Delahoy's Mile |
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(C) Copyright 1970 Robert Gordon Delahoy
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Chapter 10
Speed 1916
Bill was lean and wiry, and he had his pride. Even out in the paddocks he
would not wear bowyangs, and after a time his trousers would slip so far down
off his hips he would be walking on velvet, the moleskins dragging under the
heels of his hobnailed Blutcher boots.
He was harrowing, giving the soil that final working before the drills moved in
to sow the wheat.
Day after day he plodded patiently behind the harrows, from a distance just a
little dust cloud moving slowly around the paddock, and by the end of each day
was tired out and taller and broader by a sweaty layer of top soil.
After school each day Rupe would help me in pickling the seed wheat in a
bluestone bath to protect our crop against smut and take-all, diseases that
attacked when the new wheat came into ear.
Out method pickling was a crude arrangement, but like so many methods of doing
jobs improvised by the farmers, it worked well, and could be adjusted for
either a man or a boy to work.
A pole was set in the ground, with another pole hinged across it, one end being
the lever you worked with, the other having a chain attached which you wrapped
around the bag to be pickled. With the lever you lifted the bag from the
ground, walked it around until the bag was over a one hundred gallon tank
containing a mixture of bluestone and water, and lowered the bag into it. Then
after a few minutes you levered it out, held it above the tank to drain, then
walked the lever around until you could lower the bag onto the pickled stack.
As I was nearing fourteen it was decided I could stop home from school again
when it was time to put the crop in, and drive one of the drills.
On the first day of sowing I stepped proudly up onto the footboard of the 15
run disc drill, four of our beautiful Clydesdale draught horses yoked abreast
of each other in front of me. I stood them up, and away we went, doing two
rounds of the paddock in fine style.
Jove, I decided. I've got the hang of this pretty quick!
Stopping the team I checked the level of the seed, surprised to find it had not
fallen below the full mark. And yet it should have gone down a little, at
least, in two rounds. Maybe something was jammed?
Across the paddock Harry was working with the other drill, and I hesitated on
whether I should check with him. He had explained that all you did was put it
in gear
In gear! I glanced sideways, hoping Harry had not noticed, and surreptitiously
pulled the gear lever from neutral.
"Gee
..!" I called, and pulled the team across onto the ground
we had already covered, finding I had to fight them for the whole two circuits
to hold them to it. They just did not want to work over the ground for the
second time, and it was not until we had completed the first two circuits again
and were starting on the fresh third that they were working easily and stopped
snorting and throwing their heads.
Now they knew what they were doing.
All that first day they would turn their heads to watch me each time I stopped
them at the piles of seed wheat and super to refill the drill, checking, it
seemed, to see that I knew what I was doing.
It was a long and tiring day, the harsh heat of the sun and the constant dust,
but the team plodded steadily on. At the end of the day when I stopped them at
a pile of seed wheat and dropped the chains from the hame hooks, they each
acknowledged my pat of thanks with a shake of the head or by nuzzling my
shoulder.
With a billy and a sugar bag holding my lunch tin in one hand, and the reins in
the other, I turned them for home, letting them pick their own pace back
towards the stable through the first shades of twilight.
I was bone weary as I walked behind them, but filled with a deep feeling of
pride and satisfaction. When you looked across a paddock sown down with wheat
it was so orderly, you could see the evidence of your work in the even
corrugations of the drills. So different for the man working in a factory down
in Melbourne, maybe making munitions for the war. After a day's work he went
home with nothing to see for all his labour, only the money in his pay envelope
at the end of the week.
Still, that was something we never seemed to have.
But I would not change it. Not for all the money there was. Father had been
right when he told Mother to see we went on the land.
The team stopped at the stable and I dropped the sugar bag and the billy by the
wall, taking the hames and collars off, and undoing the throat straps of the
winkers, the horses filing off down to the dam for a drink.
Harry and Bill, who was still working with the harrows, were doing the same
with their teams, used to the heavy work and not as tired and weary as I was on
that first day, my arms aching as I carted feed from the chaff house and filled
the long troughs.
"Good job Bob," Bill said. "Suppose you'll be wanting to start
before sun-up tomorrow?"
"Probably going to have his tea and get back out to work in the
moonlight," Harry said as we turned up for the house, the last of the day
glowing redly in the west.
But I barely managed to finish my tea before I fell asleep, and Mother sent me
off to bed to recover for another of the long days we worked until nearly the
end of April.
We had already had rain on and off by the time we finished the sowing, and our
hopes for the season were high as we cleaned the drills ready for storing in
the machinery shed until next year.
When we had cleaned them and put them in the machinery shed we had to block
them up off the floor to keep the white ants from eating out the wooden fellies
of the wheels. We even had to make sure during the year that no sand blew into
the shed and built up in drifts against the wheels, as this made little ramps
the white ants were quick to find. The softwood of the Mallee pines did not
seem to attract them particularly, it was the hardwood of the fellies, or
anything else made of this timber, which they searched out for food.
With the drills cleaned and blocked-up we took life a little easier until the
wheat began to shoot, and along with the grain the mallee roots still in the
ground sent up their suckers.
Like all the other farmers we dealt with this using a shoot cutter, or slasher.
A steel head you bought and fitted to your own handle. There never seemed to be
a handle offered for sale, so we cut our own from mallee sticks, shaping them
down to about the width of a pick handle.
The head was a twelve or fourteen inch steel blade about three inches wide and
sharpened on both sides. It lay flat on the ground when the handle was upright.
Holding the handle with both hands it was swung from side to side, chipping the
mallee suckers off on both strokes.
We generally worked about a chain away from each other, making a three of four
chain swathe across the paddock, taking a few moments off at the end of each
run to have a yarn, then starting a fresh span. And hell, how my arms ached as
I longed for the sun to slide down the western sky as I swung that monotonous
stroke, or cut at the steel of the blade with the twelve inch file carried at
the back of my belt.
Sometimes I wondered if the sun would ever move from the apex of its path, and
drop towards the blessed relief of the house and a chair to fall into.
"I saw Mr Thrower in Speed today," Mother said during tea one
evening. "He wants you boys to go in and see a new plough he has for sale.
It's something new for Mallee farming."
"They're always trying to sell you something," I said, and started in
surprise as Bill's foot connected with my shin under the table.
"What
.."
"Yes," Bill said loudly to cover my voice. "If it's something
new we better go in and have a look at it." He half turned to me.
"Have to leave off shoot cutting for a day though."
A day off shoot cutting!
Bill drove the three of us into Speed the next morning, letting the ponies pick
their own pace as we yarned.
"Of course we can't afford a new plough," Bill said. "But it's a
good chance for a yarn and a bit of a break."
But when we saw the new plough we began to think again. It was a stump-jump. A
five furrow mouldboard plough, but unlike the conventional type which to a
jolting stop, and usually broke something, each time you hit a stump, the
shares and mouldboard of this one kicked up and over the stump without damage.
"And when the stumps rot a bit, when the white ants get into them,"
Jack Thrower told us, " it will pull them right out of the ground. Just
pick them up and put them on a rail truck for Melbourne and there's money in
your pocket."
"Jove," said Bill, impressed.
"The Melbourne housewife really goes for the heat they produce." He
patted the demonstration model with affection. "Specially made for us in
the Mallee these are."
After we left the agent's Bill was in quite a hurry to get the messages done
and collect the mail so we could get back home to discuss the business of
affording a new plough with Mother. It was a topic of conversation which
cropped up regularly after that.
The rains came in week after week, and the crop was coming along well as spring
moved into the Mallee, the paddocks green again after the burnt yellows of the
summer and the cold bare earth of winter.
Back from their wanderings came the plover, those beautiful, brown plover,
swooping down from the sky to choose their nesting sights to raise their yearly
young. Skylarks spiralled up, up into the blue, their crystal song ringing down
to us as we paused in our work, and the magpies swooped down in the reckless,
erratic dive that seemed to herald imminent destruction against the earth. But
each time they flattened out in a long glide no higher than two feet from the
ground, the crazy sky-divers dropping to perch and lift up their beaks in a
carol of joy.
The Mallee had come back to full life.
Well, I've got some more on that new plough," Bill said as we sat around
the fire. "These people, Rawlings, who make it are somewhere in Coburg,
just out of Melbourne. Says they make a seven furrow as well as the five
now."
"If you work that out at a furrow to the acre a day," Harry said
thoughtfully. "Why
.., we could plough and fallow at about seven
acres a day."
"That's, um
..," Rupe was pencilling on the side of his
homework. "Jove! Forty nine acres a week!"
"Break it down!" Bill protested. "We're not working
Sundays."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot that," Rupe conceded, figuring again.
"Anyway, that's still forty two acres a week and that's not real
bad."
"It's the money though
.." Bill got quite depressed about it at
times.
Mother looked up. "I've been thinking about that. It's about time we
trucked away some of the pigs. You could easily select a load of good
baconers."
No-one had given the pigs a thought. The sties were to the north of the house,
about three hundred yards away, and apart from feeding them boiled wheat,
seeing them feeding in the horse paddock, or when the wind came in from the
direction of the sties, you never really remembered them.
"By Jove!" Bill exclaimed. "I never give them a thought."
Rupe had, but not in that connection. It was when Charlie McDougall came over
to perform a surgical operation on the young boards. The same operation he
performed on the colts and the bull calves. Rupe had been watching Charlie
perform the castrations, and it worried him.
"You know what Bob," he said thoughtfully when Charlie had gone.
"If I was born an animal I'd like to be born a she one."
"What's up Rupe?" He seemed to be troubled.
"Well, the she ones only cop the branding iron, but hell!" He
shuddered. "What they do to the boy ones!" He clenched his fists and
shook his head as though trying to chase an image from his mind.
"Well you couldn't have the place running with bulls and boars and
stallions
.."
Rupe shrugged. "I s'pose not," he agreed reluctantly, unconvinced,
"but I don't think it's fair
.." and he wandered away puzzling
to himself why man must interfere so drastically with nature.
Several days after she had suggested selling some pigs, Mother went down to the
sties with Bill and Harry to choose the ones she thought were ready to send
away. She had helped Father in the butcher's shop at Great Western, and Bill
had decided she would still have a good idea of which animals were suitable.
Standing outside the sties where the pigs had been yarded, Mother pointed out
her selections, and Bill and Harry would push in amongst them and mark the
chosen baconer with a dash of red paint.
The next day Mother went in to Speed and ordered a railway truck to send them
in, and early on the appointed day we yarded the pigs and brought down the
wagon, the Rawling, which we had fitted up with wide netting sides, yoking only
two horses to bring it down to be loaded.
Dropping the tailboard of the wagon Bill and Harry moved in amongst the pigs,
picking out the marked ones to load. But they seemed to have sensed their fate,
and where normally you could not kick them out of your way, now they had gone
crazy, the whole mob galloping about the yard in terror, giving Bill and Harry
a hard time before they had the wagon loaded.
But Bill's arithmetic on how many cubic feet a baconer needed in a wagon was
quite out, because there were still marked pigs moving amongst the mob in the
yard.
"Bob," he called. "You and Rupe get down off the fence and the
get the May & Miller."
"Be a relief not t'see your smirking faces," Harry muttered darkly,
climbing slowly up off the ground yet again.
"Yoke Bell and Gyp!" Bill called after us.
While we were away they yarded the rest of the marked pigs into a smaller area,
and when we brought the wagon down, loaded them quite easily.
"I'll go up and make a cup of tea," Mother said.
Rupert and I went up with her, because, Rupe said, "I've got a funny
feeling Harry's likely to throw me in the wagon with them." He was most
aggrieved. "He did look funny, didn't he? With that old sow standing on
his back trying to eat his next out?"
"Never mind," Mother comforted. "I'm sure Harry wouldn't
really."
"Huh!" Rupe muttered to himself, quite certain in his own mind of his
fate if he stayed.
After a cup of tea we yoked four more horses, two abreast, to each wagon, and,
with six in hand, Bill led off for Speed, oblivious to the squealing, his mind
already seeing that shiny new seven furrow mouldboard plough.
It was after dark, and Mother, Rupe and I had finished our tea when they
arrived back, walking into the kitchen when they had fed the horses, and
bringing with them the full aroma of pig.
"Your tea's ready," Mother said. "But you'll want to bathe
first?"
"After tea." Bill sat down and stretched, unaware apparently, he had
filled the kitchen with a tangible memory of those pigs. "I'm feeling
pretty hungry."
Mother sighed and went to the oven for their meals. After all, selling the pigs
had been her idea in the first place, so she would just have to put up with
this result.
After tea Bill and Harry had their baths and changed into fresh clothes, coming
back to sit at the fire. They were both really worn out, and Harry was
beginning to doze, a look of concern crossing Mother's face when she noticed.
"You boys deserve a break. You can afford one now. Why not go into Speed
tomorrow night to the meeting they're writing about in the paper? Our Federal
Member of Parliament will be speaking on farming and production, and another
gentleman on conscription.
"Might be interesting," Bill agreed. "Hell, I'm tired. Remind me
in the morning. I'm off to bed."
The next day at lunch Mother brought the subject up again. "The three of
you older boys could go in."
"Yes. Think I will," Bill said. "What time does it start?"
"Eight o'clock. We'll have an early tea and you can be away by half past
five. That should give you plenty of time."
After the early tea the three of us left in the hooded single seater buggy,
driving Chester and Snowy. It was a clear night, and we really spanked along,
Snowy putting on a show. He was a time test trotter, and with neck arched, he
would really pump his legs up and down, making the pace for Chester.
The crowd in Speed surprised us all. Buggies and jinkers everywhere, and men
standing in groups under the verandahs, in shops, and even in the middle of the
street.
Bill selected a spot in the mallee bushes away on the east side of the hill,
and we unyoked the ponies and tied them one each side of the buggy to the
wheels. Harry and Bill put the rugs on, and I opened butts of oats and chaff so
they could feed. Then we walked down to join a group under Jack Thrower's
verandah.
The talk was mostly of the season and how well it was shaping, and the new
varieties of wheat some of the farmers had been trying. One particular variety
was proving very successful, a short straw wheat producing many more grains
than usual to each head, and generally superior to the long straw type.
While the men were talking my attention was drawn to the small groups which
would suddenly break away from discussion and walk off down behind the hall.
"What's going on down there Harry?"
Harry winked and said quietly, "There's a bloke doing a bit of
sly-grogging set up in the bush behind the hall."
"But that's not allowed."
"Ah well," Harry said, "with no hotel, and no policeman here in
Speed, no-one's going to do anything about it, are they? Anyway, a few drinks
are not going to do anyone any harm."
"No
..I suppose not
.."
"Come on you's blokes!" someone shouted. "Meetings about to
start."
At the doorway to the hall we were introduced to our Federal Member, and the
gentleman, whoever he was, who was going to speak on the war.
The stage was set up with a table and chairs, a jug of water and glasses on the
table, the Union Jack draped along the front, and little flags all around the
walls.
The crowd came in slowly, a few words to the men at the door, then finding a
seat, the hall beginning to fill in dribs and drabs, until the beer rant out
and quite a crowd cam in all together, mostly younger men, finding standing
room only at the back.
They mostly wore football guernseys, open at the neck and showing plenty of
hair, and they smelt of stale perspiration, tobacco and beer. It was strange
how, after a few drinks, their trousers seemed to hang differently, their eyes
showing a dreamy, dreary look, shoulders hunched forward, hands either on their
hips or in their pockets, swaying gently back and forth on their heels, a
silly, faraway look on their faces.
I heard one of them say there was another load of beer on the way from
lascelles, and might arrive by the end of the meeting.
A gavel tapped several times on the table, and talking died away.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Your attention."
The chairman of the meeting duly introduced the Honourable Member and the other
distinguished gentleman, and made a sign to a younger man at the piano, who
struck up with the opening bars of the National Anthem.
We all stood and sang 'God Save the King', and sat again. Our Honourable Member
cleared his throat for our attention before telling us how delighted he was to
be amongst us again, and how difficult it was to pay us a visit, which could
not be more frequently organised owing to the time he had to put in at the
Parliament and the awful demands the war was making on his time.
And then he really got into his stride. The war was making constant demands and
asking the greatest of sacrifices, and we, the farmers, were doing a
magnificent job, but would have to produce even more.
And he was afraid that as enlistment of young men had fallen off, the
Government might have to consider bringing in conscription, but his friend
beside him would speak on that subject.
At question time Mr Brown stood up and asked, "Would the Honourable Member
please explain why the price of machinery is continuing to rise while the price
of wheat remains the same?"
"I'm glad you asked me that question," our Member said, and went into
great detail about the rise of wages in the steel industry to twelve shillings
a day; how the miners at Broken Hill and the coal miners were getting
increases; that to protect the local machinery manufacturers the Government had
had to place a duty on imported farm machinery
..
My head just whirled with the figures he gave out. I just could not keep pace
with him, and was quite relieved when he sat down, repeating his opening
sentence as a clincher. "I'm glad you asked me that question."
Mr Brown stood up again, perplexed. "But you've not answered it. What
you've said is just so much hog-wash."
"Order! Order!" the Chairman demanded.
"I am in order," Mr Brown said.
I liked Mr Brown. He looked so reliable and determined.
"You set the price of wheat in the wheat pool," he went on, "
and we have to accept it and like it." But everyone else can fix their own
prices for the goods we farmers need, and that's not right."
Even the whispering at the back of the hall had stopped.
Mr Brown thought a moment, then continued. "I admit the working man in the
coal mines and the lead and zinc mines at Broken Hill are entitled to a fair
wage, and share holders are entitled to a fair return on their investment. But
some of these companies are making huge profits, and still you ask the farmers
of Australia to tighten their belts and work harder!"
Mr Brown seemed to have shaken our local Member. He stood up slowly, seeming
unsure, and finally said he would take the subject up with other Members when
he returned to the Parliament, and give the matter every consideration and see
what could be done.
Several other farmers stood up and asked questions and sat down again, and then
the distinguished gentleman beside our Member stood up and produced graphs
which he hung on a blackboard, and launched himself with great feeling into the
landing at the Dardanelles. How the flower of Australian manhood had covered
themselves in glory, and how he would emerge from this war as a nation in our
own right, and not just a colony of England.
"And now," he continued, "on the battlefields of France our men
are showing the Germans that Australians are men to be respected!"
And the atrocities the Germans had committed in the invasion of Belgium and
France! They had even tied young girls, from the towns they had invaded, to the
wheels of their guns and raped them!
And in this war the Generals of Britain and Frances were giving pride of place
in spear-heads of attacks to Australians, and they required at least twenty
thousand men a month from us to keep our Divisions up to fighting strength.
But if men did not come forward to enlist to fill these numbers
..Ah, then
he was afraid conscription would have to be introduced. It was the only fair
way.
He stopped, poured himself a glass of water and drank it down, and fixed us all
with a determined look. "I know of families where the men have not
enlisted, yet their fathers migrated to this country in the late eighteen
hundreds and made their homes here, and reaped the wealth of this
country!"
And then he sat down, looking very pleased with himself. Dead silence. Not a
sound in the entire hall.
This man had touched on a very serious subject. There were hundreds of German
families in the Wimmera and the Mallee who had done a magnificent job in the
settling of this land. In fact, all over Australia the German settler had
played his part.
Then from the silence emerged the first whispered comment, and neighbour turned
to neighbour, and the hall began to fill with sound again.
Slowly, Mr Otto Schwartz stood up. He looked slowly around the hall, then
turned to the stage.
"Mishter Shpeaker. Iam an olt man. My vife and I came from Shermany and
settled in this country in the year eighteen hundred and forty. We love this
country, but I can shtill remember my Shermany. Is that a crime? My two boys,
Otto and Carl, died on the shores of the Dardanelles. My other son, Rinoldt, is
fighting in France with the AIF. Fighting against his own cousins!"
He lifted a hand to his face, brushed his hand quickly across his eyes, jaw
stiffening as he fought to control the emotion.
"Now I haff only two boys home to work the farm!" His voice trembled.
"I not only shpeak for myself, I shpeak tonight for the thousands of
Sherman families in this country!"
Tears were running down the weathered cheeks, but his voice was stronger, the
tremble leaving it.
"Oh Gott! Vot you say I cannot belieff. That my sons' first cousins would
do the awful thinks you say? No! I cannot belieff it of the Sherman
soldier!"
He turned and cried out to the hall at large. "You people all know my
family! You know hundreds of Sherman families! Have we not proved to you that
we are goot peoples? Haff we not shared the making of this great land with you?
We know not what this awful war is about. We only know our sons have gone to
fight and die for Australia! But cannot you understand that our hearts also
bleed for our people in Shermany? The land of my birth?
"I try to tell you, but with my little English I cannot say what I want to
say!" And with sobs shaking the broad bent frame, he dropped down into his
seat and buried his face in his hands.
Again the deadly silence.
And then one of the men from the back of the hall pushed his way up to the
stage, and swaying back and forth on his heels, hands on hips, trying to focus
his eyes on the speakers, he pointed at them, and after several false starts
and a hiccup, said: "Yesh, yesh, I've got'ta queshtion I'd like to ask my
queshtion ish
.." He swayed gently forward. "Lishen spshort,
lishen spshort
.." He pointed at the last speaker. "You know sho
much about the bloody war why aren't you over there instead of telling the
other blokesh what they ought to do?"
One of the older men stepped from the body of the hall and tried to lead him
away, but the drunk shook him off.
"Fair go, fair go, I"ve got'ta lotta queshtions to ashk thish
gen'lemen, and he never, never anshere, anshwered m' old cobber Schwartzies
queshtion
.."
He hadn't. Had made no move to even attempt to. But was there anyone who could
find an answer?
Again the older man tried to lead the drunk away, this time using force.
"Watch y'self!"
And that was all it took. The detonator, and sparks crackled down the length of
the hall, flared into a fist fight at the back, and exploded into riot, all
hell letting loose.
Men went down, benches crashed, chairs flew through the air.
"C'mon!" Bill yelled urgently, and grabbing me by the arm dragged me
to the side door, Harry fighting alongside, the three of us struggling with the
bolt as the weight of men jammed it.
"All together!" Bill roared, "pull!"
The bolt slid and the door burst open, catapaulting us out into the blackness,
a great wave of brawling manhood rolling out after us and from the other doors,
the night deafening with the screams and curses, and you ducked and dodged the
wild punches as best you could.
And then the night split open and a great bolt of lightning struck down and a
thunderclap shook the ground, tearing open the clouds and loosing the water in
a great deluge.
Harry and Bill and I ran for the door and into the hall, deserted now, but
throbbing with the crash of rain on the iron roof, and, as though nothing had
happened, the caretaker came out with his broom and began to sweep.
But the rain drove the men back inside, in ones and twos, then a stream crowd,
water running from their hair down their faces, dripping from their soaked
clothes, some of the water red with blood.
And as suddenly as it had started the rain stopped, and in the suddent quiet
the men spoke almost in whispers.
"Sorry mate, no harm meant."
And then the quiet broke again at a shout from the door. "Right'o chaps!
The beer's arrived!" And for those who liked a drop it was the call to
move again, and they streamed out into the night.
I looked up at the stage. Our distinguished speakers had taken their
opportunity and slipped away, leaving their beloved electors to sort out their
own affairs as best they could. Which they mostly did, it seemed to me, when
commonsense prevailed.
Harry and Bill were talking to some of the other men, and then the ladies
arrived. They had been at a Red Cross meeting down at the school, and seeing
their husbands and sons with black eyes and cut lips rose up and very shortly
showed who was boss. In very plain language told them what they thought of
them, before leading them, chastened, away to their various vehicles.
"Come on," Bill said, and the three of us went out into the night,
walking down through the bushes to the buggy and ponies, and yoked them up.
"Storm's gone," Harry said. "May as well put the hood
down."
The air was clean and fresh, the sky deep velvet black, the bright points of
the stars within reach of a high-stretched hand. The Southern Cross stood above
us, the two pointers alive with bright sparkle.
"Well Bob, how'd you enjoy it?"
"Aw
..it was interesting. I was just looking at the Southern Cross
Bill."
"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, leaning back in the seat and
turning his head upwards. We're one of the only countries in the world God has
given a cross to. It's a reminder he gave his only begotten Son to save mankind
and we crucified him. Still don't seem to have got the message, do
we."
Bill looked up a moment, then turned his eyes down and moved the ponies off.
"Pretty good fight."
"Yes," said Harry, "the silly buggers. Some of them can only
think of booze and fight. I remember reading somewhere where an English General
said if he had an army of well-fed Englishmen, half-starved Scotsmen, and
half-drunk Irishmen, he'd conquer the world."
"Chuck a bit of German blood in with that," Bill said, "and
you've got the dinky-di Australian."
It was so true of our land where most families had intermarried amongst the
different nationalities in the New World.
"Y'know," Bill mused, "Mr Brown made a good point about the big
companies. They've only just made this great profit and they go and put the
price of steel up, and up goes the price of farm implements!"
"Well, there's not much you can do about it," Harry said. "I
remember what an old Irish priest at Jeparit said. Big companies are a problem.
You can neither save their souls nor kick their backsides."
Bill was impressed. "By jove yes. Get up Snowy. Get up Chester."
Running for home the ponies quickly put the miles under their hooves, waiting,
impatient, as the gate was opened and closed, and finishing the short distance
down to the stable in a dash.
Walking from the stable up to the house, Rowdy and Clyde jumping around us,
Bill warned: "Not a word to Mother about the fight. It would only upset
her."
We went quietly to bed, trying not to disturb Mother or Rupe, but I heard a
quiet sight of contentment from her room. She had stayed awake to be sure of
our safe return, and I whispered goodnight at her door.
In the morning Harry woke me with a shake. "Breakfast's ready." He
always rose early and got things going.
"How did the meeting go?" Mother asked when we were all seated around
the table. "Was it interesting?"
Harry and I looked to Bill. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Well, I suppose as meetings go you'd say it went pretty good, and I'm
sure we all learned something." He leaned back in his chair, forehead
creased in thought, and nodded. "Yes, you've got to get out and discuss
things with your fellow man, and when you quietly talk it over, you generally
appreciate the other fellow's point of view."
I could still see those faces distorted in rage.