The Battling Prophet. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
thus to withhold who the detective was, and the fact that the detective had no official authority, and was merely on leave of absence from a distant State.
So to wait and fish and loll about in the sun, to wait and see what kind of fish would jump.
The three ancient gums held his attention for several minutes. They were actually grey box. The bark was softly grey, and, at this spring-time, the old bark had been cast, since when the trunks had suffered assault. Not only were these trees evenly spaced fifty-odd feet apart, they also were in line, and up and down this line of gums two madmen armed with great bullock whips had skipped and screamed and thrashed the imaginary animals to haul the imaginary wagon from a sand-bog, or urge them round a bend of the track that the wagon wheels would miss a damaging obstacle.
Later, Bony wandered up-river to visit the camp of Knocker Harris. He was met by the man-eating midget dog, welcomed as a friend of the house, and inspected the ‘grounds’. It was quickly evident that Knocker Harris had achieved almost complete independence of Man, for if the miserable pittance called the Old Age Pension were suddenly to cease, Harris could still exist.
Under a bark roof a bicycle without wheels was fixed to a heavy plank. Mr. Harris could sit on the saddle and pedal the normal way. The driving chain worked a roller and the roller motivated a chain of jam tins going down into a shallow well and coming up filled, to empty their contents into a trough at the highest point. Bony could not resist temptation, proving that the contraption worked, and sent water along a channel to reach a line of rhubarb crowns.
He wandered about the little garden which revealed tender care for growing things and a sense of order not apparent in the construction of the abode. There were rows of last season’s carrots, and this season’s turnips and radish. The parsley looked ragged, but the sage, thyme, and other herbs thrived. Knocker Harris actually stocked roots of horse-radish, and Bony stole a piece to wash and chew with relish.
Brushwood protected the garden from wallabies that were, however, given free access to the ‘lawn’, a patch of ground about a dozen square yards in area which, Bony had been told, Knocker Harris had carefully sown with the best grass seed. Here and there, spaced like croquet hoops, were set expertly the snares so beloved by the old-time poachers.
Bony found the bell, a huge tempered-iron bullock bell weighing five or six pounds. Suspended from a cross-bar, it was worked by two sticks tied at an angle, and to the lower end of one stick was tied the fisherman’s line.
He did not presume to enter the ‘house’, but he did look into a kind of cavern walled by a vast creeper bearing a red flower, and saw within the cold interior a hanging meat-safe made of boards and hessian bags. There was also a bench littered with junk: an iron pot on a battered primus, a bunch of dried lavender, a tangled fish-line, and bottles.
The little dog escorted him off the premises.
The path by which he had come did not go farther up-river, and having gazed with admiration at the landing-stage built of poles and planks and tree branches, and the trap built with odds of wire netting, he proceeded down-river till he came opposite Mr. Luton’s cottage, where he found a fallen tree-trunk upon which Mr. Luton must often have sat and fished, for the past six years, so smooth was the log.
After lunch of cold mutton and a bottle of beer, he returned to the tree-trunk and expertly cast a line baited with garden worms. Like the morning, the afternoon was superb. The kookaburras were inclined to sleep, the lesser birds were busy, and to him came the large house-cat to sit by his side and purr its contentment.
Nothing happened for two hours. The sluggish river passed slowly on its way to the open sea. A tidal inlet, the water was of the sea, and yet within a yard of it it was possible to sink a shallow well for fresh water.
Nothing happened until into this sylvan silence there intruded the low throbbing song of a motor engine, and Bony witnessed the approach of an expensive convertible, all leaf-green and chrome and sparkling glass. The car stopped at the wicket gate, and from it stepped a man of medium build and energetic movement. He wore a light-grey suit, and was hatless.
That much Bony noted before turning to his fishing, winding in the line and examining the bait before making the next cast. He heard the wicket gate being shut, and the dogs barking to warn Mr. Luton, who was at ease on the veranda. He did not look round, even when the wicket gate was closed again ten minutes later. The cat, who had crouched with spine fur raised and yellow eyes blazing, now stood and arched its back, a moment later to race to a tree.
Then a man said, voice soft and cultured: “Having any luck?”
Bony glanced upward to see the man in grey regarding him with clear dark eyes. About forty, he was well-knit, and the tiny dark moustache suited his handsome face.
“They say the kingfish came back into their river yesterday morning. Must give them a try. You get them big sometimes. Haven’t seen you before. On holiday?”
“Yes, down for a few days.”
The man waited as though for additional information from the stranger, but Bony did not volunteer it. So he said:
“Good healthy sport, fishing. Good because it relaxes the mind as well as the body. You staying with old Luton?”
“Yes. Where do you live?”
Bony caught the flash of hostility in the dark eyes.
“Oh, I live at Mount Mario. I’m Dr. Maltby. Just trotted along to look up the old chap. Remarkably tough for his age. Interesting, and all that.” There followed a pause. “Will break out on the drink now and then, and I’m a little afraid he’ll walk into the river and be drowned. Oughtn’t to live alone like he does—not a man of his years.”
“Seems to be self-dependent, and a hundred per cent sane.”
“Oh yes, he’s all that ... while he remains sober. Are you a ... er ... relative?”
“No. Mr. Luton asked me to stay with him for a few days. I met him years ago when he lived on his place above Wentworth.”
“Ah yes, I fancy I heard some time that he owned a small sheep property up there. Are you in sheep?”
The question, like those preceding it, was easily put and entirely without offence. Dr. Maltby evinced no stiffness in his make-up, being accustomed to meeting everyone on his own ground. As easily, Bony said:
“Also met, when previously staying with Mr. Luton, his great friend Ben Wickham. I think Mr. Luton mentioned that you live at the late Mr. Wickham’s house?”
“Yes. I’m by way of being married into his family. Fine old boy. Only one failing. The liquor. Must admit I couldn’t approve of his orgies with old Luton. I suppose you know the booze killed him?”
“Not till last night. The papers said nothing of it; merely that he died in Luton’s house. How old was he? Near eighty, I think the papers said.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Remarkable man. He certainly stirred up lots of people either to admire or detest him.”
“The people on the land loudly praised his name,” supported Dr. Maltby. “I don’t know anyone personally who didn’t take his advice and batten down the hatches against bad seasons, and so save themselves from near bankruptcy at least. A pity they can’t understand the scientific formulæ on which he based his forecasts. Pity there’s no one to carry on where he left off.”
“I didn’t know that,” admitted Bony. “It would seem, then, that his admirers are despairing and his enemies triumphant.”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it. Back to the old gamble for the farmers. Back to the old grind of alternating prosperity and bankruptcy. Watching you fishing brings to mind the bit about Pericles. A disciple asked him how the fishes live in the sea, and he replied: ‘Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.’ Well, I must go. See you again, perhaps.”
Bony nodded quiescently, and Dr. Maltby strode back to his car.
He