A Fortunate Misfortune.

Hastings Standard, Issue 95, 15 August 1896, Page 4

A Fortunate Misfortune.

(By William Shackle in the Leader.)

Down the street of the little mining township came Mr Richard Atkins, in his varied capacity of press correspondent, collector, accountant and prospector, the whole of which occupation he would gladly have exchanged for regular work at, as he termed it, " thirty-bob a week." He had been out ""all the mora in g for nothing. Not an account had he got in ; there was

no news stirring and the Royal Standard mine, at which he had heen promised work, was not within a month of starting time. On a steadily decaying field, he had been half starved for the last three months and wholly starving for the last three days. As he got into the main street he braced himself up and walked jauntily into the post-office, "Good morning,. Mrs Fraser." he said, "any letters?" " Nothing to-day, Mr Atkins," replied the post mistress. " Hump, I expected a letter from my best girl—strange she doesn't write," he said playfully, as he shoved off from the counter. "Go along, you and your best girl," called out the lady from the office, but Atkins heard her not. He was staring vacantly and wearily across the street, in which the ram was now falling with depressing s' in " Well," he said to himself. "Id better go home now and get the kiddie something to eat; I can try again this afternoon." He threw one hasty grance at his broken boots and stepped off the footpath, and was soon plodding with wet feet along the creek road. Atkins was a widower with one child—a girl, nearly nine years old. She stood, fair haired and sunburnt, oil the threshold of the little cabin awaiting him. " Hullo, Memsie," he said, " how have you been getting on ?" " All right, puppa," she replied, " how have you ? Any luck ?" "No luck to-day," he answered as cheerfully as he could, " are you hungry ?" " No, I had dinner at Mrs M'Pherson's ; I was over playing with Effie, and she asked me to stop." " Thank God for that," he muttered, " Are you going to have something, puppa ?" the child asked. " Yes, I think I'll have a bit of fried bread before Igo out." " Must you go out again, puppa ?" she asked, solicitously. " Yes, I must have another look round this afternoon." " Dear, dear," she said pityingly, " in all this rain, and your boots let in so badly too." " Never mind," said Atkins, " things will change before long, Memsie; we shall laugh at these hard times then." " I hope so," replied the child gravely, as she began to set the table. Atkins fried the bread, and, having eaten it, threw on his old mackintosh and prepared once more to set out. " Oh, puppa," said Memsie, " I've got something for yon —shut your eyes," and she put into his hands two inches of tobacco plug. " 'Bacca, eh ?" he said. " I found it and brought it home for you," said the child. " That's a real treat, and you're a princess, Memsie—that's what you are—my little princess." He filled his pipe, lighted it, and, kissing her, left the house. And, as he splashed through the sloppy muddy road he revolved in his mind the afternoon's programme. The first item Atkins put into execution by walking into Jerry Cantwell's general store. At the sound of his step the shopkeeper came out, pen in hand, from the-little office where he had been making up his books. " You've been inquiring about a share in the Sunbeam Syndicate, haven't you?" asked Atkins. "No, not me," said Jerry. " Haven't you ? Then I was misinformed. But, look here, Jerry, you couldn't do better than take one now I%n here. They's selling freely at £B." " No, thanks, Mr Atkins, I'm full up." " You haven't heard me out," resumed Atkins. " The fact is I want to raise a few shillings right at once, and I'll sell you one of my own—my own, mind you —for a pound ; that is, if you'll promise to keep it quiet." " No, really, old man, that won't fetch me. It isn't the first cost ; it's the calls I have to think of." " They'll be next to nothing." "No good, sir." " But

look here" —and Atkins pulled a piece of quartz out of his pocket; " look at that now. You don't need to put your glass on it. It is studded with gold, sir; and there's two feet of it to uncertain knowledge." " No, I've made «p my mind to keep off for a while. You can't shift me." " All right, then," said Atkins, " I see I can't work a swindle on you. Ta, ta." And he lounged out, relighting his pipe as he went. On he tramped up the dreary, sludgy street, the water squelching in his boots. Weak, wet, and discouraged as he was, he felt liable at any moment to drop fairly into the shuffle of the vagrant. It cost him a lot to maintain a businesslike air—but he did so. Turning the corner where the coach stables stand he met Joe Kew, the proprietor, coming out, muffled up to the chin. *' Hullo, Joe," he said, " did you find those monthly accounts all right"?" "Oh, yes," said Kew, " they're all right ; it's the money that ain't so correct." " S'pose I look some of V-m up for you?" "Yes, you might; I'll give you a list sometime. Come and have a wet." "Er —you haven't got a few bob on you,, have you ? " asked Atkins as they stood at the little counter. " That's the only rnn I've got, old fellow—the last of th' Liruily plate," said Kew, pitching it down in payment for the drinks. Wh it an impecunious crowd we are." ;-a:d Atkins laughing. "I rant out of change myself this morning and forgot all about the florin's worth of stamps I wanted. Never mind." He stood in the doorway, gazing more blankly than before at the falling rain ere he ventured again into the street, that was more dreary than ever in contrast with the v-arm parlor. Then he made a bee line for the verandah, under which he

ISY old Austin, the mine manager, 6 Holding. " Be oagbf to do it," be j

muttered as he walked over. " I've | given him many a good notice." " How are you, Mr Austin ? " he exclaimed as he came up ; " anything fresh at the mine"?"' "No, oh, no, just pegging away, that's all." "By the. way, did you get a note from Hilton?" " What, Bob Hilton?" "Yes." "No, I didn't." "Strange," said Atkins, musingly, " he asked me to recommend a mining manager to go and report on a reef they've got out east, so I told him you were the best man on the field for that sort of work. I thought he'd have written you before this. I expect you'll hear from him in a day or two, though." " Have they got anything good out there ?" asked Austin. " Not a bad show at all," replied Atkins, "oh, say, Austin, I'm regularly cornered for a day or two till my cheque comes down. Could you lend us a crown ?" " I'm dashed sorry, but I haven't got it on me, Atkins," said the manager. " What's the matter ?" " Oh, only a bit short," said Atkins, " things are so damnably quiet. You couldn't get it for as, could yon ? or if I go up to the claim to-night; I'm stopping down here. I don't know where I could get it, either —fact is, I never borrow money." " Don't you,'' said Atkins, " Oh, all right then ; no more do I—but

that's because I can't get it," and he moved away. "Hold on," Austin called out after him, "don't go off like that. Keep your pecker up, old man. Come and have a drink—my credit's good." "No," answered Atkins, almost fiercely : then, modifying his tone, he added, " No thanks, I've had one already," and so walked away. " Had one already," said Austin to himself, " how long is it since he's stopped at one drink." But Atkins, with a swelling in his throat, was mouthing savagely. "Drink, drink; damn his drink! Can't he see it's food I want ? My poor little kiddie ; what trill become of her ? " Memsie and her father had bread for supper that night—or rather the child had—for Atkins found it impossible to eat of the unflavoured loaf. He did cram a little down his throat, and then lit his pipe and smoked till he felt sick and silly. Memsie having gone to bed Atkins got his writing materials and sat down in front of them. " Suppose I write my own story," he said. " I think it sufficiently pathetic ; but what sort of an ending shall I give it, tragic or melodramatic ? Shall I bring myself to an untimely grave, or shall I start to dig up a vegetable patch—come on auriferous reef wash, and endow myself with an immense fortune which I afterwards disburse in charities ? " Atkins could not determine, so left the question open. But when he attempted to write he found himself unable to make even a beginning. Thoughts of edibles floated continually through his mind, driving all others away; and these presently took the definite idea of broiled bacon. In vain he tried to shake it off. It persistently hung, around him in ail its shapes, odors, and flavors, till his mouth watered again and again. He put away the papers, and, after seeing that the child was sleeping soundly, put on his hat and left the house, taking the road to the township. He was going on what he himself described as " the offest of off chances "•—the chance of some luck, in some form, turning up. It did not, of course, though he paraded the dark streets until he was tired out. He came at length to the last store on his road homeward, and there was a van standing at the door. By the light of the lamp Atkins saw a pile of bacon lying on the footboard. His longings all revived by the sight, he struggled a moment against the temptation that assailed him, and then gave way. As he passed, he snatched up the first piece that came to hand, and disappeared with it in the darkness unseen and unheard. But, swifter than his rapid pace came the sense of shame upon him, and his steps grew slower and slower till finally he stopped and stood still a moment breathing hard. Then he turned about, and, with frantic haste, made his way back. The shopkeeper came out as he reached the van. " I say Jackson, old man, you shouldn't leave stuff like this outside," said Atkins, " I had to run to get it from that dog !V and, laying the bacon down, he passed on while the man was in the midst of his thanks. " Memsie," said Atkins next morning, " you'd better take this note to Timson's; we'll see if we can get some butter and oatmeal—he might let you have 'em when he would'nt me," he added in an undertone. The child went on her message and soon reached the shop, where she laid the slip of paper timidly on the counter. Timson read it. "Umph," he said. "Is your father working?" " No," she replied, "but he expects to go on the Royal Standard soon. The manager promised him yesterday." " Yes," he said, absently, " and you haven't got the money ?" " No," said Memsie, with downcast eyes, foreseeing failure. " Ah, well," said the grocer, "I'm—er—out of these things just now, and I couldn't get them without the money. You tell your father." And Memsie crept home with the lying message. Atkins swore a great oath when he heard it, and then sat down to think. " Memsie," he said presently, " I must go into Carriton. There's 10s of mine there, and I must have it. Mind you eat some bread for dinner, and when I come home we'll have a jolly tuck-out for tea—boiled bacon, Memsie." So he kissed her, put on his coat and set out. It was still raining, though not heavily and he was surprised at the volume of water in the creek. The appearance of the sky was reassuring, however, and Atkins was soon fairly on his six-mile journey. It was about 5 o'clock when he drew near the township on his return. He had got the 10s, at the cost of much weary waiting and unutterable worry. But he had got it, and as he neared home his thoughts reverted to the broiled bacon. " I'll just see that Memsie's all right, and then run down and get some," he said to himself as

he walked along. Presently he topped the rise, and looked down into the valley. There seemed to be something unusual in the scene, but what it was exactly Atkins could not determine. He walked on a little quicker. The rain had ceased, and the sun was setting in a clear sky. The valley seemed full of a strange shimmering light. He stopped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked again. Water ! There was no mistaking it, or the cause of it--the creek was in flood. His heart seemed to fail in its functions for a moment as he stood. Then with a wild prayer on his lips he bounded down the decline and away to the right by the path which led to his own home. A groan broke from him as he sighted it. Between him and the house a group of people were moving about in hurry and indecision ; between them and the house stretched fifty yards of swirling yellow flood. He reached the brink, and one fear, the deadliest, rolled off his heart. The building was half submerged, but Memsia was alive. She stood at the little high window 7 , peering wistfully across the water. " Hold on, Memsie, I'm here," shouted Atkins waving his hand, and the child's answering voice floated cheerfully back, " All right, puppa," with a confidence that touched the helpless onlookers. " What can we do, Mr Atkins?" they asked, crowding around him. " Tie a line round me if you've got one," he said. " I'll swim out and bring her in." "You can't do it, man," said the doctor who was there ; " look at the current, and the trees coming down." " I must do it," said Atkins ; " the house can't stand that rush of water long—l know it can't." " Go, then, in God's name," said the doctor ; "I wish I could swim." As he spoke an uprooted gum tree struck the cabin with the force of a battering ram, bore off, and was whirled down stream. Atkins stripped to the waist with nervous haste ; kicked off his boots ; rolled up his trousers; fastened the line round his body, and went slowly in. Now, fighting the fierce current with slow, steady, breast stroke ; now treading water till some floating timber had passed him; so he got across, and pulled himself in at the open window on to the heavy hardwood table on which Memsie crouched. The child broke into sobs of joy as he took her up and kissed her again and again. Then he swiftly fastened the rope to a rafter, and spoke to her in his old cheerful style. " Now, Memsie," he said, " we're going to have a swim back. I'm going to take your dress in my teetli like a big Newfoundland, and do you cling round my neck for all you're worth, We'll soon be across. You're not frightened now?" " No, no," she said. "Then oft we go; " and, taking her in one arm, he seized the line and lowered himself into the water, the house quivering and heaving as he did so. Once in the water he took a firm hold of Memsie's bodice with his teeth, threw his left hand over the line so that it ran up into his armpit, and struck out. He had not far to go, but the cold was chilling and deadly, and he felt his chest contracting as in some powerful grip. With dilating nostrils he labored on, keeping his head—and Memsie's —well above water. Then a new danger menaced him. A tangled mass of pine timber came drifting down in partial submergence. Atkins trod water, resting as lightly as possible on the rope, and watching the floating mass with jealous eyes. A jerk on the line told him the timber had fouled it. He saw the debris halt a moment, swing round to the current, then break loose and pursue its course. At the same moment his left arm lost its support, and he sank to the chin ; the rope had parted. " I'm on my own now," he remembered thinking to himself as he once more put his limbs in motion. But, by this time, the unaccustomed exercise and the cold had rendered him almost powerless. The cramped muscles w r ere fast refusing to act, and Atkins began to lose interest in the undertaking, when suddenly he caught his child's eyes. Their expression denoted patience, trust, and so intense a sympathy that he was temporarilyroused from the torpor, and recommenced the hard struggle. The stimulus lasted but a little while, then his feet began to drop, his strokes to flag, and he and his burden began to drift down stream. " Form a chain, boys, form a chain, shouted old Austin, the mine manager, rushing like a madman to a jutting mullock heap. " Damme, w T e mustn't lose him now." The doctor followed him breast deep into the water, and a dozen men behind him, all linked together. With Atkins the world seemed blotted out in yellow foam. He heard the shouts, and saw the men a few yards from him. With one last supreme effort he essayed to turn in their direction, moved a few strokes inward, had almost grasped old Austin's extended hand, when, like a blow from an iron fist, something struck him on the ribs, and with a groan he rolled over, and the waters closed over his head. But, though he knew it not, he was saved. Austin's knotted hand was upon him, and he and his child were dragged ashore.

When Atkins, with two broken ribs and a perforated lung, recovered consciousness three days later, he found strange things had happened. He learned that he was in an unoccupied house of Jerry Cantwell's rent free, till his own, which had been washed away, was re-erected at the expense of Austin. Medical attendance and medical comforts had been assured by the doctor until he regained convalesence. Jerry Cantw : ell had fitted Memsie out in new clothes from top to toe. Timson had sent up a choice supply of groceries and a promise of unlimited credit. Joe Kew had guaranteed his butcher's bill, and Charley Hanson, of the Royal Standard had promised light work as soon as he was able to undertake it.

Atkins lay back with moist eyes when he heard it all. Then his old humor reasserted itself. " It's all very nice, Memsie," he said, "and I'm very grateful for it. But why should we have to go and get nearly killed to

get all these nice things—eh, Mernsie ?" Then he added to himself, " the ending is melodramatic after all."