While the Billy Boils by Henry Lawson (best value ebook reader .txt) 📕

He assured us that we couldn’t do better than stay with her. He said she was a most respectable lady, and all her boarders were decent young fellows⁠—gentlemen; she kept everything scrupulously clean, and kept the best table in town, and she’d do for us (washing included) for eighteen shillings per week; she generally took the first week in advance. We asked him to have a beer⁠—for the want of somebody else to ask⁠—and after that he said that Mrs. Jones was a kind, motherly body, and understood young fellows; and that we’d be even more comfortable than in our own home; that we’d be allowed to do as we liked⁠—she wasn’t particular; she wouldn’t mind it a bit if we came home late once in a way⁠—she was used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellows enjoying themselves. We afterwards found out that he got so much on every boarder he captured. We also found out⁠—after paying in advance⁠—that her gentlemen generally sent out their white things to be done; she only did the coloured things, so we had to pay a couple of bob extra a week to have our “biled” rags and collars sent out and done; and after the first week they bore sad evidence of having been done on the premises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid all the same. And, good Lord! If she keeps the best table in town, we are curious to see the worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table in front of your chair a cold plate, with a black something⁠—God knows what it looks like⁠—in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped off the inside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm grey slush called a “cup of tea.” Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef or boiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds, of which the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen’s egg, the smallest that of a bantam, and the middle one in between, and which eat soggy and have no taste to speak of, save that they are a trifle bitter; a dab of unhealthy-looking green something, which might be either cabbage leaves or turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The whole mess is lukewarm, including the water⁠—it would all be better cold. Tea: A thin slice of the aforesaid alleged roast or mutton, and the pick of about six thin slices of stale bread⁠—evidently cut the day before yesterday. This is the way Mrs. Jones “does” for us for eighteen shillings a week. The bread gave out at teatime this evening, and a mild financial boarder tapped his plate with his knife, and sent the bread plate out to be replenished. It came back with one slice on it.

The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the landlady that he’ll have to shift next week⁠—it is too far to go to work, he cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go, he says; he is very comfortable here, but it can’t be helped; anyway, as soon as he can get work nearer, he’ll come back at once; also (oh, what cowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could shift and take a house down at the other end of the town. She says (at least here are some fragments of her gabble which we caught and shorthanded): “Well, I’m very sorry to lose you, Mr. Sampson, very sorry indeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can’t be expected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn’t be getting to work late, and losing your place⁠ ⁠… Of course we could get breakfast an hour earlier if⁠ ⁠… well, as I said before, I’m sorry to lose you and, indeed⁠ ⁠… You won’t forget to come and see us⁠ ⁠… glad to see you at any time⁠ ⁠… Well, anyway, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bed will be always ready for you, and you’ll be treated just the same, and made just as comfortable⁠—you won’t forget that” (he says he won’t); “and you won’t forget to come to dinner sometimes” (he says he won’t); “and, of course⁠ ⁠… You know I always try⁠ ⁠… Don’t forget to drop in sometimes⁠ ⁠… Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you’ll be sure to send him to me, will you?” (He says he will.) “Well, of course, Mr. Sampson, etc., etc., etc., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,⁠ ⁠…” It’s enough to give a man rats.

He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.

This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to break away and take to the bush.

His Colonial Oath

I lately met an old schoolmate of mine upcountry. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was working on his father’s farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face⁠—and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture:

“So poor old Mr. B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”

“My oath!” he replied.

“He was a good old sort.”

“My oath!”

“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn’t it?”

His oath (colonial).

“Poor old Mr. B. died awfully sudden, didn’t he?”

He looked up the hill, and said: “My oath!”

Then he added: “My blooming oath!”

I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: “It’s blanky hot today. I don’t know how you blanky blanks stand such blank weather! It’s blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock; ain’t it?” Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off