yes. He says he has had enough of neighbours ; he'll let no one else slip in there." " We'll see about that," said the elder. « By , I'll make it salty for him 1 "

. • Chapteb V. , After the sale. " You have bought at a high price, Mr Carr, ..yet you have good value for your money. The projected railway must pass.close to the homestead, and I know no more suitable a site for the terminus than your corner section. lam •orry indeed for poor Ambrose ; he really does not know where to find a shelter. As you are not in want of, the residence, Mr Carr, I trust you will not be harsh with him." " Chuck us them papers," growled Robert, whose potations had rendered very unamiable, , and who secretly feared that he had been led by bravado into an imprudent bargain. " Give iv a* acknowledgment for that money, and mind yer own business. .They can find a shelter i» the shed, if they want to, where Bill and Bie was put long ago. I'm goin' straight to tell '•ra who a their landlord, and give 'em notice to clear oat." " There, you are, young ,man ; and clear out , of here double quick. ' Put a beggar on horseThe dapper auctioneer did not finish the sentence. He- made a hasty retreat by a back door, .narrowly escaping the brawny fist of his iiata customer. Robert mounted his horse, and rode madly towards the home station. Partially intoxicated, elated by the change of positions, and burning with purse-proud insolence, he knocked oudly. •' Come in," said a trembling voico. He opened the door, and entered. But what change is this ? Can this be the - «p*rfcmenfc which appeared like fairyland to , we Tftgraak when, fifteen yeari ago, .he had vWUHMMMmMS to iree what s, piaqa wtfs nEeT WBWa wa» the carpet; which

seemed to him like sac ilege to tread on ? the pictures, which looked down on him like living, loving faces? the couches, the blue-and-guld upholstery, which so dazzled him? and tho handsome mirror, which first familiarised him with his own personal appearance ? Gone— gone ! Bare walls and floor now. A narrow deal table in front of the fire. A shabby easy-chair, in which reclines the broken-down old gentleman he once called master. And the seat from which the young lady has risen is a common deal form ! With dismay the young man looks around him— looks from one to the other of ■ the occupants of the dismantled room — and a vision of poverty, homeless and hopeless as he too well has known it, rises before him. Could they bear such an ordeal? No, no, they can't - they shan't, if he can help it. " Oh, Mr Ambrose," he says, lt I didn't know — I didn't think it had come to this with you ! I bought the pLice because I didn't want Hardy to get it. But you shan't be interfered with. There ! ". and he slapped the document he had received from the Auctioneer on the table, " stop whore you are as long as you like — while you live. Bob and Bill Carr '11 never hurt ye. Only tell us how we can serve ye." The End. The last adieux are said, and Mr and Mrs Arden turn from the railway station homewards. "It reads like a novel. But she was always a strange girl. -Even since her father's failure she might have married well, she had so many suitors, but she was so romantic. If it was a rough diamond she "was waiting for, Heaven knows she has got one." ri But a diamond, nevertheless, my dear." " Will you venture to add, ' Without a flaw'?" " No, Amy. Robert Carr has one serious defect — he is inclined to intemperance ; but with ao many sterling qualities as he possesses, and loving her as he does, the influence of so good a woman as Agnes Ambrose cannot fail to bring out all that is good in him. I have no fears for their future."