“BEN BURKE’S NEW LEAF”

Evening Star, Issue 19550, 7 May 1927, Page 14

“BEN BURKE’S NEW LEAF”

A SHORT STORY [Written by J. Bell Thomson, for the ‘Evening Star.’] Ben Burke' felt gay as he rod© back to his rabbiting camp from Deep Creek. And with very good reason. Had not Gladys Dalton, the finest, sweetest little girl in the world, just consented to be Mrs Ben? This in the face of Ben’s riotous past, and in consideration of the fact that_ Gladys had had many chances of making a better match.

For example, there was Bertram Hillbrand, a young squatter, who, on more than one occasion, had wasted much breath and emotion proposing to Gladys. Miles Barling, also, had shown a fondness for, Glady’s company. There was; but, never mind—none of these concern us directly.

Marvelling at . the luck which had brought such a girl as this into his life, Burke fell to dreaming as he gave his horse free rein. This was a moment of supreme happiness—a happiness of which, coming on top of several years of wild living, he did not deem himself W °Thcra was no doubt that Burke had run wild after that bewildering shortage of cash in the bank, which, through his own carelessness, but not his dishonesty, had caused his instant dismissal. Four years in tho back country of Otago had changed Burke from a slender, pale-faced youth into a solid young man of bronze complexion and steel muscle. He had turned his, hand to anything, had mastered every country calling, and had amassed big cheques. But, alas, he had spent these last far more easily than he had made them. . In some far-flung districts it is a time-honored custom for hard-working bachelors who spend most of their lives in camps and boundary huts to ride at periodical times into the nearest township of any size, and there cut out their cheques in drinking, gambling, and such minor vices, harmful mainly to themselves. Ben Burke had been one of these. Somehow he had lost ills grip of the serious side of life. The only excitement to be had in small towns was his adopted relaxation. This habit had led to another—one which at first sight seemed weak, but which was really a saver of much trouble and a precaution against possible robbery. Briefly it was this: “Let your publican be your banker.’* In conjunction with many others of his kind Burke had fallen into the habit of handing his cheque over to the hotelkeeper as soon as ho had arrived in town. His fun commenced, went on merrily, and finally ceased when the publican informed him that his cheque had been cut out. That was all there was to it—the word of one man.

For years, right up till the present time, Bon Burke had been such a patron of Hiram Pearson, one and only hotelkeeper at Dunkeld. The young man cursed to himself as he realised what a fool he had been. With the exception of the money he had just acquired from the _ sale of a few rabbitskms, he had nothing in the way of a nest egg with which to give Gladys a comfortable home. And the consciousness that Hiram Pearson had been cheating him out of a considerable portion of each cheque he had tendered fanned his remorse into anger. Gradually this black cloud banked up over his sky of clear ecstasy. Self-condem-nation, in as much as it afforded no material outlet for his repressed feelings, gave way to denunciation of Hiram Pearson and all his ways. That Pearson should be one of the causes of possible hardship for Gladys Dalton filled Burke with an increasing wrath.

Formerly he had been too carefree to worry unduly over Pearson’s delinquencies. To do Burke justice, it must be said that he usually was only too glad of an excuse to make an early escape from Dunkeld. But now ho looked at things from a different point of view. Pearson must be exposed—not only exposed, but punished. That night, after Burke had knocked out his final pipe, he pulled out his new cheque and caressed it. "I’ll use you, my beauty,” he muttered. “ You’re not big enough to build us a home. One more flutter in Dunkeld, and I’ll watch Pearson like a hawk. I’ll get him. By hokey, I will.”

" No more, Ben,” said Hiram Pearson, as he wiped bis bar with a damp cloth. "You’re dough’s run out.” " Come on, Hiram. Be a sport,” pleaded Ben Burke unsteadily. “ Lemme shout once more for the boys and I’ll get ant of town at once.” “Not another drop. Ben,” replied Pearson firmly. " You’ve got no shout cornin’, I tell yuh. You’re money’s finished—napop—d’yuh hear?” “ You’re a liar, Pearson,” cried Jjurke, his pleading tone now gone. If there were only two liars in the world, you’d bo both of them.” "That’ll do, Ben,” warned Pearson, who was used to handling cantankerous young men. " Don’t look for trouble. rni st £ ot away l,ack your camp, and 111 give you my word it’ll be for your .own good.” Burke laughed ominously. He was fully aware that the bar was now crammed. Men of all ages and conditions seemed to have collected from nowhere. They had an inkling of what was coming off. They knew Ben Burke to be more than useful in a rough house fight, and they also knew that Hiram Pearson had not retired from the ring long enough to develop a flabby waist line. There was every indication that something exciting would happen at last in Dunkeld. Burke was glad of the spectators. The exposure of Pearson would be all the more thorough and dramatic. “Your word?” ho echoed scathingly. "It’s not worth a cupful of black snow, Pearson. Look at me now. Do I look drunk? No, I’m just about a stone cold sober. Have been all along this trip, and I’ve ticked off all my expenses in detail. There is still a fiver and a few odd shillings of mine in your hands, and I want it hack right away.” The crowd, carried away by the tense feeling in the air, and spoiling for a fight, surged closely round Burke. Some of the more enthusiastic members began to barrack. Cries of “ Crack him, Ben,” "Whang him,” "Give it a pop, Hiram,” interrupted the cross-counter ■ wrangle. Instead of replying to Burke’s outburst, Pearson looked long and steadily at his patron. “By cripes,” he murmured, ‘‘l believe yuh’re quite sober, Ben. How did yuh get like that?” “Of course, I’m sober. And if you want to know how I got like that, I’ll tell you. Next month I’m going to marry one of the best. I’m giving up this splashing, Pearson. _ From now on I’m going to take a grip of things. But what am I telling you this for? I want my fiver. Como on; out with it.”

To Burke, Pearson’s smile was maddening. " Beg pardon, and all that, Ben,” he returned lightly, “ but who is .yuh’re girl? I’m interested in yuh’re welfare, boy. Is it—can it be—well, I’ve heard yuh was goin’ with Gladys Dalton?”

In a flash Burke vaulted _ the bar counter, and faced Pearson with closed fists. “You’re not fit to speak any decent girl’s name,” he roared, all his self-control now flung to tho winds,

“ Righto, righto,” gasped Pearson. “ Don’t be so rough, Ben. Come on inside to my private room, and I’ll deal with yuh. Yuh make a man nervous.”

"Drag him outside and deal with him,” came a voice from the crowd. _ Pearson and Burke, ignoring all outside advice, walked out of the bar room and left its occupants guessing. Pearson led the angry but puzzled Burke into his office and locked the door. Burke’s fists were still clenched, ready for action. “ You’re going to give me that money,” he growled. ‘‘Sure I am, Ben. That fiver and another 300 quid chucked in. For why? Because it’s all owin’ to yuh, boy. May have been just a little fad of mine or an experiment—what you call if—or perhaps I just took a fancy to yuh—but I’ve saved _ a pile of your own money for yuh since yuh came hero drinkin’.. All agin the day yun might steady up and settle down, as it were. And Gladys Dalton now, why, if yuh’re goin’ to marry her, I’ll make no delay Si handin’ over all I’ve kept for yuh. Three hundred and five lovely quidlets, Ben. Is it any good?” “Any good?” -stammered the astounded Burke. "Are there many more like vou about, Hiram?” " Yuh never know your luck,, lad,” chuckled Hiram Pearson.