The King's Colour.

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXXIII, Issue 4817, 31 July 1939, Page 6

The King's Colour.

(Copyright.)

A humorous incident which cli-

maxed a miserable evening dur-

ing the author's wandering in

the Australian outback.

'THOUGH it seems laughable now, that wretched trip really was misery. I had worked a tin-mine in a lonely area of northern Queensland, and had "hung on" until the last shilling. Then the price of tin fell lamentably and there was nothing loft to do but walk away. My companion was "Scandalous" Graham, the last wages man employed. It was some time since he had received any wages, but although a notorious "growler" he never mentioned the oversight. A well-known "hard case/' a shearers' cook during the shearing season, his nickname "Scandalous" was earned by many an escapade. We set out together for civilisation. The third day was miserable, cold as a polar ice-chest. The hills appeared lifeless, and their granite boulders wet tombstones. The track wandered down slippery spurs, across flooded ravines, then up again into shrouded hills—apparently without end.

Scandalous Graham's boots squelched doggedly behind me. He clenched two chaff-bags across shivering shoulders; that and a heavy heart was all the swag he carried. Gone were his swaggering walk, his cocksure whistle; his aggressive face was now as pathetic as the droop of his bristly moustache. I felt like Scandalous looked. One sodden blanket as swag, a battered billy-can, a pannikin of flour, a pinch of tea—and not a shilling in the world!

"How f-far now, Jack?" stuttered Scandalous.

"Dunno. Never travelled this track before." "It's lost souls' track. I can hear 'em moanin' in the breeze. Su-sun's nearly down. Must be ashamed of itself. Don't believe these corpsy lookin' shadder mountains ever seen a proper sun anyway. Ugh! They reckon northern Queensland is so hot only n-niggers can live in it. Silly galoots! They ought to import Eskimos, not Italians!" We plodded on. "Jack!" groaned Scandalous. "What? What in heaven's name are you croaking at now?" "Wish I was croaked,' he moaned. "I'd be warm now sittin' on the hobs o' hell. Wh-what if we have to camp out to-night again? You with one blanket and me under chaff-bags. An' a fistful of wet flour for supper. I could eat "

"Shut up!" I snapped. "Oh, well, if I don't talk the cold will freeze me tongue. Ugh! It's colder'n a barmaid's last night kiss. Say, Jack?"

"What!" "I won't never drink again!" "Liar!"

" 'Struth I won't! Never no more. Just think of the lovely quids I've done in! Think of the lovely stockins I've bought for the publicans' daughters! Nice warm stockin's, too, Jack, with jazzy garters sportin' beads. We ain't even got socks! If only we had that "

"For the love of Mike stop cry-

ing." "The pot and the kettle. W'y don't you boil over sometimes un' be human? I wish me pore feet wasn't so sore! Me pore corns is froze to me boots and I can't feel em 'cept when I put my blasted foot down. I do wish "

I turned furiously—to stare! Away down a misty valley to our left stood a group of huts with friendly spirals of chimney smoke. I pointed. "Watsonville!" yelled Scandalous. "Hoobloominghooray! There's a heaven after all! An' it's right down there in them warm huts with lashings of tucker for two pore starvin' wanderers. Come along, Jack, me old icle, we'll hit em up after dark. Ho, for the land of billy-tea an' steamin' stew! An' they ain't bushmen if they don't hand pore Scandalous a nice warm blanket, p'raps two, and a doss beside the fire with the old tom-cat!"

Enthusiastically he pushed on ahead quite forgetting the late state of his feet. We slithered down that slope on the heels of anticipation. Without doubt it was going to be an awful evening out in the open air. Those huts breathed of home. Gingerly we stepped the stones across a frothing creek, then clawed up the clayey bank. It was sundown as we approached the huts. We were surprised to see a nondescript mob of half-clothed niggers shivering outside a humpy door. Their hunch-

By lON L. IDRIESS.

AUSTRALIA'S MOST POPULAR WRITER

backed mongrels were the picture of misery; their crouching women more

We walked confidently towards the nearest hut and knocked. A scowling miner pulled the door ajar. We saw his mate bending over a fryingpan. Warmth and the scent of frying onions hit us in the face. "Good evening," grinned Scandalous sociably. "Hellish cold, aint it? What's all the nigegrs doin' round the big hut?" "Waiting for the Government yearly blanket issue," answered the man surlily. "The policemen's come out from Herberton to issue them. He's there now!" He glowered darkly. "By Caesar!" chuckled Scandalous. "Blankets! Why, my mate's only got a worn-out horse rug an' I haven't got one at all! Its hellish cold, too, freezes the heart out of a man o' nights. We've only got a bit of wet flour for. tea, too," he added expectantly. "Well, you can go down to the creek and cook it. There's plenty of wood and water down there!" He slammed the door, grunting as he bolted it. Scandalous stared stupidly. -My heart fell. Night had come; wind moaned on the hillsides; a drizzle of rain set in. Dumfounded I stumbled towards the creek and with numbed fingers began gathering firewood. ScandalI ous came crawling down as I fumbled with the matches.

"Wh-what do you make of that?" he stuttered incredulously. "We're evidently poison here," I answered. "For heaven's sake scratch about for some dry bark; you'd give a man the creeps shivering there like a drowned pup!" We learned later that the Herberton miners had been harassed by tinthieves. Naturally, the lonely few away out here at the Watsonville camp were taking no chances with a pair of strangers. We coaxed a fire, put the billy on, then crouched miserably in the smoke.

A few coals glowed at last. I mixed up the doughy flour while Scandalous crouched with shivering arms to the damp blaze. His happy, devil-may-care spirits had evaporated with his anticipations. He was a live man dead.

"Wh-what do you think of it?" he whispered. "Tell me, have I f-froze to death coming along this cursed track or am I truly alive an' are those men in that flea*bitten hut Australians?"

"You're alive at present," I said grimly, "but you'll be frozen before dawn."

"My Gawd, Jack!" he wailed, "dont say we'll have to stay out all night!" "You'll make a handsome corpse." With stiff fingers I patter the dough into cakes, scraped out the blackened coals and laid the johnnies on to cook. As I lifted off the billy a keen wind blew over and through us. We gazed automatically upwind, or rather sniffed up. Into Scandalous's watery eyes dawned an intense longing.

"Johnny Walker!" he whispered incredulously. "Great snakes alive! In the hut where the policeman is." "And that's our share of it," I said.

We gulped longingly as the whisky scented wind, perfumed with frying onions and musical with boisterous laughter and clash of pannikins, floated down the creek.

"May I go hoppin 'to hell!" observed Scandalous emphatically. I stooped and turned the johnnies on the coals. Scandalous humped down on the wet ground, anguished face in his hands.

"They call it a white man's country. They talk erbout socialism an' Christians an' mother's love and Ghris'mus. Even the niggers is going to have blankets! Me pore cold toes!"

Miserably we swallowed the charcoal encrusted cakes. The tea was sugarless. Presently the door of the big’ hut was opened. A flood of warmth cheered out into the night. Three men stood outlined, one in the uniform of the'mounted police. “Hi!” he roared. “Line up, boys! Get your blankets, quick feller, then clear back to camp!” At once the freezing- niggers rushed the doorway, bucks, gins, piccaninnies, in a yabbering chorus. “Silence!” roared the policeman. “Silence, or I’ll keep the blankets and lock the whole lot of you up. Line up! Same way longa missionary what time he teachem you singem hymn.”

Scandalous threw off his coat and tugged at his boots. "Pull me other b boot off q-quick!" he stuttered. "Quick! Me fingers can't undo the blasted laces." I bent to his boot. "Centipede in them, or a coal?" "Neither,' he snapped, "a blanket."

I stared. He burst a bootlace and swore luridly. "Rub me feet with charcoal quick," he gasped. "I'll dress up nigger fashion an' get a blanket if I freeze in me dignity doin' it!" ■ I understood. He rubbed his face with charcoal while I hurriedly scraped his feet—and received no thanks. His corns were tender. The job finished, he jumped up, looking the question. I was dubious, but Scandalous's hair is jet black, his eyebrows shaggy and fierce, his face strikingly ugly. With the layer of charcoal daubed on in such unscientific haste he did look like a nigger. In fact I couldn't help thinking he ought to have been a nigger. Possibly I looked the thought for the whites of his eyes protruded menacingly. "You'll do," I agreed hurriedly. "Just look like that!' He turned and limped away towards the niggers. "If any of them tread on his feet," I thought, "there'll be a row." The policeman, with a native trooper, standing by a big pile of Government blankets, had the recipients fairly straightened out. I sauntered across to watch the fun.

My shadowy mate slouched through the squabbling gins and butted well up the front line alongside an overgrown buck whose brass plate proclaimed him king. The policeman shouted again for silence. From the anticipatory grin on several miners standing by, I guessed something was doing. I was sure of it when a mangy cur sidestepped behind Scandalous and suspiciously sniffed his feet. "Listen, all feller you!" bawled the policeman. "Big feller King far away longa sea give him gubinmint big feller blanket gib it longa blackboy! Now you feller blackboy thank him big feller King. You sing him 'God Save Him King.' Go ahn now! Alia same missionary teachem you." An agonised silence greeted this official announcement. The mongrels ceased whimpering except the one that had just received Scandalous's heel in its ribs. "Go ahn now!' roared the policemtn. "Maybe I no give him you blanket, s'posem you no sing 'God Save Him King.' Go ahn now. Sing that feller song." From the line of shivering niggers there quavered a mournful yowl. Such a woebegone rendering of our national anthem was surely never sung before. An overcome tyke sat back on its haunches and howled like a lost soul.

I peered among the shadowy group and sniggered at poor Scandalous, his mouth sagging open, his song droniung through cattering teeth. He glared at the king who was threateningly bending towards him. Suddenly the king roared, the onthem ceased.

"What dam fella you?" howled the king. "My cli', me no plurry fool. You no plurry boy belonga me! Whart tribe you from, hey? You plurry yellow gohanna! You stealem our feller blanket, hey? Me show you—you plurry nigger tief!" He pounced straight at Scandalous's throat. Both men spluttered into the mud. Scandalous bounced up howling to kick the king a resounding "bung' on the stomach, then wheeled and upper-cut an openmouthed nigger. They mobbed him. Panting bucks, screaming gins, howling piccaninnies, snarling dogs. Scandalous catapulted from the bedlam and bolted with dogs snapping at his heels. I snatched a billet of wood and raced after. The mob rammed straight through the door of the next hut with a splintering crash, a swaying lamp, a thud of bodies, hysterical yells. I dashed inside with the mob and glimpsed the stupefied faces of two white men as they were violently upended on the floor. Scandalous had dived under a bunk and secured a death grip. The king and a henchman grabbed each a leg and tugged in opposite directions. Scandalous howled in ear-splitting crescendo as the dogs scrambled in for their cut. I swung my waddy on the king's thick head, but his henchman sent me spinning. Both white men sprang to life and swung chairs. We cleared the hut but its simple furniture was wrecked. As the niggers were stampeding outwards they upended the policeman rushing in. We stood panting as he picked himself up.

"What in heaven's name is the matter?" he spluttered.

I glanced down at the dishevelled bunk. A ferocious, filthy piebald face glared up. "My heavens!" gasped the policeman. "What's that?" v "My mate,' I apologised. "Come out o' that!' 'thundered the policeman.

"Hide yer ugly mugs then," snarled Scandalous, "while I backs out; them dorgs has chewed me pants off!" He bumped his head crawling out and bounced to the centre of the floor raving. "Wot the blazes has it got ter do with you anyway? You big centipede. Chewin' whisky while men perish " "I'll " roared the policeman, but he wheeled # round on me. "Here you," he ordered thickly, "out with it! What is the little game?" "See here, constable," I replied with dignity, "keep your ofnciousness until it is called for. My mate and I just feel like trouble if your friends are inclined that way."

"Hear, hear!" snarled Scandalous, spitting on his hands. "Eat 'em up, Jack! I'll bury ther corpses!" "The position is this," I explained. "My mate dressed up nigger fashion because he wanted a blanket. We'll perish to-night without blankets. We're travelling from Stony Creek to Herberton. We are hungry and footsore and not at all humorous. The hospitable owners of this hut shut the door in our faces this evening. Now you've got the strength of it and can go your hardest."

Scandalous encored heartily, then bent to tenderly feel behind. The policeman chuckled. The tin-scratch-ers grinned.

"I ain't no oil paintin'," growled Scandalous sulkily. "You sports will excuse my back. It's a gentleman compared to youse, anyway!" He lifted a box to the fire, bent forward, arranged his bedraggled shirt-tail, and stretched two skinny, charcoal-daubed legs to the warmth. He sighed—a sigh that talked.

A tin-scratcher reached for the billy-can. "You boys must be hungry," he remarked agreeably. One of the policemen's friends quietly left the hut. The officer turned to

"Do you know anything about tinscratching?" • "Yes. Thats what we are making towards Herberton for. But we are not known. We'll have a rough time battling without tucker and tools." "I'm lading back to-morrow," he answered. I'll call in at Jack and Newell's store and stand my word for tools and a month's provisions." The door opened before I could thank him and in strode a miner with a half-empty bottle, two blankets and a pair of dungaree pants. "You boys might do with a warm up," he suggested amiably. "Looks like you had a rough time."

Scandalous twisted around. A delighted grin spread from ear to ear. "I wanter pray," he cried. "I wanter sing ' "Don't!" pleaded the policeman.