Robbery Under Arms by Rolf Boldrewood (epub read online books TXT) 📕

“My word,” said Jim, “if he ain’t the dead image of old Mr. Carter, of Brahway, where we shore three years back. Just such another hard-faced, cranky-looking old chap, ain’t he, Dick? I’m that proud of him I’d do anything he asked me now, blest if I wouldn’t!”

“Your father’s a remarkable man,” says Starlight, quite serious; “must have made his way in life if he hadn’t shown such a dislike to anything on the square. If he’d started a public-house and a pound about the time he turned his mind to cattle-duffing as one of the fine arts, he’d have had a bank account by this time that would have kept him as honest as a judge. But it’s the old story. I say, where are the police quarters? It’s only manners to give them a call.”

We rode over to the barracks. They weren’t much. A four-roomed cottage, a log lockup with two cells, a four-stalled stable, and a horse-yard. Ballabri was a small township with a few big stations, a good many farms about it, and rather more public-houses than any other sort of buildings in it. A writing chap said once, “A large well-filled graveyard, a small church mostly locked up, six public-houses, gave the principal features of Ballabri township. The remaining ones appear to be sand, bones, and broken bottles, with a sprinkling of inebriates and blackfellows.” With all that there was a lot of business done there in a year by the stores and inns, particularly since the diggings. Whatever becomes of the money made in such places? Where does it all go to? Nobody troubles their heads about that.

A goodish lot of the first people was huddled away in the graveyard under the sand ridges. Many an old shepherd had hobbled into the Travellers’ Rest with a big cheque for a fortnight’s spree, and had stopped behind in the graveyard, too, for company. It was always a wonderful place for steadying lushingtons, was Ballabri.

Anyhow we rode over to the barracks because we knew the senior constable was away. We’d got up a sham horse-stealing case the day before, through some chaps there that we knew. This drawed him off about fifty mile. The constable left behind was a youngish chap, and we intended to have a bit of fun with him. So we went up to the garden-gate and called out for the officer in charge of police quite grand.

“Here I am,” says he, coming out, buttoning up his uniform coat. “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh! not much,” says I; “but there’s a man sick at the Sportsman’s Arms. He’s down with the typhus fever or something. He’s a mate of ours, and we’ve come from Mr. Grant’s station. He wants a doctor fetched.”

“Wait a minute till I get my revolver,” says he, buttoning up his waistcoat. He was just fresh from the depot; plucky enough, but not up to half the ways of the bush.

“You’ll do very well as you are,” says Starlight, bringing out his pretty sharp, and pointing it full at his head. “You stay there till I give you leave.”

He stood there quite stunned, while Jim and I jumped off and muzzled him. He hadn’t a chance, of course, with one of us on each side, and Starlight threatening to shoot him if he raised a finger.

“Let’s put him in the logs,” says Jim. “My word! just for a lark; turn for turn. Fair play, young fellow. You’re being run in yourself now. Don’t make a row, and no one’ll hurt you.”

The keys were hanging up inside, so we pushed him into the farthest cell and locked both doors. There were no windows, and the lockup, like most bush ones, was built of heavy logs, just roughly squared, with the ceiling the same sort, so there wasn’t much chance of his making himself heard. If any noise did come out the town people would only think it was a drunken man, and take no notice.

We lost no time then, and Starlight rode up to the bank first. It was about ten minutes to three o’clock. Jim and I popped our horses into the police stables, and put on a couple of their waterproof capes. The day was a little showery. Most of the people we heard afterwards took us for troopers from some other station on the track of bushrangers, and not in regular uniform. It wasn’t a bad joke, though, and the police got well chaffed about it.

We dodged down very careless like to the bank, and went in a minute or two after Starlight. He was waiting patiently with the cheque in his hand till some old woman got her money. She counted it, shillings, pence, and all, and then went out. The next moment Starlight pushed his cheque over. The clerk looks at it for a moment, and quick-like says, “How will you have it?”

“This way,” Starlight answered, pointing his revolver at his head, “and don’t you stir or I’ll shoot you before you can raise your hand.”

The manager’s room was a small den at one side. They don’t allow much room in country banks unless they make up their mind to go in for a regular swell building. I jumped round and took charge of the young man. Jim shut and locked the front door while Starlight knocked at the manager’s room. He came out in a hurry, expecting to see one of the bank customers. When he saw Starlight’s revolver, his face changed quick enough, but he made a rush to his drawer where he kept his revolver, and tried to make a fight of it, only we were too quick for him. Starlight put the muzzle of his pistol to his forehead and swore he’d blow out his brains there and then if he didn’t stop quiet. We had to use the same words over and over again. Jim used to grin sometimes. They generally did the business, though, so of