CHAPTER III
"HARD TIMES"
It was the middle of the Sunday afternoon, when the young men ofTaroomba were for the most part sound asleep upon their beds. They werewise young men enough, in ways, and to punctuate the weeks of hard laborat the wool-shed with thoroughly slack Sundays at the home station was apractice of the plainest common-sense. To do otherwise would have beento fly in the face of nature. Yet just because Naomi Pryse chose tosettle herself in the veranda outside the sitting-room door with a book,the young man who had worked harder than any of the others during theweek must needs be the one to spend the afternoon of rest at her feet,and with nothing but a lean veranda-post to shelter his broad back fromthe sun.
This was Tom Chester, of whom Naomi had spoken highly to her _protege_,the piano-tuner. Tom was newly and beautifully shaved, and he hadfurther observed the Sabbath by putting on a white shirt and collar, anda suit of clothes in which a man might have walked down Collins Street;but he seemed quite content to sit in them on the dirty veranda boards,for the sake of watching Naomi as she read. She had not a great deal tosay to him, but she had commanded him to light his pipe, and as often asshe dropped the book into her lap to make a remark, she could reckonupon a sympathetic answer, preceded by a puff of the tobacco-smoke sheloved.
"It is a dreadful noise, though, isn't it?" Naomi had observed more thanonce.
"It is so," Tom Chester would answer, with a smile and another puff.
"He made such a point of setting to work this morning, you know, andit's so good of him to work on Sunday. I don't see how we can stop him."
Then Naomi would sit silent, but not reading, and would presentlyannounce that she had counted the striking of that note twenty-ninetimes in succession. Once she made it sixty-six; but the piano-tunerbehind the closed door had broken his own record, and seemed in a fairway of hammering out the same note a hundred times running, when MontyGilroy came tramping along the veranda with blinking yellow eyelashes,and his red face pale with temper. Miss Pryse was keeping tally aloudwhen the manager blundered upon the scene.
"I say, Naomi, how long is this to go on?" exclaimed Gilroy, in a tonethat was half-complaining, half-injured, but wholly different from thatwhich he had employed toward her the night before.
"Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five," counted Naomi, giving him anod and a smile.
"I hadn't been asleep ten minutes when he awoke me with his infernaldin."
"Ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three----"
"It's no joke when a man has been over the board the whole week," saidGilroy, trying to smile nevertheless.
"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight--well, I'll be jiggered!"
"Ninety-eight it is," said Tom Chester.
"Yes, he's changed the note. He might have given it a couple more!Still, it's the record. Now, Monty, please forgive us; we're trying tomake the best of a bad job, as you see."
"It is a bad job," assented Gilroy, whose rueful countenance concealed(but not from the girl) a vile temper smouldering. "It's pretty rough, Ithink, on us chaps who've been working like Kanakas all the week."
"Well, but you were pretty rough upon poor Mr. Engelhardt last night; sodon't you think that it serves you quite right?"
"Poor Mr. Engelhardt!" echoed Gilroy, savagely. "So it serves us right,does it?" He forced a laugh. "What do you say, Tom?"
"_I_ think it serves you right, too," answered Tom Chester, coolly.
Gilroy laughed again.
"So you're crackin', old chap," said he, genially. He generally wasgenial with Tom Chester, for whom he entertained a hatred enhanced byfear. "But I say, Naomi, need this sort of thing go on all theafternoon?"
"If it doesn't he will have to stay till to-morrow."
"Ah! I see."
"I thought you would. The piano was in a bad way, and he said there wasa long day's work in it; but he seems anxious to get away this evening,that's why he began before breakfast."
"Then let him stick to it, by all means, and we'll all clear outtogether. I'll see that his horse is run up--I'll go now."
He went.
"That's the most jealous gentleman in this colony," said Naomi to hercompanion. "He'd rather suffer anything than leave this littlepiano-tuner and me alone together!"
"Poor little chap," said Chester of the musician; he had nothing to sayabout Gilroy, who was still in view from the veranda, a swaggeringfigure in the strong sunlight, with his hands in his cross-cut breeches'pockets, his elbows sticking out, and the strut of a cock on its ownmidden. Tom Chester watched him with a hard light in his clear eye, anda moistening of the palms of his hands. Tom was pretty good with hisfists, and for many a weary month he had been spoiling for a fight withMonty Gilroy, who very likely was not the only jealous gentleman onTaroomba.
All this time the piano-tuner was at his fiendish work behind the closeddoor, over which Naomi Pryse had purposely mounted guard. Distractingrepetitions of one note were varied only by depressing octaves andirritating thirds. Occasionally a chord or two promised a trial tripover the keys, but such promises were never fulfilled. At last Naomishut her book, with a hopeless smile at Tom Chester, who was ready forher with an answering grin.
"Really, I can't stand it any longer, Mr. Chester."
"You have borne it like a man, Miss Pryse."
"I wanted to make sure that nobody bothered him. Do you think we maysafely leave him now?"
"Quite safely. Gilroy is up at the yards, and Sanderson only plays thefool to an audience. Let me pull you out of your chair."
"Thanks. That's it. Let us stroll up to the horse-paddock gate and back;then it will be time for tea; and let's hope our little tuner will havefinished his work at last."
"I believe he has finished now," Tom Chester said, as they turned theirbacks on the homestead. "He's never run up and down the board like_that_ before."
"The board!" said Miss Pryse, laughing. "No, don't you believe it; hewon't finish for another hour."
Tom Chester was right, however. As Naomi and he passed out of earshot,the piano-tuner faced about on the music-stool, and peered wistfullythrough the empty room at the closed door, straining his ear for theirvoices. Of course he heard nothing; but the talking on the veranda hadnever been continuous, so that did not surprise him. It gladdened him,rather. She was reading. She might be alone; his heart beat quicker forthe thought. She had sat there all day, of her own kind will, enduringhis melancholy performance; now she should have her reward. His eyesglistened as he searched in his memory for some restful, dreamy melody,which should at once soothe and charm her ears aching from his crudeunmusical monotonies. Suddenly he rubbed his hands, and then stretchingthem out and leaning backward on the stool he let his fingers fall withtheir lightest and daintiest touch upon Naomi's old piano.
He had chosen a very simple, well-known piece; but it need not be sowell known in the bush. Miss Pryse might never have heard it before, inwhich case she could not fail to be enchanted. It was the"Schlummerlied" of Schumann, and the piano-tuner played it with all thevery considerable feeling and refinement of which he was capable, andwith a smile all the time for its exceeding appropriateness. What couldchime more truly with the lazy stillness of the Sunday afternoon thanthis sweet, bewitching lullaby? Engelhardt had always loved it; butnever in his life had he played it half so well. As he finished--softly,but not so softly as to risk a single note dropping short of theveranda--he wheeled round again with a sudden self-conscious movement.It was as though he expected to find the door open and Naomi entrancedupon the threshold. It is a fact that he sat watching the door-handle tosee it turn, first with eagerness, and at last with acutedisappointment. His disappointment was no greater when he opened thedoor himself and saw the book lying in the empty chair. That, indeed,was a relief. To find her sitting there unmoved was what his soul haddreaded.
But now that his work was done, the piano-tuner felt very lonely andunhappy. To escape from these men with whom he could not get on was hisstrongest desire but one; the othe
r was to stay and see more of theglorious girl who had befriended him; and he was torn between the two,because his longing for love was scarcely more innate than his shrinkingfrom ridicule and scorn. He knew this, too, and had as profound a scornfor himself as any he was likely to meet with from another. His savinggrace was the moral courage which enabled him to run counter to his owncraven inclinations.
Thus in the early morning he had apologized to Sanderson, thestore-keeper, for the loss of his temper overnight; after lying awakefor hours chewing the bitterness of this humiliating move, he haddetermined upon it in the end. But determination was what he had--ittakes not a little to bring you to apologize in cold blood to a rougherman than yourself. Engelhardt had done this, and more. At breakfast andat dinner he had made heroic efforts to be affable and at ease with themen who despised him; though each attempt touched a fresh nerve in hissensitive, self-conscious soul. And now, because from the veranda hecould descry Gilroy and Sanderson up at the stock-yards, and becausethese men were the very two whose society he most dreaded, his will wasthat he must join them then and there.
He was a man himself; and if he could not get on with other men, thatwas his own lookout. No doubt, too, it was his own fault. It was a faultof which he swore an oath that he would either cure himself or sufferthe consequences like a man. He may even have taken a private pride inbeing game against the grain. There is no fathoming the thoughts thatgenerate action in egotistical, but noble, natures, whose worst enemy istheir own inner consciousness.
Gilroy and Sanderson were in the horse-yard, leaning backward againstthe heavy white rails. Their pipes were in their mouths, and they werewatching Sam Rowntree stalk a wiry bay horse that took some catching.Sam was the groom, and he had just run up all the horses out of thehorse-paddock. The yard was full of them. Gilroy hauled a freckled handout of a cross pocket to point at the piano-tuner's nag.
"Poor-looking devil," said he.
"Yes, the kind you see when you're out without a gun," remarked the wit."Quite good enough for a thing like him, though." Some association ofideas caused him to glance round toward the homestead through the rails."By the hokey, here's the thing itself!" he cried.
The pair watched Engelhardt approach.
"I'd like to break his beastly head for him," muttered the manager. "Thecheek of him, spoiling our spell with that cursed row!"
The piano-tuner came up with a pleasant smile that was an effort to him,and pretended not to notice Sanderson's stock remark, that "queerthings come out after the rain."
"You'll be glad to hear, gentlemen, that I've finished my job," said he,airily.
"Thank God," growled Gilroy.
"I know it's been a great infliction----"
"Oh, no, not at all," said Sanderson, winking desperately. "We liked it.It's just what we _do_ like. You bet!"
The wiry bay horse had been caught by this time, and Sam Rowntree wassaddling it, by degrees, for the animal was obviously fresh and touchy.Engelhardt watched the performance with a bitter feeling of envy for allAustralian men, and of contempt for himself because they contemned him.The fault was his, not theirs. He was of a different order from theserough, light-hearted men--of an altogether inferior order, as it seemedto his self-criticising mind. But that was no excuse for his not gettingon with them, and as a rider puts his horse at a fence again and again,so Engelhardt spurred himself on to one more effort to do so.
"That's your horse, Mr. Gilroy?"
"Yes."
"I saw the 'G' on the left shoulder."
"You mean the near shoulder; a horse hasn't a left."
"No? I'm not well up in horses. What's his name?"
"Hard Times."
"That's good! I like his looks, too--not that I know anything abouthorses."
Here Sanderson whispered something to Gilroy, who said carelessly toEngelhardt:
"Can you ride?"
"I can ride my own moke."
"Like a turn on Hard Times?"
"Yes! I should."
This was said in a manner that was all the more decided for the momentsof deliberation which preceded it. The piano-tuner was paler even thanusual, but all at once his jaw had grown hard and strong, and there wasa keen light in his eyes. The others looked at him, unable to determinewhether it was a good rider they were dealing with or a born fool.
"Fetch him out of the yard, Sam," said Gilroy to the groom. "Thisgentleman here is going to draw first blood."
Sam Rowntree stared.
"You'd better not, mister," said he, looking doubtfully at the musician."He's fresh off the grass--hasn't had the saddle on him for two months."
"Get away, Sam. The gentleman means to take some of the cussedness outof him. Isn't that it, Engelhardt?"
"I mean to try," said Engelhardt, quietly.
A lanky middle-aged bushman, who had loafed across from the men's hut,here spat into the sand without removing the pipe from his teeth, andput in his word.
"Becod, then ye're a brave man! He bucks like beggary. He's bucked me ashigh as a blessed house!"
"We'll see how high he can buck me," said Engelhardt.
Gilroy was losing interest in the proceedings. The little fool couldride after all; instead of being scored off, he was going to score. Themanager thrust his hands deep in his cross pockets, and watchedsullenly, with his yellow eyelashes drooping over his blue eyes.Suddenly he strode forward, crying:
"What the blazes are you up to, you idiot?"
Engelhardt had shown signs of mounting on the off-side, but was smilingas though he had done it on purpose.
"He's all right," said the long stockman with the pipe. "He knows athing or two, _my_ word."
But his style of mounting in the end hardly tallied with this theory.The piano-tuner scrambled into the saddle, and kicked about awkwardlybefore finding his stirrups; and the next thing he did was to job thehorse's mouth with the wanton recklessness of pure innocence. Thewatchers held their breath. As for Hard Times, he seemed to know that hewas bestridden by an unworthy foeman, to appreciate the humor of thesituation, and to make up his evil mind to treat it humorously as itdeserved. Away he went, along the broad road between homestead andyards, at the sweetest and most guileless canter. The rider was sittingawkwardly enough, but evidently as tight as he knew how. And he neededall the grip within the power of his loins and knees. Half-way to thehouse, without a single premonitory symptom, the wiry bay leapt cleaninto the air, with all its legs gathered up under its body, its headtucked between its knees, and its back arched like a bent bow. Down itcame, with a thud, then up again like a ball, again and again, and yetagain.
At the first buck Engelhardt stuck nobly; he evidently had been preparedfor the worst. The second displayed a triangle of blue sky between hislegs and the saddle; he had lost his stirrups and the reins, but wasclinging to the mane with all ten fingers, and to the saddle with kneesand shins.
"Sit tight!" roared Gilroy. "Stick to him!" yelled Sanderson. "Slide offas he comes down!" shouted the groom.
But if Engelhardt heard them he did not understand. He only knew thatfor the first time in his life he was on a buck-jumper, and that hemeant to stay there as long as the Lord would let him. A wildexhilaration swamped every other sensation. The blue sky fell before himlike a curtain at each buck; at the fifth his body was seen against itlike a burst balloon; and after that, Hard Times was left to the moredifficult but less exciting task of bucking himself out of an emptysaddle.
They carried Engelhardt toward the house. But Naomi came running out andmet them half-way, and Tom Chester was at her back. From the veranda thetwo had seen it happen. And in all that was done during the next minutesNaomi was prime mover.
"You call yourselves men. Men indeed! There's more manhood lying herethan ever there was or will be in the two of you put together!"
"Hear, hear!"
The voices were those of Miss Pryse and Tom Chester. They were thefirst that Engelhardt heard when his senses came back to him. But thefirst thing that was said to him w
hen he opened his eyes was said byGilroy:
"Why the devil didn't you tell us you couldn't ride?"
He did not answer, but Tom Chester said coolly before them all:
"He can ride a jolly sight better than you can, Gilroy. You sit fivebucks and I'll give you five notes."
There was bad blood in the air. The piano-tuner could not help it. Hishead was all wrong, and his right arm felt red-hot from wrist to elbow;he discovered that it was bare, and in the hands of Miss Pryse. He feltashamed, it was such a thin arm. But Miss Pryse smiled at him kindly,and he smiled faintly back at her; he just saw Tom Chester tearing theyellow backs off a novel, and handing them to the kneeling girl; thenonce more he closed his eyes.
"He's off again," said Naomi. "Thank God I can set a joint. There'snothing to watch, all of you! Sam, you may as well turn out thisgentleman's horse again. If anybody thought of getting rid of himto-night, they've gone the wrong way about it, for now he shall stayhere till he's able to go on tuning pianos."
And as she spoke Naomi looked up, and sent her manager to the rightaboutwith a single stare of contempt and defiance.
The Boss of Taroomba Page 3
