Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

However, next morning⁠—after verifying the tracks of the thirsty bullocks so near the gilgie that it seemed a wonder they hadn’t walked into it⁠—I looked for the clump of mallee. I don’t believe there was a stick of it within miles; but there was a clump of yarran where it should have been. A stately beefwood, sixty feet high, with swarthy column furrowed a handbreadth deep, and heavy tufts of foliage like bundles of long leeks in colour and configuration⁠—the first beefwood I had seen since leaving the homestead⁠—stood close to the water, making a fine landmark; but Dan’s sense of proportion had selected the adjacent bit of yarran; and⁠—as I told the breakfast-party⁠—he had never concerned himself to know the difference between yarran and mallee.

“Curious combination of a fool and a well-informed man,” remarked Ward.

“Is he either of the two?” asked Broome. “My belief, he shams both.”

“Easy matter to sham foolishness,” obsened Williamson. “Not so easy to sham information.”

“Any relation to the late Liberator?” I asked.

“Dan O’Connell’s only his nickname,” replied Andrews. “His proper name is Rory O’Halloran.”

“Rory O’Halloran!” I repeated. “I thought I had met him before, but couldn’t place him. And so Rory has found his way here?”

“Well, he was brought here,” replied Andrews. “Twelve or fourteen years ago he turned up at Moogoojinna, down Deniliquin way, and froze to the station. Then when Arbuthnot settled this place⁠—five years ago now⁠—Spanker brought Rory with him, and he’s been here ever since. Got married at Moogoojinna, a year or two before leaving, to a red-hot Protestant, from the same part of the globe as himself; but she stayed at Moogoojinna for her confinement, and only came up four years ago, after Dan was settled in the Utopia paddock. Good woman in her way; but she spends her time in a sort of steady fury, for she came to Moogoojinna with the idea of collaring something worth while. So Spanker says; and he was there at the time. Seems she didn’t want Dan, and Dan didn’t want her, but somehow they were married before they came to an understanding. He’s very good to her, in his own inoffensive way; and she leads him a dog’s life. One kid. Likely you knew him on Moogoojinna. According to his own account, he came straight through Vic., only stopping once, when he chummied for a few weeks with a squatter that took a fancy to him and treated him like a long-lost brother. Grain of salt just there.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “I can verify his statement to the letter, for I was that land-cormorant.” And I straightway unfolded to the boys an earlier page of Dan O’Connell’s history⁠—

It was about thirteen years before. At that time I was really suffering the embarrassment of riches, though the latter consisted only of those chastening experiences which daily confront adventurers of immature judgment and scanty resources, on new selections. The local storekeeper, however, was keeping me supplied with the luxuries of life⁠—such as flour, spuds, tea, sugar, tobacco⁠—whilst turkeys and ducks were to be had for the shooting, and kangaroos for the chasing. The storekeeper had also taken charge of my land license, for safety, and occasionally presented documents for my signature, making me feel like some conscious criminal, happily let off for the present with a caution.

One summer evening, whilst dragging myself home from work, I encountered a young fellow, who, I flattered myself, resembled me only in age. Soft as a cabbage in every way, he was footsore and weary, as well as homesick and despondent to the verge of tears. In one hand he carried a carpet bag, and in the other a large bundle, tied up in a coloured handkerchief. In his conversation he employed the Armagh accent with such slavish fidelity as to make it evident that he regarded any other form of speech as showing culpable ignorance or offensive affectation. His name was Rory O’Halloran.

Of course, I offered him the rugged hospitalities of my hut. In the morning, perceiving that his feet showed startling traces of the hundred-and-twenty-mile walk from Melbourne, I constrained him to rest for a few days. But the poor fellow had a painfully outspoken scruple against eating the damper of idleness; so, as soon as he was able to get his boots on without supplication for Divine support, he started to help me with my work.

Soon our acquaintance ripened to intimacy; and I learned something of his history. Like the majority of us, he was the scion of an ancient family. He was the youngest of eleven, all surviving at latest advices (praise God). Seven of these had swarmed to America, and were doing well (glory be); two remained in their native hive, with full and plenty (Amen); whilst he and his brother Larry had staked their future on the prosperity of Australia (God help us).

His father must have been a man of wealth and position, as he apparently spent his whole time in following the hounds, shooting pheasants, and catching salmon, with the other gentlemen. But just before Rory left home, his father and mother had withdrawn from society. And here the narrator’s sudden reticence warned me not to inquire into the details of the old couple’s retirement.

Larry, it appeared, had been doing Victoria and Riverina for five or six years, with magnificent, though unspecific, results. Anyway, he had franked Rory to Port Melbourne pier by passage warrant; but seemed to have made no provision for further intercourse. And Rory, having walked the streets of Melbourne for two whole days without finding any trace of Larry, had concluded that he must be in Riverina, and that it would be a brave notion to slip over, and take the defaulter by surprise. Hence his present pilgrimage.

Poor Rory, in spite of his willingness, was naturally awkward with the splitters’ tools, nor did he know how to harness a horse. All this, he explained to me, was a penalty adherent to