“... For thirst is long and throats is short
Among the sons o’ men.”
M. J. C.
I wish I was spifflicated before I ever seen a pub!
You see, it’s this way. Suppose a cove1 comes along on a blazin’ hot day in the drought—an’ you ought to know how hell-hot it can be out here—an’ he dumps his swag in the corner of the bar; an’ he turns round an’ he ses ter me, “Look here boss, I ain’t got a lonely steever on me, an’ God knows when I’ll git one. I’ve tramped ten mile this mornin’, an’ I’ll have ter tramp another ten afore to-night. I’m expectin’ ter git on shearin’ with of Baldy Thompson at West-o’-Sunday nex’ week. I got a thirst on me like a sun-struck bone, an’, for God sake, put up a couple o’ beers for me an’ my mate, an’ I’ll fix it up with yer when I come back after shearin’.”
An’ what’s a feller ter do? I bin2 there meself, an—I put it to you! I’ve known what it is to have a thirst on me.
An’ suppose a poor devil comes along in the jim-jams, with every inch on him jumpin’ an’ a look in his eyes like a man bein’ murdered an’ sent ter hell, an’ a whine3 in his voice like a whipped cur, an’ the snakes a-chasing of him; an’ he hooks me with his finger ter the far end o’ the bar—as if he was goin’ ter tell me that the world was ended—an’ he hangs over the bar an’ chews me lug4, an’ tries to speak, an’ breaks off inter5 a sort o’ low shriek6, like a terrified woman, an’ he says, “For Mother o’ Christ’s sake, giv’ me a drink!” An’ what am I to do? I bin there meself. I knows what the horrors is. He mighter blued his cheque at the last shanty7. But what am I ter do? I put it ter you. If I let him go he might hang hisself ter the nex’ leanin’ tree.
What’s a drink? yer might arst—I don’t mind a drink or two; but when it comes to half a dozen in a day it mounts up, I can tell yer. Drinks is sixpence here—I have to pay for it, an’ pay carriage on it. It’s all up ter me in the end. I used sometimes ter think it was lucky I wasn’t west o’ the sixpenny line, where I’d lose a shillin’ on every drink I give away.
An’ supposen a sundowner comes along smokin’ tea-leaves, an’ ses ter me, “Look her, boss! me an’ my mate ain’t had a smoke for three days!” What’s a man ter do? I put it ter you! I’m a heavy smoker8 meself, an’ I’ve known what it is to be without a smoke on the track. But “nail-rod” is ninepence a stick out here, an’ I have ter pay carriage. It all mounts up, I can tell yer.
An’ supposen Ole King Billy an’ his ole black gin comes round at holiday time and squats9 on the verander, an’ blarneys an’ wheedles10 and whines11 and argues like a hundred Jews an’ ole Irishwomen put tergether, an’ accuses me o’ takin’ his blarsted country from him, an’ makes me an’ the missus laugh; an’ we gives him a bottl’er rum an’ a bag of grub ter get rid of him an’ his rotten ole scarecrow tribe—It all tells up. I was allers soft on the blacks, an’, beside, a ole gin nursed me an’ me mother when I was born, an’ saved me blessed life—not that that mounts to much. But it all tells up, an’ I got me licence ter pay. An’ some bloody12 skunk13 goes an’ informs on me for supplyin’ the haboriginalls with intossicatin’ liquor, an’ I have ter pay a fine an’ risk me licence. But what’s a man ter do?
An’ three or four herrin’-gutted jackaroos comes along about dinner-time, when the table’s set and the cookin’ smellin’ from the kichen, with their belts done up three holes, an’ not the price of a feed on ’em. What’s a man ter do? I’ve known what it is ter do a perish on the track meself. It’s not the tucker I think on. I don’t care a damn for that. When the shearers come every one is free to go inter the kitchin an’ forage14 for hisself when he feels hungry—so long as he pays for his drink. But the jackaroos can’t pay for drinks, an’ I have ter pay carriage on the flour an’ tea an’ sugar an’ groceries—an’ it all tells up by the end o’ the year.
An’ a straight chap that knows me gets a job to take a flock o’ sheep or a mob o’ cattle ter the bloomin’ Gulf15, or South Australia, or somewheers—an’ loses one of his horses goin’ out ter take charge, an’ borrers eight quid from me ter buy another. He’ll turn up agen in a year or two an’ most likely want ter make me take twenty quid for that eight—an’ make everybody about the place blind drunk—but I’ve got ter wait, an’ the wine an’ sperit merchants an’ the brewery16 won’t. They know I can’t do without liquor in the place.
An’ lars’ rains Jimmy Nowlett, the bullick-driver, gets bogged17 over his axle-trees back there on the Blacksoil Plains between two flooded billerbongs, an’ prays till the country steams an’ his soul’s busted18, an’ his throat like a lime-kiln. He taps a keg o’ rum or beer ter keep his throat in workin’ order. I don’t mind that at all, but him an’ his mates git flood-bound for near a week, an’ broach19 more kegs, an’ go on a howlin’ spree in ther mud, an’ spill mor’n they swipe, an’ leave a tarpaulin20 off a load, an’ the flour gets wet, an’ the sugar runs out of the bags like syrup21, an’— What’s a feller ter do? Do yer expect me to set the law onter Jimmy? I’ve knowed him all my life, an’ he knowed my father afore I was born. He’s been on the roads this forty year, till he’s as thin as a rat, and as poor as a myall black; an’ he’s got a family ter keep back there in Bourke. No, I have ter pay for it in the end, an’ it all mounts up, I can tell yer.
An’ suppose some poor devil of a new-chum black sheep comes along, staggerin’ from one side of the track to the other, and spoutin’ poetry; dyin’ o’ heat or fever, or heartbreak an’ home-sickness, or a life o’ disserpation he’d led in England, an’ without a sprat on him, an’ no claim on the bush; an’ I ketches him in me arms as he stumbles inter the bar, an’ he wants me ter hold him up while he turns English inter Greek for me. An’ I put him ter bed, an’ he gits worse, an’ I have ter send the buggy twenty mile for a doctor—an’ pay him. An’ the jackaroo gits worse, an’ has ter be watched an’ nursed an’ held down sometimes; an’ he raves22 about his home an’ mother in England, an’ the blarsted University that he was eddicated at—an’ a woman—an’ somethin’ that sounds like poetry in French; an’ he upsets my missus a lot, an’ makes her blubber. An’ he dies, an’ I have ter pay a man ter bury him (an’ knock up a sort o’ fence round the grave arterwards ter keep the stock out), an’ send the buggy agen for a parson, an’—Well, what’s a man ter do? I couldn’t let him wander away an’ die like a dog in the scrub, an’ be shoved underground like a dog, too, if his body was ever found. The Government might pay ter bury him, but there ain’t never been a pauper23 funeral from my house yet, an’ there won’t be one if I can help it—except it be meself.
An’ then there’s the bother goin’ through his papers to try an’ find out who he was an’ where his friends is. An’ I have ter get the missus to write a letter to his people, an’ we have ter make up lies about how he died ter make it easier for ’em. An’ goin’ through his letters, the missus comes across a portrait an’ a locket of hair, an’ letters from his mother an’ sisters an’ girl; an’ they upset her, an’ she blubbers agin, an’ gits sentimental—like she useter long ago when we was first married.
There was one bit of poetry—I forgit it now—that that there jackaroo kep’ sayin’ over an’ over agen till it buzzed in me head; an’, weeks after, I’d ketch the missus mutterin’ it to herself in the kitchen till I thought she was goin’ ratty.
An’ we gets a letter from the jackaroo’s friends that puts us to a lot more bother. I hate havin’ anythin’ to do with letters. An’ someone’s sure to say he was lambed down an’ cleaned out an’ poisoned with bad bush liquor at my place. It’s almost enough ter make a man wish there was a recorin’ angel.
An’ what’s the end of it? I got the blazin’ bailiff in the place now! I can’t shot him out because he’s a decent, hard-up, poor devil from Bourke, with consumption or somethin’, an’ he’s been talkin’ to the missus about his missus an’ kids; an’ I see no chance of gittin’ rid of him, unless the shearers come along with their cheques from West-o’-Sunday nex’ week and act straight by me. Like as not I’ll have ter roll up me swag an’ take the track meself in the end. They say publicans are damned, an’ I think so, too; an’ I wish I’d bin operated on before ever I seen a pub.a
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1
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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2
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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3
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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4
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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5
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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6
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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7
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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8
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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9
squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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10
wheedles
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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12
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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13
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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14
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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15
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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16
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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17
bogged
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| adj.陷于泥沼的v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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18
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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20
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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21
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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22
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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23
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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