BUSH SKETCHES.

Press, Volume L, Issue 8477, 8 May 1893, Page 2

BUSH SKETCHES.

By Hotspur. (Weekly Press,)

III.—"TIPSY BILL."

Seven or eighc years ago, when the railway line was first opened to Bushville, two men, Daniel Hall and William Taylor, started together in the sawmilling business iv a mill near the railway station. It waa but a small beginning, but both men being careful, honest and industrious, the business in the course of a year or two became one of the most flourishing in that limber district. This prosperity might have continued, and the firm might have undergone no changes iv its original title of Hall and Wilson, if the latter had not taken suddenly to drink. He was a bachelor of a jovia! disposition, and was much inclined so attend the " socials " that were so often held iv the dining-room of the Bushville Arms Hotel. In was these, they say, which started him upnn his downward career, and. once started, he ran down hill at ever-iucrea«ina; speed. In vain Dan Hall entreated his friend and partner to break off the evil habit. In spite of his entreaties, it grew worse, aiul would-be customers were often pointed out the junior member of the sawmill firm in a state of intoxication. So ac lost the partnership had to be dissolved, aud Dan bought out his friend's share, aud persuaded him to put the purchase money in a safe investment, and thus receive a small annual income. To this Bill Wilson agreed. It was about the best thing that could have been done for the drunkard, and yet at' its best it was bad. Bill, certain of his monthly screw, soon forgot to work, and with nothing to do, became an e_sier prey to the devouring curse. Dan was very good to his old friend. He invited him to his house, for he was a married man with a large family, and Bill would accept the iuvitation gladly, and he was sober as a judp*e while he was there. "Bill," said old Dan—" Bill was allers a good fellow, and a good fellow he'll be in spite of the driuk, to hia dying day. We wus playmates together iv the old country —in old Glos'shire—and we ain't agoin' to part now 'cause he takes a drop or two more than's good for him, that we aint." Thus Bill was always v welcome guest at Dan's, and his genial qualities made him a great favourite with the children. Jessie was the youngest of these, and it was she who held an especial claim over tbe heart of Bill Wilson, whom the boys of the village called "Tipsy Bill." Bat what they said about him made little difference to her. She had perfect faith in the friend she had chosen. She was a strange-looking "child of about teu years of age, with a face that gave great promise of dark gypsy beauty. Her quick searching black eyes seemed to have at times a faravvav look in them. She was fouder of Bill "than of anyone else—her mother and father excepted. ■ " I'll be your sweetheart, Bill, when I arrows up a great big girl," she said to him many a time when nestling on his knee.

" I'll be far too old for you deary, when :vou grows up. You'll forget mc then sweet, and love one of the fine strong young fellows that are bound to come around the prettiest lass of the district." Then the strange little maid would grow Very augry,- at the'itnplied doubt upon her 'constancy and in order to show how faithful she was, she would threaten never to love him any raore. And with the threat scarce Off her lips she would move away, iv ibjured diguily, only to come back to tier vacated seac a moment later. Then the man*' whose brow was fast becoming scored with hard lines, and the girl, with her sweet face and wealth of dark hair would be friends again. Bat to all her promises JJill would only smile a little sadly and say, time will show deary ! time will "show?". Once when by a ereat effort, he had kept away from drink for two whole mouths and had consequently a little money in his possession, he persuaded his landlady to go to town and buy the very best doll that money could procure. And this doll, a flaxen haired beauty, he Kave to-* the child he loved. She immediately installed it as her chief companion, and was immensely proud of her new acquisition. Jessie had found a hiding place, a little secret nook in the forest, which she termed her." parlour." Here she carried many of her treasures. She begged a large packing case from her father and «he made Bill drag this surreptitiously to her hiding place. She used, on fine days, to sit upon this case like a queen upon her throne and with her eweet young voice to imitate the cries of the birds around she sat there so often that I think the very birds knew her aud chirped their sweetest to arouse her sweeter echo. And Bill alone knew of this, her private haunt. The place itself was on the outskirts of the bush. It had been burned on all sides save where a narrow htrip joined it to the main body of the unfelled bush. It had escaped the axe to serve as a shelter for the cattle in the heat of the boiling summer and in the cold and storms of the bleak winter months.

Then came the year of the big fire, when the bush was a mass of flame, and the atmosphere was dense with smoke. It was a year of trouble, of drought, and destruction to many a poor, hard-working settler in the bush districts.

At last the flames threatened Buabville. Even through the thick and driving the fire-devils could be seen perched on the tops of the tallest trees, leaping from branch to branch, spreading like magic through the scrub, coming with rapid btrides towards the town. At the faftway station trucke laden with household goods and stores were waiting for an eneine to come and haul them away to safety. The goods shed was now the home of burnt ouc settlers, their wives and children.

AH who could help were hard at work rendering what little assistance they coald, some clearing threatened bouse 3of their cms, others baMlinpr all too vainly i '.he fierce fury of the ever encroachi .. il'tmes. Amongst these Bill coald not iv»und. He had been lielpiug but someone had •* shouted" him, and during the tumult and confusion he had sat at peace within the beer-smeliini: bar, happy in the stupefaction of the pleasure* of drink. His old partner Dan Hall's house w.is among those lvi eatened by the advancing flames. It was useless to try and prevent its loss, so the furniture was carted away and the family stood afar off to watch tha destruction of their home. Ib was then that little Jess had cliing to her mother's hand. Then she had left to join a sister and then a brother. But somehow in the moment of the sad excitement, when the house caught fire and blazed away, Jess must have crept away. As the houseless family proceeded to the station, to take their place among similar unfortunates. Mrs Hall suddenly cried out: — . *' Where's Jess f " "She's on ahead with Mary," said Walter, the second boy. For a. time the motherly heart was satisfied. No one could see far in the blinding and suffocating smoke. Bub she met ilary at the station, fortunately not far away, and Jess was not with her. "Where's Jess.?" Then there was a frantic search, and the news spread all over the little village that Jessie Hall was lost. A thirsty and smoke-begrimed man told the uews to the publican's wife at the hotel bar. At the words a half-drunken fellow rose unsteadily from the bench and said: " Eh ! what'sh that!" The landlady repeated it to him. The news seemed to partly sober Bill, for Bill it was. He reeled outside. He passed close to Mm Hall, who »aw him and cried " Ob, Bill, save my child." " I'll—l'll sh-try." The seekers had not been able to find her. The father was half mad with fear. It was impossible she coald be in the house alive, for by now it was nearly consumed. .

Aad Bill, almost unconsciously passed

the sympathising group around his old partner, out was hoc seen by them. He staggered through the blinding smoke towards the place where little Jess had her parlour. It was not far from the maiu road, and he thought the flames might not have reached if. And Bill, as if by a miracle, hit the pathway to the place. Already, thick volumes of smoke were beinsc forced through the underwood. He would have to hurry or he would be late. At last he came to the spot. Hi* instinct was right, the child was there. She had covered all her treasures with the tin lined box that she had contrived to upset, so as to guard them from the fire. Her doll she carried with her. By some chance she had left it there and had cone back to save it. Bill saw her, and cried " Jess, come here 1 Come here 1" . . _~ She came, bu* only jusfe in time. The blazing branch of a tree was hurled by a fiercer blaat than usual from a burning rimu, and it fell where but a moment before she had stood. It broke the precious box to pieces, with all it* doll's cups and saucers, and other things in which she took delight. But Bill,in whom the mmd had maetered matter, was sobered now by the thought of the danger to his little friend. He caught hold of her, and, hurrying down the cattle track, tried to escape without harm. Bat it was too late for that. As if by magic, a belt of cocksfoot !in front of him caught lire ; its sweeping flames were already crackling the greeu i leaves of the undergrowth. Between him i and safety there lay a constantly increasing breadth of flame. He covered the light dress of the child with hU heavy tweed coat and folded her closely ia his arms. Then, with a rmh, he charged at the fiery ! circle aud broke through. But not unscathed. His eyes were; biinded and smarting with Mie smoke, The flames had scorched hi-> face, and Ijih limbs were burned where the clothen had caught fire. But though he had got beyond tha flame*, the thick dead cocksfoot was slill around him, and the fira travelled fast. The main road was near him, an«l if he could only reach ie ho would save the child, for there the travelling stock had eaten every blade, and most, of the logs had been cleared away. Bat he was"" growing weak, his burnt limb* pained him. and he thought he would hardly do it. The flames sprang up in livid shapes amongst the cocksfoot behind him, and was close upon hU heel-'. Mc made one more struggle, and staargered. across the wire feuce that bounded the road. Ho let tho child down and just managed to crawl oa to the other side, when he fell down senseless. But Jessie now came to his sitl. She pulled s'.nd tugged him away from the forice (for he was not a very heavy man) and left him lying on the edge of the bare metal in the middle of the road.

Then the little maiden rushed for rescue, and fortunately came upon a party of three or four men searching for her. They dashed back into the smoke and showers of sparks, and found Bill still unconscious where he had been laid. But the flames were lapping the posts of the fence not far from bir«i.

His cheeks were scorched and the hair of his head and his beard was singed. Hi* body was severely burned.. As they carried him in he rallied aud asked, "Is she safe?" And when they answered him lie sank back iuto uuconscionsnes* again. Thus was little Jess saved by "Tipsy Bill" iv Ihe year of the fire.

I saw a strangely assorted couple the other day walking from the little school house. A man of about forry with a scarred face, and who limped bsdly was* walking with a pretty black eyed girl of abou*. fifteen yean. There seemed to be perfect sympathy between tho two, for I caught ft glance the girl bestowed upon him, and it was eloquent with respect au<J affection. It was the old drunkard, now drunkard no more, and the child he had saved grown into a girl. The firm hud returned to the old style cf Hall aud Wilson. The youths of the neighbourhood are jealous, sol hear, cf the disfigured man. They aay that pretty bright-faced Jessie will have nothing to say to them if the cripple is near. 1 wonder if— Bat as Bill said so long ago, " lime will show I deary; time will show."

IV.—THE BUSHMAN'S TALE.

You wants to know'bout my mate, him that's dead and gone. I ain't got much to tell, bur, what little there is I'll tell it gladly. I like talking about him somehow. 1c seems like as if it eased mc summat when I tell the yarn of him. i "Gay Dick" was the only name all the 'chaps, save mc, knowed him by. Gay he was and always jolly. He was one of them thorough Rents that doesn't thinlc he.i a dashed sight too good for the like of we ; and what'B more, he worked with us too. like the trump that he was—blow for blow. Him and mc was mates—gent as he was and common chap a) mc. We weren't never apart, nohow. Dick wouldn't Lake no job without mc, and I, blow mc, if ever I'd go where Dick didn't. You st c, boss, I saved hi* life for him by fishing him out of the Manawata when he was nearly a Koner. He was 'sfcraordinary grateful for it, was Dick, and that's how we gets to be 6uch thick mates.

He was a fellow who was allera alaughing; as gay as a bird was he, and, like a bird, alters oi» ihe pipe. He could sing a song, a downright comic song, he could, and often when we was a camping out and the wee comes on and gives us all the blues, he'd drivo them away with a song, that'd almost split the sides of a chap with laugh in. At times, too, he'd make us nil plum in a moment, with songs of the Old Country and home and friends, and the sweet'earts we'd left behind us. He was that pleasant, was Dick, that the roughest bushuian took a likin' to him the moment he drawed sight of him. He'd a way of creepin' into you like, when you was out of sorts, and he'd be as gentl« as a 'oman, and then before you knew where you was he'd give you a bit of advice that would never make you go agen it like, that the blackcoatn give us, but as he alone could give it. If it was money he'd likely as not say "Here you be, mate, take this!" and out would jump his cash, p'raps all that he had, aud he thrust into th'other chap's hand. For Dick, good fellow and all, took little store of money.

They are a rough sort of chape in the bush catnps, I can tell you. All of us can tell a yarn or two of our lives, but we don't cotton on to tell it every blooming feller we meet, and what's more we dou't care over much for the Htories of other*. .But Dick tnew the names of most of the chape, and th« most of their yarns. They'd tell 'im of Jane and Betsy in the Old Country, and speak to 'im of thing* that they'd told none el-e. Such was the coaxin' way of Dick. But what he'd heard he'd tell to none again, Lor , bless bless you, that he wouldn't.' As true as steel and as close as wax if need was.

I remember well the day we lost *im. "We was afallln' in the rough back country beyond the Waitcoukou and the Tiramea, fallin' for Rome of those biff swell blokes iv Hawke's Bay.

That evening we wan a fallin' close together. I hears Dick whistling—he was always whistiinjz. As knock-off time drew on he ycllft out to mc.

"Near time old chap," and I answers back with a shout,

It was a winter's evening, and the damp mists was already rollin* up the gullies and the chill of 'em was growln* over ns. Dick was at an old riniu tree. Ud alofc was a lot of dead and dried branches, I hear* the break of the tree as it slews over and begins to fall. I looks one of them great branches snap off and topple straight down. I don't know how it was but I straight on? think* aomethiug was amiss. So I makes straight, for the spofc. There 1 finds my mate pinned by the branch to the earth. I called tother chaps about aud we noon cats 'im loose, but his face wu3 as pale as death, and we thinks he was about to die then and there.

But when we splashed water on his face —Dublin Jack brought i* up in his hat—ho looks up and cries to smile at us even then, but the pain comes, ho starts and faints away.

I says not a word because of the lump, that riz in my throat. We carries 'im down to the cook , us and there close by the fire, we builds 'im a bed with all our blankets above, and all the dry fern from oar bunks, we brings to put below 'em.

And he get* a hit better in the warmth and comes to a bit. But the pains grips him iv fits and starts. He grows quite angry with at, when he'd only a little pain and bids ua take back our blankets, lie was'nt agoiu' to take our bunks.

Bat we listens not to *lm and he has to be quiet, stretched out on bis bunk. He were sufferin* at rimes horribly, we could see that, by his face all drawn up as it were, and the jerks and starts of fcfae body at i hues as the paiascotched hold of 'Im. We'd sejot one of the ecrab cutters Carl Olsen, the Scandy, who knew the bush track best, along in the darkness, to bring the doctor, tho fast thing in the morning, the little Scandy would have died for Dick.- We was-to carry him down next morning when it was light enough. So all that livelong night, we watched by our mute, who lay a-dylng. Hβ felt cold, and we gives him brandy from the boas* store, and we keeps the fire piled up with all the wood we could.

And as I sits by the side of my mete, the tears would come, mister. I don t mlno '"About the middle ol the night, I hears him call my nnme. " Ned, old fellow," says he. He seems better and stronger, but his voice was still very weak. I bends down my head to hear, it were that low. I dare'ut apeak for fear of tripping in my throat over the bar that lay there agatherin , . My poor old chum whispers to mc that I were to go and give a packet out of his tent into the hands of someone whom he told mc lived in Wellington. It don'c matter in the least 'boot her name. My mate pays, " Dou't let anyone see it, and keep mum over it, matey. Don t tell the names to none, old pal." 1 goes to our tent, as he tell* mc to, and takes out a packet and shows it to '"That'sit," he says. " Will you give it to her, Ned. Promise you'll give it to her." Then he grows faint and we lets *im lie like that. It were better far, not waking him to bear the pain his hurts were oauslu *im. . Before daybreak each of us takes a hunch of bread and meat and a swipe of tea, and put it down in n hurry. Ac dawn, when the birds first began to call, wo sets out with him. Axemen goes on in front to clear the track, and we bears *lm on a litter betwixt four of u>4 The movement wakes him a bit, but he never think* of hisself, no, not for a moment. Though, every jolt give* 'im pain, and we couldn't always gee csear of jolt , ) iv the rough and tunable gullies, ! he'd only murmur sometbiu about " beiu I sorry" or it's all my fault," then he (teems \ to grow tired and somewhat stupid, for he talks strangely now and then. We ceta ou to the open road with our burden now lying very qolet. We reach the camp of the road gaug, aud there we lets him down and waits for the Doctor. But Dick, we sees, is sinking fast. His bands and his feet bfcuine cold, but he rouses himselt, and calls agen for mc. I'se by his side in a li(Fy. He seems to want to say soiuethln , but the woids will not come. He holds out his hand to mc, and siaks b&ck with a sigh upon his blnnkufs. My mate Dick is dead. The Doctor comes when it's all over and he was of no use. Around Dick's bunk all o£ us rough bushmen stand sorrowful like. The Doctor says ac how lie was hurt very badJy. and couldn't never have lived. So Dick, the friend of the bush-hands, died. Wβ buries him in the cemetery in Buahville, and we outs over his head a tombstone, with juet these 'ere few words upon it :— " DICK," The Bushman's Mate, By His Friends. E.ich chap that knows him gives his share to the stone, and then most of em growled because it weren't no larger. Dick. None knew his other name, leastways none 'cept myself aud I keep* close. I does what ho tells mc. I goes to Wellington, and to the house Ned made meutiou of. It was a big house, and when I gets tnere in the eventn* it were all lighted up. Ah I knocks at the door some people comes in. I stands aside to let them pass. They are totrV, the ladies in grand white dresses and the men iv swallow tails. Then a servant coiiKtsout to mc and says her mistress U busy and couldu'C see mc. I said, 1 must see her." Then they shows mc into a lltlle side room, and soon the most beautiful 'woman I'd ever seen comes in. But she kind of wore on her face the saddest look Id ever seen likewise. She is a bit taken üb.ick to see such a rough common-lookin cove in her house awaitin' her. " What do you want with mc? she say. *' Can Ido anything for you ? " " I've come from Uick Burton,' I says. (Burton weren't his real name, but it 11do) and I gives her the packet Qiy mate had given to mc. " He is dead," says I. Her sad face &rew sadder and eaader, and the white hands trembles as she takea the packet. "Dick dead," filio says as to herself. And she was quiet for a minute or so" She didn't cry. It 'peered as if she was thinkin' of old times, for her eyes looked as if they wo» looking far away through a mint of tears. Then she turns to mc. "Tell mc how he died? "she says quicK like. An , I told her in my rough way much as I've told you. I told her how the roughs of the camps loved him an' how he'd cheered our lives. She tseems like a« if she wan pleased, and she comes to mc aud shakes hands with mc, never miudlug the dirt and the roughness*. ' "You were kind to Dick," she says, "and you loved him, I loved hltn too," she says wich a sigh. "He was my cousin. I want to help you, to thank you by something more thau words for what you have done. I don't quite know how to do it. But, Ned, if ever you want a friend, you must couie to mc, promise mc that, will you ?" . I promised so as to please her, she looked so pleading like. She opens the packet and ki««eH one or two letters in it and she w;is ago'in' to cay somethln' when tho door opens aud a big. fat man came in. He was dressed an awful swell, aud diamoude shining upon his Rhirt front. " Oh," he says, " are you there? Where have you been? You are wanted." Then he sees mc and stops, then he goes on " Wbo ever have you got here i" "You remember Dick, cousin Dick. He is dead, killed by a falling branch, and this man, Ned Howurd, has taken the trouble to come to tell mc of it." " Dick," say* the man scornful like, 41 that scamp Dick, I thought he had gone to the dcg-» long ago. He was good for nothing." " Dicic was a gentleman," I said quite angry like, but the lady stops mc with a sigh and says to me— '"• I must «ay good bye now, but I will ever bletse you for what you've told mo about Dick, aud for what you have done for him," and again she shook mc by the hand.

Then they j?oes cut together, the man Jookin' furions, but the lady turns to mc and cays, "Remember your promise, Ned." A servant comes in a second and aske mc to have some cake and wive. But I was that angry I couldn't eat In that oaau'e house, and so I goes upon my way. That's all I knows about my mate's story, But, I can tell you, if ever there was a true gout it waH Dick. I met the lady once again. She came to mc aud shook hands with mc on the open street. She is a lady, sir. It makes mc think more kindlier of gentlemen and ladies when I think of him and her. I wonders sometimes if ie was only cousin* love betwixt them twain or some thi a' more. Somehow or other I thinks it were somethin' more.