We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day—swagmen know what that means. We reached the water about two hours “after dark “—swagmen know what that means. We didn't sit down at once and rest—we hadn't rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat down we wouldn't want to get up again in a hurry—that, if we did, our leg-sinews, especially those of our calves3, would “draw” like red-hot wire's. You see, we hadn't been long on the track this time—it was only our third day out. Swagmen will understand.
We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our beds and the swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cooked meat and a few johnny-cakes left, for we didn't feel equal to cooking. We put the billy of tea and our tucker-bags between the heads of our beds, and the pipes and tobacco in the crown of an old hat, where we could reach them without having to get up. Then we lay down on our stomachs and had a feed. We didn't eat much—we were too tired for that—but we drank a lot of tea. We gave our calves time to tone down a bit; then we lit up and began to answer each other. It got to be pretty comfortable, so long as we kept those unfortunate legs of ours straight and didn't move round much.
We cursed society because we weren't rich men, and then we felt better and conversation drifted lazily round various subjects and ended in that of smoking.
“How came to start smoking?” said Mitchell. “Let's see.” He reflected. “I started smoking first when I was about fourteen or fifteen. I smoked some sort of weed—I forget the name of it—but it wasn't tobacco; and then I smoked cigarettes—not the ones we get now, for those cost a penny each. Then I reckoned that, if I could smoke those, I could smoke a pipe.”
He reflected.
“We lived in Sydney then—Surry Hills. Those were different times; the place was nearly all sand. The old folks were alive then, and we were all at home, except Tom.”
He reflected.
“Ah, well!... Well, one evening I was playing marbles out in front of our house when a chap we knew gave me his pipe to mind while he went into a church-meeting. The little church was opposite—a 'chapel4' they called it.”
He reflected.
“The pipe was alight. It was a clay pipe and niggerhead tobacco. Mother was at work out in the kitchen at the back, washing up the tea-things, and, when I went in, she said: 'You've been smoking!'
“Well, I couldn't deny it—I was too sick to do so, or care much, anyway.
“'Give me that pipe!' she said.
“I said I hadn't got it.
“'Give—me—that—pipe!' she said.
“I said I hadn't got it.
“'Where is it?' she said.
“'Jim Brown's got it,' I said, 'it's his.'
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