Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“Well then, we may as well have our money’s worth and see the race properly. Let us go to the centre of the street. Why did you favour theJasons if they first reached the road?”

“Because young Jason wouldn’t let any driver overhaul and pass him. He’d block any such attempt. Looks as though they left the cemetery just in time, doesn’t it?”

The first of the oncoming vehicles was still half a mile from the lower end of the township where the macadamized street gave place to the earth road. Behind it nothing could be seen in the dust raised by its wheels save now and then when a black dot appeared to draw level for an instant before falling away again into the dust cloud.

“Must be doing fifty, sir,” estimated Gleeson.

“And the rain is doing sixty, Gleeson,” the delighted Bony pointed out. “It will soon catch up with them. And please remember not to call me sir. I am supposed to be a prisoner of the state. My friends all call me Bony. If you don’t like to be a friend, call me Burns. Ha! Ha! That second vehicle almost got ahead.” He was rubbing his hands with glee, and he shouted: “It’s theJasons leading. Come on, theJasons!”

A voice roared from the group behind them:

“No, itain’t. The doctor’s leading. I’m ’avinga bit on ’im. Five bob on the quack, Jack. Make a note.”

Thunder crashed, rolled away over the mysterious Walls of China, only the southern portion of which could now be seen. The sound of it dampened men’s voices into unintelligible murmurs. When it ended, a man shouted triumphantly:

“It isn’t the quack. It’s the parson. Come on, Jamesey. Come on, you beaut.”

“I told you so! I told you so!” yelled a man farther down the street, a man who turned and waved his hat and then slapped it against a thigh. “TheJasons are leading. Good old Tom! Drive her, Tom. Step on it, lad. Let her have it.”

The leading unit of the returning funeral cortege was now nearing the eastern end of the macadamized road. One drop of rain “tanged” on the garage roof. Then another pinged on the roof of the police station. Sergeant Marshall came out with his wife and stood at the gate. The group in the middle of the street took not the slightest notice of the presence of the police, and called betting odds and shouted and cheered.

“You win your ten shillings,” Gleeson told Bony. “Now watch ’emclear the final hurdle.”

The hearse appeared like a horse rising to take a fence as it was driven off the earth road on to the macadamized street. The car almost touching its rear doors also took the jump, as did the remainder.

A bad flash of lightning made the excited onlookers blink, and the ensuing thunder shook the air about them. Up along the street came the hearse. The car behind it swerved to its left and entered the driveway of the house next to the church. Bony now could see Mr Jason’s white face, and beside it the rounder face of his son. They both were crouched forward so that the faces appeared as ornaments above the engine bonnet. Mr Jason was gripping the top of the low windscreen with both hands. The top hat was not visible.

Like a machine gun being steadily fired, huge raindrops fell upon the iron roofs and actually raised little balls of dust when they dropped on the sandy places on the sidewalks. The onlookers now could see Mr Jason’s moustache apparently glued to the windscreen, and they could see the cigarette end in the wide mouth of his son. It looked like the same butt which had been there when the cortege had left old Bennett’s hut.

The hearse roared past Bony and the constable, who had gained the shelter of a pepper-tree, and there, lying in state inside the vehicle, was Mr Jason’s top hat. Tyres screamed when the turn was made into the garage, almost drowning out the roar of applause given by the onlookers from thehotel who now were gathered under its veranda.

The rain began in very earnest, its roar on iron roofs deepening in cadence and increasing in volume. The doctor’s car turned off the street. TheFannings did likewise. The last car home roared to a halt outside the hotel, and the woman wearing the Merry Widow hat and the grey costume appeared from it like a Jill out of her box, to run round the front of it and dart into the main entrance of the hotel, followed by two small boys.

Then from out of the garage raced Mr Jason and young Jason. The father was carrying his top hat under an arm. The son was wearing his cloth cap back to front. They sped across the street in the cloud of rain and vanished into the hotel.

A WakeWithout the Relatives

ON ENTERING THE BAR, Bony’s swift appraisal numbered fourteen men in addition to the licensee, who in that instant announced that the drinks were on him.

The gloom within the bar was now and then banished by lightning which flickered against the windows, and men’s voices were drowned by the resultant thunder which blotted out the roar of the rain on the veranda roof without. Men named their drinks, and one who took it upon himself to transmit the orders turned to Bony to ask his choice.

This man was not a bushman. He was wearing tweed slacks and black shoes. He had no coat and the striped cotton shirt he sported beneath a waistcoat was similar to those worn by city men.

“You’re the feller who got ten days this morning, aren’t you?” he asked with a friendly smile.“Never mind. Bit of bad luck. The sergeant was telling me only yesterday that he’d have to get someone to paint his fence.”

Bony’s teeth flashed.

“I always try to meet adversity like a sportsman,” he said.

“Good on you. That’s the spirit. I’m Watson, the local press correspondent. Own the news agency and fancy goods shop in this town. Your name’s Burns, isn’t it?”

“That’s so. Hope thereare no Scotchmen present.”

“Not Robert Burns? Lovely! You know, I get more fun out of this township than ever I did get out of Sydney. Now don’t be in a hurry to drink. Justwait, and you’ll see something that you’ve never seen before.”

When the drinks were all set up, no one appeared to be abnormally thirsty. It appeared to Bony that everyone waited for a signal to drink to be given, for certainly no one was too bashful to drink first. Even the licensee waited, his elbows on the counter, his hands cupping his round and red face. All present seemed to be covertly watching Mr Jason, who stood in the centre of the gathering.

He stood with his back to the counter. The tall hat was perched at an absurd angle at the back of his head. Leaning hard against the counter, he was cutting chips from a jet-black tobacco plug with a knife having a four-inch blade. His long-fingered hands were obviously strong, for the knife did its work with methodical ease.

Men discussed the homeward race of the funeral cortege with slackening interest as their interest in Mr Jason increased.

He snapped shut the knife and placed it, with the tobacco plug, in his trousers pocket. Then with the palms of his hands he shredded the tobacco and crammed it with some care into the bowl of acherrywood pipe. At his right elbow stood two glass mugs of beer.

The pipe loaded, Mr Jason audibly sighed, long and deeply. His face bore the evidence of grief and he appeared oblivious of those on either side of him.

“Watch,” breathed Mr Watson into Bony’s ear.

From a pocket in the skirt of his remarkable frock coat Mr Jason produced a box of matches, struck one, and laid it against the pipe bowl. Followed then a period of expectant hush as the assembly watched with extraordinary intentness Mr Jason draw and puff until the pipe seemed on fire. Then he began to inhale smoke. He inhaled to the capacity of his breath three times without exhaling, upon which he turned slowly to the counter, laid down his pipe, and took up and drank the two mugs of beer. That was the awaited signal for all to drink.