And when they'd cadged more tucker than they could comfortably carry, they'd camp for a day or two and eat it down. Sometimes they'd have as much as a pound of tobacco, all in little "borrowed" bits, cut from the sticks or cakes of honest travellers. They never missed a chance. If a stranger gave Swampy his cake of tobacco with instructions to "cut off a pipeful," Swampy would cut off as much as he thought judicious, talking to the stranger and watching his eye all the time, and hiding his palm as much as possible--and sometimes, when he knew he'd cut off more than he could cram into his pipe, he'd put his hand in his pocket for the pipe and drop some of the tobacco there. Then he'd hand the plug to his mate, engage the stranger in conversation and try to hold his eye or detract his attention from Brummy so as to give Brummy a chance of cutting off a couple of pipefuls, and, maybe, nicking off a corner of the cake and slipping it into his pocket. I once heard a bushman say that no one but a skunk would be guilty of this tobacco trick--that it is about the meanest trick a man could be capable of--_because it spoils the chances of the next hard-up swaggy who asks the victim for tobacco._

When Brummy and Swampy came to a shed where shearing was in full swing, they'd inquire, first thing, and with some show of anxiety, if there was any chance of gettin' on; if the shed was full-handed they'd growl about hard times, wonder what the country was coming to; talk of their missuses and kids that they'd left in Sydney, curse the squatters and the Government, and, next morning, get a supply of rations from the cook and depart with looks of gloom. If, on the other hand, there was room in the shed for one or both of them, and the boss told them to go to work in the morning, they'd keep it quiet from the cook if possible, and depart, after breakfast, unostentatiously.

Sometimes, at the beginning of a drought, when the tall dead gra.s.s was like tinder for hundreds of miles and a carelessly-dropped match would set the whole country on fire, Swampy would strike a hard-faced squatter, manager or overseer with a cold eye, and the conversation would be somewhat as follows:

Swampy: "Good day, boss!"

Boss (shortly): "'Day."

Swampy: "Any chance of a job?"

Boss: "Naw. Got all I want and we don't start for a fortnight."

Swampy: "Can I git a bit o' meat?"

Boss: "Naw! Don't kill till Sat.u.r.day."

Swampy: "Pint o' flour?"

Boss: "Naw. Short ourselves."

Swampy: "Bit o' tea or sugar, boss?"

Boss: "Naw--what next?"

Swampy: "Bit o' baccer, boss. Ain't had a smoke for a week."

Boss: "Naw. Ain't got enough for meself till the wagon comes out."

Swampy: "Ah, well! It's hot, ain't it, boss?"

Boss: "Yes-it's hot."

Swampy: "Country very dry?"

Boss: "Yes. Looks like it."

Swampy: "A fire 'ud be very bad just now?"

Boss: "Eh?"

Swampy: "Yes. Now I'm allers very careful with matches an' fire when I'm on the track."

Boss "Are yer?"

Swampy: "Yes. I never lights a fire near the gra.s.s--allers in the middle of the track--it's the safest place yer can get. An' I allers puts the fire out afore I leaves the camp. If there ain't no water ter spare I covers the ashes with dirt. An' some fellers are so careless with matches lightin' their pipes." (Reflective pause.)

Boss: "Are they?"

Swampy: "Yes. Now, when I lights me pipe on the track in dry weather I allers rubs the match head up an' drops it in the dust. I never drops a burnin' match. But some travellers is so careless. A chap might light his pipe an' fling the match away without thinkin' an' the match might fall in a dry tuft, an'-there yer are!" (with a wave of his arms).

"Hundreds of miles o' gra.s.s gone an' thousands o' sheep starvin'. Some fellers is so careless--they never thinks.... An' what's more, they don't care if they burn the whole country."

Boss (scratching his head reflectively): "Ah-umph! You can go up to the store and get a bit of tucker. The storekeeper might let yer have a bit o' tobacco."

On one occasion, when they were out of flour and meat; Brummy and Swampy came across two other pilgrims camped on a creek, who were also out of flour and meat. One of them had tried a surveyors' camp a little further down, but without success. The surveyors' cook had said that he was short of flour and meat himself. Brummy tried him--no luck. Then Swampy said he'd go and have a try. As luck would have it, the surveyors' cook was just going to bake; he had got the flour out in the dish, put in the salt and baking powder, mixed it up, and had gone to the creek for a billy of water when Swampy arrived. While the cook was gone Swampy slipped the flour out of the dish into his bag, _wiped_ the dish, set it down again, and planted the bag behind a tree at a little distance. Then he stood waiting, holding a spare empty bag in his hand. When the cook came back he glanced at the dish, lowered the billy of water slowly to the ground, scratched his head, and looked at the dish again in a puzzled way.

"Blanked if I didn't think I got that flour out!" he said.

"What's that, mate?" asked Swampy.

"Why! I could have sworn I got the flour out in the dish and mixed it before I went for the water," said the cook, staring at the dish again.

"It's rum what tricks your memory plays on you sometimes."

"Yes," said Swampy, showing interest, while the cook got some more flour out into the dish from a bag in the back of the tent. "It is strange.

I've done the same, thing meself. I suppose it's the heat that makes us all a bit off at times."

"Do you cook, then?" asked the surveyors' cook.

"Well, yes. I've done a good bit of it in me time; but it's about played out. I'm after stragglers now." (Stragglers are stray sheep missed in the general muster and found about the out paddocks and shorn after the general shearing.)

They had a yarn and Swampy "bit the cook's ear" for a "bit o' meat an'

tea an' sugar," not forgetting "a handful of flour if yer can spare it."

"Sorry," said the cook, "but I can only let you have about a pint. We're very short ourselves."

"Oh, that's all right!" said Swampy, as he put the stuff into his spare bags. "Thank you! Good day!"

"Good day," said the cook. The cook went on with his work and Swampy departed, catching up the bag of flour from behind the tree as he pa.s.sed it, and keeping the clump of timber well between him and the surveyors'

camp, lest the cook should glance round, and, noticing the increased bulk of his load, get some new ideas concerning mental aberration.

Nearly every bushman has at least one superst.i.tion, or notion, that lasts his time--as nearly every bushman has at least one dictionary word which lasts him all his life. Brummy had a gloomy notion--Lord knows how he got it!--that he should 'a' gone on the boards if his people hadn't been so ignorant. He reckoned that he had the face and cut of an actor, could mimic any man's voice, and had wonderful control over his features. They came to a notoriously "hungry" station, where there was a Scottish manager and storekeeper. Brummy went up to "government house"

in his own proper person, had a talk with the storekeeper, spoke of a sick mate, and got some flour and meat. They camped down the creek, and next morning Brummy started to shave himself.

"Whatever are you a-doin' of, Brummy?" gasped Swampy in great astonishment.

"Wait and see," growled Brummy, with awful impressiveness, as if he were going to cut Swampy's throat after he'd finished shaving. He shaved off his beard and whiskers, put on a hat and coat belonging to Swampy, changed his voice, dropped his shoulders, and went limping up to the station on a game leg. He saw the cook and got some "brownie," a bit of cooked meat and a packet of baking powder. Then he saw the storekeeper and approached the tobacco question. Sandy looked at him and listened with some slight show of interest, then he said:

"Oh that's all right now! But ye needn't ha' troublt shavin' yer beard--the cold weather's comin' on! An' yer mate's duds don't suit ye--they 're too sma'; an' yer game leg doesn't fit ye either--it takes a lot o' practice. Ha' ye got ony tea an' sugar?"

Brummy must have touched something responsive in that old Scot somewhere, but his lack of emotion upset Brummy somewhat, or else an old deep-rooted superst.i.tion had been severely shaken. Anyway he let Swampy do the cadging for several days thereafter.

But one bad season they were very hard up indeed--even for Brummy and Swampy. They'd tramped a long hungry track and had only met a few wretched jackaroos, driven out of the cities by hard times, and tramping hopelessly west. They were out of tobacco, and their trousers were so hopelessly "gone" behind that when they went to cadge at a place where there was a woman they were moved to back and sidle and edge away again--and neither Brummy nor Swampy was over fastidious in matters of dress or personal appearance. It was absolutely necessary to earn a pound or two, so they decided to go to work for a couple of weeks. It wouldn't hurt them, and then there was the novelty of it.

They struck West-o'-Sunday Station, and the boss happened to want a rouseabout to pick up wool and sweep the floor for the shearers.

"I can put _one_ of you on," he said. "Fix it up between yourselves and go to work in the morning."