‘A rising township of some four hundred inhabitants, situated2 on the Trickle3 Trickle River. Distance from Sydney, north-west, six hundred and fifty miles.’
Thus the Australian Gazetteer4, speaking of the far-inland village of Jillibeejee. For days you shall have ridden over bush roads, fetlock deep in dust, through monotonous5 open forest, or over still more monotonous plain, ere, far away on a dry brown ridge6, you catch the glitter of something in the bright, hot sunshine. This proceeds from the first roof in Jillibeejee. Then, making your horse stride carefully over the Trickle Trickle, whose banks are apt to crumble8, you breast the ridge and take a bird’s-eye view of the township as it lies frying in the sun.
This ridge must be fully7 fifty feet above the level of the surrounding country, and is probably the ‘rising’ referred to by the jocular Gazetteer.
The first building is deserted9; so is the second. As you ride along you come to others, dilapidated but, from 117sounds within, peopled. There are altogether forty houses in Jillibeejee, which, by the Gazetteer’s reckoning, gives us an average of ten inmates10 to each one.
I am afraid the Gazetteer has never been to Jillibeejee.
In fact, very few people ever do seem to go there. Those that do, either depart again very shortly, or stay until theirs makes one amongst a collection of rudely-fenced enclosures on the banks of the Trickle Trickle, inside which sleep the pioneers of the place.
Perhaps the first emotion that arises in the visitor’s mind is of wonder that any pioneer, no matter how hard up he may have been, should have thought it worth while to commence pioneering at Jillibeejee. The second, that any others should ever join him in such a speculation11. Neither tree nor any other green thing meets the sight. All is brown, barren, desolate—apparently a ‘waste land where no one comes, or hath come since the making of the world,’ except that intrepid12 band in possession.
Why do people live here? How do they live? I must discover this, if possible, before leaving. Having no time to spare, I begin at once.
He is six feet in his stockings, broad, massive, hirsute13, and tanned. The insignia of office in such a place would be an absurdity14. Therefore his raiment is nondescript, and mostly slouch hat. This is the man who rules the official destinies of the settlement—the ‘Officer in Charge.’ To him I propound15 my conundrum16.
‘Ah,’ replies he; ‘ye shud jist come aroun’ whin ut’s a wet saison, an’ thin ye’d see the differ av ut.’
118‘Yes,’ I remark. ‘And when may that time be due?’
‘God knows,’ says he piously17, and with a sigh. ‘I’ve bin18 here four year, an’ I’ve seen ut wanst. Ye cudn’t see the counthry for a week bekase av the wather. Thin, afther, comes the grass an’ the clover six feet high. Ut’s a great counthry, them times, so it is, sorr.’
It is high noon as I and my friend stroll along the fiery20, dusty track amongst the iron-roofed ovens large and small.
Everybody seems asleep, save that now and again we catch a glimpse of women, wan19 and prematurely21 old-looking.
In the sun’s eye a man lies in the brown dust. He is on his back, his hat off, and snoring stertorously22 up at a cloud of mosquitoes, sandflies, and other abominations hovering23 and buzzing about his face.
With a look of solicitude24 my guide exclaims,—
‘Sure, now, that’s Tim Healy, come in from Out Back, an’ his cheque gone already! Lend a hand, will ye, sorr, wid the other ind av him. The poor devil ’ll be sthruck intirely here, so he will.’
So, one at each ‘ind,’ we bear the man from Out Back into the comparative shade of a verandah, where the constable25 takes off his boots, loosens his shirt collar, and props26 his head up, saying,—
‘There, the cratur, mebbe he’ll waken wid nothin’ worse nor a sore head, an’ a limekiln in the throttle27 av him.’
119A fit man and a proper, this one, I reflect, to be Officer in Charge of this half-forgotten fragment of a people.
So, presently, I am not surprised at hearing that, in addition to that title, he bears the important ones of Clerk of Petty Sessions, Registrar28 of Small Debts Court and Births, Land Bailiff, Inspector29 of Slaughterhouses, Curator’s Agent, and others equally pertinent30 to his surroundings, but which I have forgotten.
Entering the parlour of the one public-house, silent and deserted but for clouds of humming flies, a drowsy31 landlord, booted and spurred for riding, answers our knock.
‘I was goin’ over the river an hour ago,’ he explains, rubbing his bleary eyes, ‘to run a beast in; but two or three of the boys wos here larst night, an’ they kep’ it up; so I lays down on the sofy an’ drops right off. What’ll ye have, gents?’
I ask for beer. My companion smiles and ‘takes’ rum.
‘Lor bless yer!’ exclaims the landlord, ‘there ain’t bin no beer here this twelvemonth or more! I got some, somewheres, on the teams. But, the way things is, it’ll be another twelvemonth afore they show up. Dry time, ye see, sir.’
‘Well, then,’ I say, ‘have you any whisky?’
‘There was a bottle or two, but the boys—’ he commenced, when,—
‘What’s the use av batin’ about the bush that way?’ puts in my companion. ‘Why don’t ye tell the gint at 120wanst that sorra a dhrop’ll he get in Jillibeejee, bar the rum utself. I’ve dhrunk worse in Port Mackay. Ut’s a wholesome32 dhrink, in moderation, an’ wid jist a suspicion o’ Trickle Trickle at the bottom av the tumbler.’
So rum it is. The Officer in Charge takes his, I notice, very nearly pure, and without winking33. We help ourselves, and the price is one shilling each.
It is still terribly hot.
‘It must be a long way over one hundred degrees in the shade,’ I remark.
‘Come acrost to the station,’ says the Officer in Charge, ‘an’ we’ll see. There’s no shade whatever in Jillibeejee. But there’s the best that is. Sure, ut’s weatherboard an’ lined—the only wan in the town. There’s a thermomether there as tells how big a hate’s on.’
So we go over. The place is like a furnace, and the glass registers one hundred and twenty-seven degrees.
‘And you’ve been here some years!’ I gasp34, sliding off my chair, a wet, limp heap, on to the floor, and staying there.
‘I have, indade, sorr,’ replies he. ‘The first summer I was minded to blow me head off wid me pistol. The second was near as bad; but I don’t fale ’em so much now. Whin the wet do come, ut’s almost as thryin’; for the san’-flies an’ miskitties bangs Banagher. Ay, ut’s dull an’ lonesome like, sure enough, till the b’ys comes in for a change; an’ thin, if ye’ll belave ut, Jillibeejee is as ructious a towneen as is on God’s earth.’
‘Come in from where? Where the deuce can anybody come in from? And who in the world would come 121to such a hole as this ‘for a change?’ I ask irritably35, whilst wringing36 my pocket handkerchief, as the heat proves too trying.
‘Whisht!’ replies my host placidly37. ‘Ye’ll mebbe have noticed that there’s not many min in Jillibeejee, knockin’ aroun’ like?’
‘Only the fellow,’ I answer, ‘that we put in the verandah.’
‘Ay, he’s iver wan o’ the fust, is Tim Healy,’ says the Officer in Charge. ‘Whin the others are comin’ in, he’ll be afther going back, stone bruk, so he will, poor divil!’
‘In from where? Back to where?’ I cry impatiently.
‘To an’ fro the big stations on the border, over yander,’ replies he, with a wave of his hand westward38. ‘To the back av beyant, where they digs dams, an’ sinks wells, an’ fences an’ fights wid the naygurs, an’ herds39 cattle, an’ gathers up a cheque, and thin comes back like pilicans to their women and children on the edge o’ the wiltherness here. Good b’ys, in the main,’ he continues; ‘just a little rough, perhaps, when the rum’s in. Ye see, sorr, ye can’t expeck much else from the craturs, for, iv this is bad, ut’s Hell utself out yander in the new counthry, where there’s no law, no polis, no nothin’. D’ye wander at the b’ys, now, wantin’ a change out av ut wanst an’ agin?’
‘Well, perhaps not. But what must that other life be like?’
So, in the gloaming, hot and close, with a hot-looking moon hanging in a hazy40 sky, I depart from Jillibeejee, 122leaving its Officer in Charge—strong man, and a very fit—stroking a great black beard meditatively41, and possessing his soul in patience for the stirring times which herald42 the advent43 of his charges from the ‘Back av Beyant.’
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1
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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2
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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4
gazetteer
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| n.地名索引 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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6
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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7
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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9
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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13
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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15
propound
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| v.提出 | |
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conundrum
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| n.谜语；难题 | |
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17
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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18
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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19
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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20
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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21
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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stertorously
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23
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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24
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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25
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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26
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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27
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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28
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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29
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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30
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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31
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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32
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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33
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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34
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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35
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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36
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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37
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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38
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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39
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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40
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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41
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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42
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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43
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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